DrakaFic: Cuchulainn’s Hounds
Posted: 2004-09-20 07:42pm
Cuchulainn’s Hounds, Part 1: The Rising Of The Moon
September 12th, 1941, Dublin, Eire
The weathered face of the Taoiseach gazed sympathetically at the face of his secretary, who had just gasped in shock at the broadcast from Radio Eireann. He had a feeling that the faces of the nation would be very similar, at least those with radios, and he could hardly blame them. He felt the blow himself, like a hammer to the stomach.
The Holy Father had been murdered. The Vicar of Christ had been shot down like a dog in the City of God by a bunch of heathen monsters in human form, and the priceless relics and treasures of the Vatican thrown about as though they were toys for children. Bad enough that these debauched Drakians had still associated with England for as long as they did, but to do this? It was as though a thousand Droghedas had been unleashed on Rome, a million Cromwells. No, that was hardly fair, he thought; not even the English at their worst would commit such an act of calculated barbarism. However, he was the leader of his nation, and he needed to put his personal feelings (and hatred, he thought) aside, for his nation had finally gained her independence from Britain after hundreds of years of struggle and not a little bloodshed, and pursued her own way in the world at last.
This presented a problem at the moment, unfortunately, and Eamon de Valera sighed. Ireland still had diplomatic relations with the Domination, and the Draka had a consulate in Cork as well as their official embassy here in Dublin. He knew all too well the temper of his people; hadn’t he helped Pearse lead the Easter Rising of ’16? How many times had the Irish risen against the landlords on the slightest of pretexts? This was a disaster in the making, and he had to head it off quickly.
“Brigid, I need you to ring the Archbishop and arrange a meeting as quickly as possible. Then I need you to ring the ministers and gather them together; this is a crisis, and we’re going to need to put an end to it before it catches fire. Hopefully we can douse it in time.” She stood for a moment, staring at him, as though unable to believe anyone could give orders at a time like this, least of all him.
“Brigid? Will you please go?” She nodded dumbly and walked away, still in shock, and de Valera shook his head sadly. He knew she must dislike him enormously right now, but she didn’t understand that he had to do what the people elected him to do. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and crossed himself.
“Lord, take pity on me, Thy servant this day.”
Drakan Embassy, Dublin
“Whut the fik did those idjits think they was DOIN’? Doan’ they know jes’ who the fik it WAS th’ darkies killed? Jes’ who d’you have runnin’ that particular campaign, Citizen, chimps? It sho’ weren’t any properly trained strategos! Thor’s hammer, y’dumb bastard, doan’ y’know anythin’ ‘bout these Christ-suckers? That priest y’popped was th’ chief of th’ whole worl’, an’ we look like shit fer doin’ it!” Diplo-Cohortarch Robert Trevers, Drakan Ambassador in Eire, knocked back a shot of amber-colored liquid from an exquisite cut-glass tumbler as he finished yelling into the elephant-ivory handset. Say whut you will about these here ferals, he thought, they do make some purty things. Needless to say, he was extremely angry with his fellow Draka right now, but the burn of the whisky down his throat helped settle his thoughts. No need to take out his rage on some flunky of the War Directorate, after all, although if he ever got his hands on whomever the serf-lover was who let this get out of hand…the phone chattered nervously at him, and he shook his head for a moment.
“Tetrarch…Vandeberg, was it? Look, I didn’ mean t’ yell like that at ya; it wasn’t yo’ fault. I’ll be filin’ a formal complaint in th’ mornin’, an’ we c’n see ‘bout tryin’ t’ clean up this rat-fik that we seem t’ have landed in. Dunno jes’ what th’ natives are gonna do, though; they doan’ take too kindly t’ this sorta thing. I wish someone had thought t’ mention that t’ whoever was in command.” He hung up the phone after the tetrarch from Logistics had acknowledged, and let out a sigh of mingled frustration and anger.
Dammit, but why now? When he had been sent here, he had almost cried at the injustice of the assignment. Ireland was seen as a joke, a punishment for sins against The Race, a dead end, and he had wondered who he had pissed off or what he had done wrong in his career? He’d been a decent soldier, if undistinguished, in the wars in the Balkans, but he felt that he could best help the Domination abroad among the other nations by working to gather information on them, undermine them, and prepare for the day when the Domination would inevitably absorb them. Only it hadn’t quite worked out that way. Instead, he’d been sent here, where a ray of sun was as rare as a Cape buffalo in a good humor, an autosteamer was a rarity, and the locals almost seemed to enjoy their backward existence! Imagine a country where the priests wielded such influence that the country’s leader had seen to it that the national constitution overtly reflected their teachings, and the locals actually went to church twice on the first day of the week. Trevers could still hardly believe it, and he’d been Ambassador here since 1937. This nation was enough to drive a Citizen to…he looked at the empty tumbler and smiled crookedly. Well, it would explain the national pastime, at least. Trevers then punched a button on his desk.
“Vicki, could you come in heah, please?” He straightened up his clothes, re-knotting his tie and combing his hair as his aide entered. Victoria Swenson was in her twenties, and, unlike her boss, regarded this assignment as a plum; she enjoyed serving in the Security Directorate, and gathering intelligence on a military like the Irish Armed Forces would be a good first step up the ladder. She came to attention in front of Trevers, who chuckled lightly.
“Vicki, in a li’l while, I s’pect we’re gonna hafta explain t’ the Irish jes’ why it was that some of our boys got a li’l carried away an’ killed their Pope, so I want you t’ come up with a good cock-an’-bull story ‘bout how real sorry we are, an’ how we din’t know jes’ who he was, ‘n all that, all right? Otherwise, we’re in fo’ some real shit. The dumbasses in Italy doan’ know their hands from their butts on this’un , so it’s up t’ us. I’m countin’ on you, ‘cause I gotta meet wit’ that slippery de Valera bastard an’ count mah fingers afterwards.”
Swenson looked slightly put off by that last statement, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her; this was her first real assignment outside the Domination, after all, and she’d find that things were a little different than just putting down the occasional bushman uprising. He still blessed his luck that had assigned Vicki here; someone at the Security Directorate knew what the Irish thought like, at least, and sent an appropriate operative. So the Irish officers who had made her the social catch of Dublin’s society hardly knew that beneath the laughing emerald eyes and strawberry-blonde hair was a woman who had ordered the impalement of an entire village in retaliation for the escape of a single serf into the USSR in 1938. Well, so much the better for her mission. Still, he supposed an explanation was in order.
“Vicki, yah gotta understand, this fella’s good. He’s cloaked hisself in robes of purest white, but it’s all an act, ‘cause he’s a survivor, jes’ like all t’ othuh political types. These heah Irish used t’ be bushmen fo’ th’ Brits, an’ they kep’ rebellin’, jes’ like our bushmen kep’ on tryin’, but the Brits wuz weak, an’ ‘stead of hangin’ ‘em all, or impalin’ ‘em, they jes’ hung a few an’ let the res’ go. Well, you know whut that did?”
Swenson smiled like a shark, which looked out of place on such a lovely face, then spoke in a low alto.
“Nits make lice. Mo’ rebellions down th’ years, if I remember raht. Din’t this guy have sumthin’ t’ do with the last’n?”
“Sho’ did. Led it hisself, then rejected th’ agreement that woulda given ‘em what he wanted, purty much. It’s compl’cated, but there wuz a war within a war, an’ he came out th’ loser, then weaseled his way back inta power. Now I gotta meet wit’ ‘im an’ tell ‘im it wuz all a mistake. That’ll be fun...” Trevers shook his head; he really wasn’t looking forward to enduring de Valera’s personality, which reminded him of a dead fish. He’d heard it said about the Irish leader by the American Ambassador that the two men got along famously, but fik-all if he’d seen any signs of it. You’d think with the amount of trade the Domination was bringing in to Ireland, there’d be at least a little warmth in the man!
The work of a diplomat was never done, it seemed. At least things could hardly get any worse.
Streets of Dublin, enroute to Dail Eireann
The bells were already tolling, and that was a bad sign, de Valera thought. He’d ordered the national flags lowered to half-staff as a sign of mourning after a quick consultation with the Archbishop, and word had spread quickly that Pius XII was murdered at the hands of the Draka, and that Rome had been sacked again, only this time much more thoroughly and completely. Apparently, there were sketchy reports that at least some of the Princes of the Church had escaped, or at least that they had not been found, so a new Pontiff would be chosen in record time, and what that meant for the world, de Valera didn’t know, but he suspected it would be interesting, at the very least. As the car raced towards Leinster House, and his address of the Dail, he noticed the small groups of people gathered on the corners. Women, wearing black shawls and veils in their grief and holding their children, who looked around, not understanding just what was going on, but knowing somehow that it was bad; old men, leaning on canes and shaking their heads as tears rolled down their cheeks, crossing themselves as they passed by the churches that already had long lines waiting outside; knots of young men on corners, who were gathered together in surly anger, and who were being discreetly watched by the Gardai. De Valera sighed as the car pulled into the parking space assigned to the Taoiseach; those last were going to be the start of any trouble in the streets, but for now, he had to deal with the Dail first.
Leinster House
“And what does the Right Honourable Taoiseach intend to do about this outrage, may I ask?” James Dillon’s voice cut through the air like a knife; the Deputy Leader of Fine Gael was almost as moralistic as de Valera himself, and this time, he had a right to be angry. Ireland had wanted to be left alone after gaining her independence from Britain, even though she had close ties with the United States, and so she had explored economic ties with the rest of the world, including the Domination, but allying herself with no-one. Given the needs of the two countries, inevitably the Draka had become a fair-sized trading partner for Irish exports, especially Waterford crystal and various liquors, which brought in much-needed hard currency. Ironically, it had helped Ireland re-arm and bring its military up to a respectable level using Yankee weaponry and equipment; no British castoffs for Erin, by God, de Valera thought. American surplus was much better, and didn’t bring the taint of the imperial yoke with it. Besides, the Snake weapons were too fancy for Ireland’s climate in any case. He’d better answer Dillon, though; Fine Gael might be small right now, but they could get support quickly, and that could be a public relations disaster for the Government. He rose to respond.
“The Right Honourable Member is quite correct to call this an outrage. That is exactly what it is. An outrage not just against man, not just against civilization, but against God. As this chamber already knows, I have called upon the nation to observe a day of mourning for our Holy Father, may God rest his soul in Heaven, and that Masses be sung for his soul this Sunday, but this cannot be enough.” He gazed around the chamber over the tops of his glasses, where every member was hanging on his words, even those from Fine Gael.
“My fellow colleagues, I see here many faces I recognize from days past when we strove against one another, but we strove in common purpose for what we have today; a free Ireland. This blow strikes at the heart of her soul, and at what it means to be Irish in so many ways. However, it was not an act directed against our people or our nation. Much as it pains me, I cannot bring to the floor a motion that would send our young men into a war against even such a nation as these butchers and vandals.” Murmurs broke out at these words, and black looks began to form on the faces of Opposition leaders. He raised his hand for silence, and continued over the growing hubbub.
“This I can offer you! When you leave here today, tell your constituents to examine their consciences on market day.” He sat down again, and a junior member of Fianna Fail immediately asked for recognition from the Chair. When recognized, the TD began to speak.
“In light of the noble Taoiseach’s words, I move for a boycott of all Drakan goods from this date...”
De Valera smiled slightly, and acknowledged Dillon’s nod with one of his own. Now all he had to do was talk to that insufferable Trevers. He had a feeling Ireland’s stock in the eyes of the world was about to go up in the next week or so.
Government House, Dublin, one hour later
Trevers was not a happy man at the moment. Bad enough that he was being made to wait for the Taoiseach, but he hadn’t liked the looks he’d gotten from the various staffers when he’d entered Government House for his appointment to discuss what was already being called the “Rape of Rome” in the Western news services. What was worse, he was sitting under the glare of what he would normally consider a very attractive wench, and the false smile he had pasted on his face was starting to make his muscles ache. Inside, of course, he was seething with thoughts of just how he would break the bitch for her defiance if they were back on his estates, but, well, they weren’t, dammit. He’d have to settle for the sweet thoughts instead, which added some sincerity to the smile. A buzzer jangled his thoughts, and the bitch spoke up.
“You may go in, sir.”
“Thank you, m’dear.” Trevers rose, snatched up his diamond-tipped cane and top hat, adjusted the ruby earstud, and opened the door.
Eamon de Valera rose from behind his desk and extended his hand with a slight smile, murmuring, “Good afternoon, Robert. I’m very pleased to see you at last. I apologize for the delay, but I had to sign a bill the Dail sent me unexpectedly. Please, won’t you sit down? Would you care for any refreshment? Tea, perhaps?”
Travers’ smile stayed on his face, as he returned the Irish leader’s handshake. Yuh bastard, he thought. He couldn’t stand the stuff, and de Valera knew it. He seemed to go out of his way to irritate the Drakan ambassador in petty ways, but Travers wasn’t going to let that get to him now. Especially not now.
“No, thank yuh, Ned,” and Travers chuckled inwardly as de Valera winced at the familiarity, “I’m doin’ well. I cam’ heah t’ talk ‘bout the…incident that happened yestidday in Italy…in Rome.” De Valera raised his eyebrows at that, and indicated that his visitor should take a seat.
“By all means, Mister Ambassador. I feel it is my duty to warn you, however, that the people of Ireland take this…incident very seriously indeed, especially given its consequences. However, we are a fair people, and therefore I felt I should, in the spirit of goodwill, give all parties their chance to tell their story, especially given the relationship between our two nations.” De Valera resumed his seat as well, and rang a buzzer at his desk. His secretary entered at once.
“Brigid, a pitcher of ice water and two tumblers, and see to it we are not disturbed.”
She nodded smartly, then left quickly. De Valera turned back to Trevers, who was sitting with his hat in his lap.
“You were saying, Mister Ambassador?”
“Well, Prime Ministuh, it’s like this. Yuh know how our military is made up, raht? Two forces, one fo’ Citizens, an’ one fo’ bush-ah, Janissaries?” That was close, Trevers thought, don’t do that again! But de Valera merely nodded, as though the slip had gone unnoticed, and Trevers forged ahead.
“Well, it seems that at Rome, our Janissaries got out o’ hand. Whut c’n yuh expect from ‘em? It’s in they nature, raht? Anyway, they slipped th’ leash, so t’ speak, an’ went berserk, shootin’ an’ hollerin’ an’ grabbin’ ever’thin’ they could lay hand on. Just like animals, really. Even grabbin’ women and havin’ they way wit’ them, never min’ whut the centurions are orderin’. Had t’ hang a bunch jes’ t’ restore order aftawards. In any case, Ministuh, from whut the War Directorate tells me, a Janissary lochos, whut yuh’d call a squad, came upon this heah old man in robes, kneelin’ down, an’ they din’t know whut t’ do, so they called they decurion…the sergeant over, an’ he din’t know whut this fella wuz doin’, so he asks him, shakin’ him, and this ol’ fella jes’ smiles at him. So the decurion, well, he gets angry, an’ shoots him in the back a’ the head. Whutcha gonna do? Fortunes a’ war, right? Yuh’ve been there, Prime Ministuh.”
De Valera could hardly believe his ears. This…thing in human form was telling him that Pius XII had been murdered by his people, and he dared compare it to the struggles of the Irish people for their freedom? A hot surge of anger seemed to sing in his ears, and, just for a moment, he felt as his ancestors must have when they faced their foes across the fields bearing pikes and swords and screaming their war cries. He wanted to leap across the desk and strike this man down for the crimes his people had committed, but he couldn’t. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm.
“So, you’re saying this entire regrettable incident was, in fact, a breakdown in discipline among your forces? Does your government recognize the serious ramifications that this incident poses to its relations with this nation? I value your government’s friendship a great deal, Mister Ambassador, and I believe you know that, but this casts that relationship in serious jeopardy. Already, my government has had to give in to popular pressure to begin economic measures against Drakian firms,” Trevers’ tanned face went white at that, and his fists clenched visibly, “and the bill I had to sign was a law ordering a boycott of Drakan firms unless a full apology for the Rape of Rome was forthcoming within twenty-four hours, full restitution made to the Vatican, and all offenders punished to the full extent of your military laws.” Trevers made an angry noise in his throat, and de Valera spread his hands in a placating gesture.
“Mister Ambassador, there is nothing I can do in this case. Had I not signed the law, my government would have fallen, and you would have faced a coalition of anti-Drakan parties that would have almost certainly declared war. Given that Germany, France, Poland and…let me see…ah, yes, Austria, have already done so as a result of this incident, I doubt the remaining neutral countries would like to see yet another nation join against you. In all honesty, Ambassador, you need all the friends you can get right now, and a boycott of goods does not mean your shipping can’t dock here, or that your Navy can’t visit here. However, you may wish to communicate to your government that the situation here is extremely tense, and I cannot be certain of keeping it under control. Please, for your own safety and that of your staffers, I advise you to remain in your compounds, both here and in Cork, until this blows over.”
Trevers’ lips were compressed into a thin white line. How dare this insolent, pompous arrogant bastard speak to a member of The Race like that? ‘Remain in your compounds’? Fik that! The Draka went anywhere they liked, took what they liked, and crushed anyone who got in their way, and if the Irish government thought they couldn’t keep their own people under control, maybe it was time they were taught a lesson. He rose from his chair and clapped his hat to his head.
“Mistuh Prime Minister.” De Valera rose from his desk and extended his hand; Trevers looked at it, and took it briefly, then turned and marched from the room, bumping into the secretary, who spilled the water over the tray and almost dropped one of the tumblers.
“I’m so sorry, Taoiseach, I didn’t mean-“, but de Valera cut her off as he went to her side.
“It’s all right, Brigid. Mr. Trevers has other things on his mind.” He smiled as he spoke.
September 13th, City of Cork, 12:30 A.M.
Conyngham had a weakness for redheads. When he found out he was assigned as a Diplo-Tetrarch Consul in Ireland, he responded in public as expected, with stoic disappointment, because everyone knew that gloomy island was a cold, wet dead end for careers, but inside he jumped for joy. Not for nothing was the island described in the classic texts as the Blessed Isle, as he’d found out on more than one occasion to his delight. The sheer number of attractive serfs of both sexes here was wonderful, even if they were rather straitlaced about such matters. It was one thing to try to find a female for pleasure, even if you had to be discreet about it, but he chuckled to himself at the fate of his predecessor, who tried looking for a prettybuck. Had THAT been a mistake! If he hadn’t had diplomatic immunity, Ingersoll would have been lucky to escape with his life, let alone his manhood. No, look but don’t touch was definitely the rule when it came to that part of the game here, Conyngham thought as he headed back to the Drakan Consulate.
Tonight, though, was a different matter. She’d been good in bed after a night on the town, and say what you might about the Catholic superstition, it didn’t have any strictures on contraception to interfere with the pleasures of mating. Of course, he hadn’t finished inside her; that wouldn’t have been right. Still, she hadn’t complained with the fee he’d paid her, and they’d both been satisfied with the arrangement. Kathleen, that was her name. Nice name, for a serf bitch. He’d likely visit her again in the week to come, but he wanted to find some others as well, spread the wealth, so to speak. He grinned at that; this was a nice posting, when you thought about it. He had to oversee the Domination shipping coming into Cobh, the second-largest port after Dublin, and the major source of Drakan imports, and so he was responsible for a large part of this nation’s economy. Imagine that! A lowly Diplo-Tetrarch! He chuckled again at the thought; these bushmen had screwed up their country so badly they couldn’t organize whores at a-
The cobblestone came out of nowhere and caught him hard above the kneecap, and he grimaced with pain and grabbed at the leg, looking around even as he did so. Five figures emerged from the storefronts half a block ahead, and he could see they were carrying heavy sticks of some sort in their hands, and hefting cobblestones in the other. All but one, that is, whose left hand was empty of a stone. He immediately dropped into combat awareness mode, and his right hand whipped out the ornate dagger he always carried in his boot top (damn the Diplomatic Directorate and their directive on carrying guns in neutral countries!). He tested the leg; it felt tender, but it would stand the usage. Five ferals against a Draka wasn’t much of a fight; he’d be home in time for a good night’s sleep.
“Well, now, lads, we seem to have caught a Snake, by Jaysus.” That from the one without the stone. Good, he was the leader. Kill him and the rest would scatter. Don’t waste time on idle chatter, just coil and-
FIK! Another stone smacked into him, from the rear! This one hurt, as it caught Conyngham’s arm holding the dagger right at the shoulder joint, and reflexively the dagger flew out of his hand before he could stop it, skittering across the bricks to his left, as Conyngham snuck a quick look back across his shoulder to see three more men with stones and thick sticks in their hands advancing from his right rear. Conyngham reconsidered the situation; eight against one now wasn’t looking as good, especially since they were armed and he wasn’t, and all eight were advancing with what looked like murder in their eyes. By the time he recovered the dagger, they’d be on him, and he might take two or three with him, but he’d be beaten to death before any help could arrive (or would want to arrive, he thought sourly-Draka weren’t very popular right now). No, it was time to retreat, and he knew where; he’d passed an alleyway on his way here, and he could climb the metal fire escapes they had here, then run along the rooftops and climb down another building close to the consulate, and he’d be home. In the morning, he’d file a complaint with the Gardai, and then he could resume his hunt for the fairer sex. All this went through his mind in a fraction of a second, and he whirled and bolted away from the advancing men, back down the way he came.
“After him! Don’t let the filthy Snake get away!” With that, the eight men charged after Conyngham, tucking their sticks close under their bodies and gripping the paving stones tight; there would be revenge tonight, one way or another.
“Keep your eye on him, for the love of Christ! Did you see where he went?” This from the leader, as Conyngham rapidly outstripped the men, being unburdened by their weapons. Still, he wasn’t as lucky as he’d hoped.
“Aye, he turned down there, Seamus!” One of the men pointed down the alleyway, as the men came panting up. Seamus looked down the dark stretch, and saw a shadow jumping up and tugging at the metal ladders that served as fire escapes for the tenements and stores.
“Saints above, if he gets up on the roof, we’ll never get him.” He let out a breath. “Right, we’ll have to chance it. We’ll all toss the stones when we get in range, then half will club him with our sticks, and half hit him like a poker, get me?”, and he used both hands to demonstrate. Suddenly, a metallic skrreee indicated that their target seemed to be getting closer to achieving his getaway. Seamus turned to the entrance of the alley and raised his stick.
“Come on, lads!”, he roared, and the seven others shouted and poured down after him.
September 13th, City of Cork, 7:30 A.M.
Garda O’Reilly could hardly keep his breakfast sausage down. The body barely looked human, which wasn’t the way to start your morning shift; he’d been looking forward to a nice quiet morning beat, but then a street sweeper had noticed the flies gathering in the alleyway and had investigated, since he’d just cleaned it out the day before. O’Reilly certainly couldn’t fault the old man’s sense of civic responsibility, but why did it have to end up in his lap? Good thing his Sergeant was on the way to help out, but he just had an unlucky feeling that this was not going to end well. Some damned Draka, by the look of it, (forgive me, Lord, he whispered mentally), but why was he down here? Whatever the Snakes were or were not, robbery wasn’t high on their list of crimes, but this one had been beaten to death for some reason. Given their…interests, he had his suspicions, by the Snakes couldn’t be that stupid again, could they? He’d let the Sergeant sort this one out; that’s why Leinster House paid them the extra money. As it was, this lad was for the morgue. Still, he’d had company, judging from the bloodstains on the rest of the alleyway; not even Snakes bled that much, so it looked like several people had somehow expressed their displeasure with whatever the naked, battered corpse had been doing. What was worse, he couldn’t seem to get hold of the local Drakan consul to identify the body, curse the luck.
Sergeant Murphy arrived fifteen minutes later to find an equally repulsed and frustrated Garda O’Reilly on the scene of a crime that he’d never encountered before, and thirty seconds later hoped he never did again. The body was definitely Drakan, given the muscular development and the fact that there had been several earrings missing, torn out by the persons who had beaten the man to death. He could tell it was a man from the genitalia stuffed in the corpse’s mouth, although he’d have preferred not to identify the gender in that fashion. Still, it was a quick way to do it. The face was so badly beaten, however, that it would be almost impossible to identify without the help of the consul, and contacting him was the job of the Gardai. Best to see what progress had been made on that front.
“O’Reilly. Any word yet from the Drakan consulate?”
“Well, Sergeant, no one there seems to know where he is. Apparently he went out last night, and he hasn’t been seen since. They seemed a little angry that we even dared to ask, to be honest. Like we were inferring that he was a criminal or something.”
“Did they, now? Well.” Murphy pulled out a pipe and filled it carefully, and lit it, drawing in the fragrant smoke. “Let’s think this through. The Drakan consul is missing since last night. We have a dead Draka here at our feet who was killed sometime last night. Now, I may not have the superior brainpower of the Snakes, but…” O’Reilly grasped the point at once.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God. Should we tell them?” Murphy smiled nastily.
“No, I think the Mayor should be told of our discovery so that he may inform Leinster House; proper procedure, after all. I don’t like to be told we thought the departed was a criminal, in any event. It slanders his good name.” He puffed contentedly on his pipe. No, the Snakes weren’t going to like this one bit, which was fine with Gardai Sergeant Murphy; that’d teach them to make a pass at his teenaged son.
Drakan Embassy, Dublin, two hours later
“The consul wuz WHUT?” Trevers bellowed into the ivory handset, his face purple with rage. He could hardly believe his ears; a full Citizen of the Domination had been killed in the most heinous fashion by a bunch of backwards-ass ferals! From what the local police had released, it sounded like Consul Conyngham might have taken a couple down with him, but none of the local hospitals reported any injuries or deaths, and Trevers snorted mentally at that. As though they would! Bliddy ferals all stick together anyway. No, this was a setup; it had to be. An incident to further embarrass the Domination and humiliate them, just like those damned laws the bastards had passed, boycotting trade and demanding an apology for the actions the Draka took in Rome. What was Ireland going to do about it if the Draka didn’t apologize? Throw potatoes at the Domination? Trevers grinned like a hyena at the thought; thanks to Swenson, he knew the Irish military was no match for a single Citizen mechanized chiliarchy. Their vehicles were outdated at best, and their personal arms were leftovers from the Americans. Oh, they kept them in good order, but the military was far too small to present any real threat to anyone. All it would take was a single landing at Cobh one night, and the country would be taken within a week. This, though, was an outrage, and the Irish must be made to understand that they would have to answer for it. No one went around assaulting members of the Diplomatic Directorate with impunity. He was going to see de Valera again, and damn the consequences.
“Thank yuh, Citizen. I’ll be in touch. Glory t’ th’ Race.”
Leinster House, one hour later
“Siddown, bitch.” Trevers snarled at the secretary who half-rose to stop him as he pushed his way towards de Valera’s office and through the door. His expression was thunderous, his brows knitted together, and de Valera looked up at the unexpected interruption from his desk with a frown as Trevers slammed the door and advanced across the floor until he stood directly in front of the Irish leader’s desk. There was a pregnant pause between the two men, until de Valera spoke first.
“Is there something I may help you with, Mister Ambassador?”
Trevers leaned down and planted both his hands palms-down on the Taoiseach’s desk, and spoke into his face.
“Mistuh Prime Ministuh, I s’pect we both know why I’m heah. Yo’ boys murduhed mah Consul down in Cork, an’ as of now, th’ Security Directorate is takin’ over th’ investigation. Th’ Domination don’ allow its Citizens t’ be butchered like hawgs by jes’ anyone, leas’ of all thos’ it considers its friends. I sugges’ you jes’ step aside an’ let us git t’ work.” His temper was still running high, but he had tempered his words a little from what he had really wanted to say to this man! He looked deep into de Valera’s eyes, searching for the signs of fear or weakness that would mark acquiescence to Trevers’ announcement.
He didn’t find them.
“Mister Ambassador, I regret that you have found the services of the An Garda Siochana lacking, but I can assure you, it is not through lack of effort on their part. They are more than happy to cooperate with your security staff; in fact, they welcome the opportunity. However, the attack occurred on Irish soil, and they are the guardians of the Irish people, and of Ireland herself. As the leader of the Government, I cannot allow the forces of a foreign power to take jurisdiction of a crime committed on our soil. No, sir, the Gardai have jurisdiction, and they will exercise it in this case.” De Valera looked calmly back up at Trevers, who trembled slightly in his building rage. He’d never been talked to like that before, and certainly not by this man. Who was he to talk to a Drakan Citizen like that? What was his country, to stand up to the power of the Domination? The pitiful joke the Irish called a “police force” didn’t even carry guns here! How did they deal with criminals? Drink them to death? Trevers took a deep breath and straightened up.
“Mistuh Prime Ministuh, I’ve been heah long enough t’ know that tryin’ t’ force th’ Directorate on yuh is a bad idea, so I won’ push it, but I will say this, suh. Yuh are a coward an’ a fool fo’ listenin’ to those people in th’ streets, an’ if yuh wuz any part of a man, I’d slap yo’ jaw an’ force yuh t’ resent it. As it is, suh, I’ll jes’ take my leave.” He turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him. De Valera’s face remained creased in a frown, and he punched the buzzer on his desk after a minute with more force than usual.
“Brigid, I need you to call the Minister of War, and the Sergeant at Arms for the Dail, and set up an emergency meeting.”
Streets of Dublin, three hours later (1:30 PM)
“EXTRA! EXTRA! Draka Ambassador threatens Taoiseach! De Valera appeals for calm in emergency session of Dail! Gardai placed on high alert!” The Dublin Times was going into printing overdrive, and the stands and newsboys were besieged with customers. Papers were passed around as fast as they were purchased, and more tempers were beginning to rise against the Domination, trading status be damned. Not just in Cork and Dublin, either.
Waterford Docks, 3:30 PM
It’s been said that a dogfight can bring on a battle, given the right circumstances. In this case, an incautious remark sparked a riot.
DTS Archona’s Pride was loading one of Ireland’s most famous exports; Waterford’s namesake crystal, cut into goblets and tumblers and art glass for the homes of Citizens back in the Domination. Rather understated, by Domination tastes, but there were those who liked that sort of look, and it did catch the African sun beautifully. The Irish dockworkers helping to bring the crates to the cranes were unforgivably undisciplined by Citizen standards, but there were rules here, and the Cohortarch in command sighed in disgust. Now, a good, properly-disciplined group of serfs would have had these crates aboard in one-third the time, and they’d have weighed anchor already. Instead, there seemed to be an argument down near where the last group of crates was being loaded aboard into the nets.
James Butler stared at the Snake sailor with his right fist clenched, even as he waved his men back with his left. He had a false smile on his face, and was determined to keep his tone light and try to resolve this dispute peacefully; maybe the Snake didn’t understand what he’d said wrong?
“Would you mind repeating what you just said, laddie?” Which was true; Butler had at least twenty years on the Snake, and a good forty pounds. He might look old and heavy, as opposed to the Snake’s youth and trim physique, but he doubted the Snake had been fighting dirty around Ireland’s docks all his life since the age of fourteen. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. The Snake didn’t seem to want to oblige him, though. He sneered at the stevedore and repeated what had touched off the crowd.
“I said, serf, that if yuh an’ yuhr gang o’ masterless cattle were anythin’ like our boys back home, we’d be done ba now, but yuh ain’t. Yuh lower than cattle. Undisciplined, smelly, an’ prob’ly drunk t’ boot.” The Snake smiled at Butler, as if daring him to take action, and jerked his head up towards his ship, where his crewmates were no doubt watching. The stevedores’ mutters were louder now, and angrier, and observers along the docks were drifting over; some of them had caught the final words, and their faces were turning an ugly shade as well. Butler shook his head sadly. If that’s the way things were going to be, then…
He charged forward, and the Snake’s eyes widened in surprise as this fifty-year old man caught him off guard, sinking a meaty fist deep into his stomach and forcing the breath from his lungs with a whoop! The crowd surged forward, and the Cohortarch screamed a curse on the bridge. There’d be hell to pay for this bliddy fuck-up, but he had to make sure none of the natives got on to his ship first, and that meant the machine guns had to come out.
Drakan Embassy, 7:30 PM
“Will someone please explain t’ me whut the FIK that damnfool cap’n thought he wuz’ DOIN’?” Trevers could hardly believe it when the news came from Waterford. Just when he realized what he had done, and was ready to try to make amends with de Valera, this had to happen! He almost wanted to take the easy way out, open his desk drawer and use the automatic hidden in there, but that would be a betrayal of the Draka. Still, there wasn’t going to be any way to control this. The Brits had learned that the hard way. You couldn’t open fire on the Irish and expect them to forgive you after gunning down over a hundred men on the docks; those memories were simply too fresh for them. It didn’t matter that the captain said the Irishman threw the first punch; the Irish would claim the Drakan crewman had said something to start the fight, and it would all boil down to whose word was good here. Trevers knew where that road led, and it wasn’t Archona. Now the capital’s namesake was barely making steam for home after a mob had rushed her despite the weapons fire; it turned out that there were many Irish who still had dreams of a fully united Ireland, and rifle fire had started picking off crewmen on deck, allowing someone to rush up and throw a gasoline bomb through a porthole into the forward cargo compartment. The crates and tarred ropes had added to the flames, and the crew had to abandon the guns to fight the flames, which would have allowed the mob to swarm aboard…if they’d wanted to.
Instead, they chopped her mooring lines and screamed curses at her as she drifted away from the port, calling for a cutting torch to cut her anchor chain. The Cohortarch had solved that problem for them, raising anchor even as his crew fought the flames, trying to get away from a city that had gone mad. Incredibly, the crew had brought the fire under control in less than twenty minutes, which said something for the skill and discipline of the Transportation Directorate, but much of the cargo was ruined, and there were several casualties among the crew from the rifle fire. As he rubbed his temples, Victoria Swenson, his Security Directorate aide, arrived with a note.
“Ambassador. This jes’ arrived from th’ office of th’ Irish Prime Ministuh. It’s marked “Urgent”, suh.” Trevers turned it over in his hands. A plain, ordinary diplomatic note, but it was indeed marked URGENT across the front in red ink. He opened it and began to read.
Mister Ambassador, it began, you are hereby notified that Dail Eireann is scheduled to meet tonight in Emergency Session at 8:00 to consider the state of diplomatic relations between our two nations. As Diplomatic Representative of the Domination of the Draka, you are hereby formally invited to witness these proceedings. I regret matters have been taken from my control by recent events.
Eamon de Valera
Taoiseach
Trevers tore the note into pieces.
“That sumBITCH! I knew he wuz behin’ all this! Oh, I’ll get him yet. I’ll have his head fo’ a trophy on mah wall back home befo’ the year is OUT!” This last was shouted at the ceiling, and Vicki Swenson was alarmed for the first time in her association with Trevers. This was bordering on paranoia, and it was unhealthy. He calmed down, and turned to her.
“Vicki, call a cab fo’ me. I’m goin’ to their joke of a gov’ment, and be sure to have the staff pack our bags. I think our time heah is about up.”
Dail Eireann, 9:40
“The motion having been read, and the debate ended, the Question now stands before this Dail. Do we, as a result of the Waterford Massacre, break off diplomatic relations with the Domination of the Draka, and declare the Citizens thereof to be personae non gratae in Eire and her possessions, boycotting all trade with her possessions, combines, corporations, and individuals, known and found to be such? Bear in mind, gentlemen and ladies, the burden we bear here tonight. This is a responsibility we do not shoulder lightly. The Dail will now divide on the Question.”
Trevers left early. He knew the outcome already. De Valera was smiling from his seat on the front bench. He hadn’t planned things this way, truly, but sometimes prayers truly were answered. For once, Fianna Fail and Fine Gael would be working together.
Now, to talk with the American Ambassador and ask about that interesting program they were using with the Russians. After all, Ireland had an army, but it needed a bit of help at sea. Giving them basing rights at Cobh might be a nice incentive to start from.
Yes, he could see how things would start looking up. James Dillon of Fine Gael came over and clapped him on the shoulder, interrupting his reverie.
“Well, Dev, you’ve done it. A near-unanimous vote to break ties with the Draka and get them out of here. Well done, even for an old IRA type like yourself.” He threw out his hand, and de Valera smiled slightly and shook it. Dillon looked serious, then.
“Of course, we’re going to have to mobilize, now. This can only mean they’re going to declare war; the Draka don’t take kindly to this sort of thing. I just hope we’re ready for it, but I can tell you we’re behind the Government, Dev. No Opposition this time.”
“I appreciate that, James. I truly do.” Dillon smiled back at him, looked thoughtful for a moment, then burst out into laughter, which echoed around the chamber, causing heads to turn towards the leader of the Government and his rival. A shocked silence fell over the Dail, as de Valera looked affronted at the display. Finally, Dillon recovered himself, and wiped his eyes; he looked around at his fellow TDs, and smiled.
“Don’t you see, ladies and gentlemen? Don’t you understand? Our Taoiseach shouldn’t have been named Eamon at all, but…Padraic!” Comprehension slowly dawned on faces, and smiles started to break out on faces as de Valera turned a bright red, and Dillon indicated their leader.
“He’s driven the Snakes out of Ireland!”
END OF CHAPTER 1
September 12th, 1941, Dublin, Eire
The weathered face of the Taoiseach gazed sympathetically at the face of his secretary, who had just gasped in shock at the broadcast from Radio Eireann. He had a feeling that the faces of the nation would be very similar, at least those with radios, and he could hardly blame them. He felt the blow himself, like a hammer to the stomach.
The Holy Father had been murdered. The Vicar of Christ had been shot down like a dog in the City of God by a bunch of heathen monsters in human form, and the priceless relics and treasures of the Vatican thrown about as though they were toys for children. Bad enough that these debauched Drakians had still associated with England for as long as they did, but to do this? It was as though a thousand Droghedas had been unleashed on Rome, a million Cromwells. No, that was hardly fair, he thought; not even the English at their worst would commit such an act of calculated barbarism. However, he was the leader of his nation, and he needed to put his personal feelings (and hatred, he thought) aside, for his nation had finally gained her independence from Britain after hundreds of years of struggle and not a little bloodshed, and pursued her own way in the world at last.
This presented a problem at the moment, unfortunately, and Eamon de Valera sighed. Ireland still had diplomatic relations with the Domination, and the Draka had a consulate in Cork as well as their official embassy here in Dublin. He knew all too well the temper of his people; hadn’t he helped Pearse lead the Easter Rising of ’16? How many times had the Irish risen against the landlords on the slightest of pretexts? This was a disaster in the making, and he had to head it off quickly.
“Brigid, I need you to ring the Archbishop and arrange a meeting as quickly as possible. Then I need you to ring the ministers and gather them together; this is a crisis, and we’re going to need to put an end to it before it catches fire. Hopefully we can douse it in time.” She stood for a moment, staring at him, as though unable to believe anyone could give orders at a time like this, least of all him.
“Brigid? Will you please go?” She nodded dumbly and walked away, still in shock, and de Valera shook his head sadly. He knew she must dislike him enormously right now, but she didn’t understand that he had to do what the people elected him to do. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and crossed himself.
“Lord, take pity on me, Thy servant this day.”
Drakan Embassy, Dublin
“Whut the fik did those idjits think they was DOIN’? Doan’ they know jes’ who the fik it WAS th’ darkies killed? Jes’ who d’you have runnin’ that particular campaign, Citizen, chimps? It sho’ weren’t any properly trained strategos! Thor’s hammer, y’dumb bastard, doan’ y’know anythin’ ‘bout these Christ-suckers? That priest y’popped was th’ chief of th’ whole worl’, an’ we look like shit fer doin’ it!” Diplo-Cohortarch Robert Trevers, Drakan Ambassador in Eire, knocked back a shot of amber-colored liquid from an exquisite cut-glass tumbler as he finished yelling into the elephant-ivory handset. Say whut you will about these here ferals, he thought, they do make some purty things. Needless to say, he was extremely angry with his fellow Draka right now, but the burn of the whisky down his throat helped settle his thoughts. No need to take out his rage on some flunky of the War Directorate, after all, although if he ever got his hands on whomever the serf-lover was who let this get out of hand…the phone chattered nervously at him, and he shook his head for a moment.
“Tetrarch…Vandeberg, was it? Look, I didn’ mean t’ yell like that at ya; it wasn’t yo’ fault. I’ll be filin’ a formal complaint in th’ mornin’, an’ we c’n see ‘bout tryin’ t’ clean up this rat-fik that we seem t’ have landed in. Dunno jes’ what th’ natives are gonna do, though; they doan’ take too kindly t’ this sorta thing. I wish someone had thought t’ mention that t’ whoever was in command.” He hung up the phone after the tetrarch from Logistics had acknowledged, and let out a sigh of mingled frustration and anger.
Dammit, but why now? When he had been sent here, he had almost cried at the injustice of the assignment. Ireland was seen as a joke, a punishment for sins against The Race, a dead end, and he had wondered who he had pissed off or what he had done wrong in his career? He’d been a decent soldier, if undistinguished, in the wars in the Balkans, but he felt that he could best help the Domination abroad among the other nations by working to gather information on them, undermine them, and prepare for the day when the Domination would inevitably absorb them. Only it hadn’t quite worked out that way. Instead, he’d been sent here, where a ray of sun was as rare as a Cape buffalo in a good humor, an autosteamer was a rarity, and the locals almost seemed to enjoy their backward existence! Imagine a country where the priests wielded such influence that the country’s leader had seen to it that the national constitution overtly reflected their teachings, and the locals actually went to church twice on the first day of the week. Trevers could still hardly believe it, and he’d been Ambassador here since 1937. This nation was enough to drive a Citizen to…he looked at the empty tumbler and smiled crookedly. Well, it would explain the national pastime, at least. Trevers then punched a button on his desk.
“Vicki, could you come in heah, please?” He straightened up his clothes, re-knotting his tie and combing his hair as his aide entered. Victoria Swenson was in her twenties, and, unlike her boss, regarded this assignment as a plum; she enjoyed serving in the Security Directorate, and gathering intelligence on a military like the Irish Armed Forces would be a good first step up the ladder. She came to attention in front of Trevers, who chuckled lightly.
“Vicki, in a li’l while, I s’pect we’re gonna hafta explain t’ the Irish jes’ why it was that some of our boys got a li’l carried away an’ killed their Pope, so I want you t’ come up with a good cock-an’-bull story ‘bout how real sorry we are, an’ how we din’t know jes’ who he was, ‘n all that, all right? Otherwise, we’re in fo’ some real shit. The dumbasses in Italy doan’ know their hands from their butts on this’un , so it’s up t’ us. I’m countin’ on you, ‘cause I gotta meet wit’ that slippery de Valera bastard an’ count mah fingers afterwards.”
Swenson looked slightly put off by that last statement, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her; this was her first real assignment outside the Domination, after all, and she’d find that things were a little different than just putting down the occasional bushman uprising. He still blessed his luck that had assigned Vicki here; someone at the Security Directorate knew what the Irish thought like, at least, and sent an appropriate operative. So the Irish officers who had made her the social catch of Dublin’s society hardly knew that beneath the laughing emerald eyes and strawberry-blonde hair was a woman who had ordered the impalement of an entire village in retaliation for the escape of a single serf into the USSR in 1938. Well, so much the better for her mission. Still, he supposed an explanation was in order.
“Vicki, yah gotta understand, this fella’s good. He’s cloaked hisself in robes of purest white, but it’s all an act, ‘cause he’s a survivor, jes’ like all t’ othuh political types. These heah Irish used t’ be bushmen fo’ th’ Brits, an’ they kep’ rebellin’, jes’ like our bushmen kep’ on tryin’, but the Brits wuz weak, an’ ‘stead of hangin’ ‘em all, or impalin’ ‘em, they jes’ hung a few an’ let the res’ go. Well, you know whut that did?”
Swenson smiled like a shark, which looked out of place on such a lovely face, then spoke in a low alto.
“Nits make lice. Mo’ rebellions down th’ years, if I remember raht. Din’t this guy have sumthin’ t’ do with the last’n?”
“Sho’ did. Led it hisself, then rejected th’ agreement that woulda given ‘em what he wanted, purty much. It’s compl’cated, but there wuz a war within a war, an’ he came out th’ loser, then weaseled his way back inta power. Now I gotta meet wit’ ‘im an’ tell ‘im it wuz all a mistake. That’ll be fun...” Trevers shook his head; he really wasn’t looking forward to enduring de Valera’s personality, which reminded him of a dead fish. He’d heard it said about the Irish leader by the American Ambassador that the two men got along famously, but fik-all if he’d seen any signs of it. You’d think with the amount of trade the Domination was bringing in to Ireland, there’d be at least a little warmth in the man!
The work of a diplomat was never done, it seemed. At least things could hardly get any worse.
Streets of Dublin, enroute to Dail Eireann
The bells were already tolling, and that was a bad sign, de Valera thought. He’d ordered the national flags lowered to half-staff as a sign of mourning after a quick consultation with the Archbishop, and word had spread quickly that Pius XII was murdered at the hands of the Draka, and that Rome had been sacked again, only this time much more thoroughly and completely. Apparently, there were sketchy reports that at least some of the Princes of the Church had escaped, or at least that they had not been found, so a new Pontiff would be chosen in record time, and what that meant for the world, de Valera didn’t know, but he suspected it would be interesting, at the very least. As the car raced towards Leinster House, and his address of the Dail, he noticed the small groups of people gathered on the corners. Women, wearing black shawls and veils in their grief and holding their children, who looked around, not understanding just what was going on, but knowing somehow that it was bad; old men, leaning on canes and shaking their heads as tears rolled down their cheeks, crossing themselves as they passed by the churches that already had long lines waiting outside; knots of young men on corners, who were gathered together in surly anger, and who were being discreetly watched by the Gardai. De Valera sighed as the car pulled into the parking space assigned to the Taoiseach; those last were going to be the start of any trouble in the streets, but for now, he had to deal with the Dail first.
Leinster House
“And what does the Right Honourable Taoiseach intend to do about this outrage, may I ask?” James Dillon’s voice cut through the air like a knife; the Deputy Leader of Fine Gael was almost as moralistic as de Valera himself, and this time, he had a right to be angry. Ireland had wanted to be left alone after gaining her independence from Britain, even though she had close ties with the United States, and so she had explored economic ties with the rest of the world, including the Domination, but allying herself with no-one. Given the needs of the two countries, inevitably the Draka had become a fair-sized trading partner for Irish exports, especially Waterford crystal and various liquors, which brought in much-needed hard currency. Ironically, it had helped Ireland re-arm and bring its military up to a respectable level using Yankee weaponry and equipment; no British castoffs for Erin, by God, de Valera thought. American surplus was much better, and didn’t bring the taint of the imperial yoke with it. Besides, the Snake weapons were too fancy for Ireland’s climate in any case. He’d better answer Dillon, though; Fine Gael might be small right now, but they could get support quickly, and that could be a public relations disaster for the Government. He rose to respond.
“The Right Honourable Member is quite correct to call this an outrage. That is exactly what it is. An outrage not just against man, not just against civilization, but against God. As this chamber already knows, I have called upon the nation to observe a day of mourning for our Holy Father, may God rest his soul in Heaven, and that Masses be sung for his soul this Sunday, but this cannot be enough.” He gazed around the chamber over the tops of his glasses, where every member was hanging on his words, even those from Fine Gael.
“My fellow colleagues, I see here many faces I recognize from days past when we strove against one another, but we strove in common purpose for what we have today; a free Ireland. This blow strikes at the heart of her soul, and at what it means to be Irish in so many ways. However, it was not an act directed against our people or our nation. Much as it pains me, I cannot bring to the floor a motion that would send our young men into a war against even such a nation as these butchers and vandals.” Murmurs broke out at these words, and black looks began to form on the faces of Opposition leaders. He raised his hand for silence, and continued over the growing hubbub.
“This I can offer you! When you leave here today, tell your constituents to examine their consciences on market day.” He sat down again, and a junior member of Fianna Fail immediately asked for recognition from the Chair. When recognized, the TD began to speak.
“In light of the noble Taoiseach’s words, I move for a boycott of all Drakan goods from this date...”
De Valera smiled slightly, and acknowledged Dillon’s nod with one of his own. Now all he had to do was talk to that insufferable Trevers. He had a feeling Ireland’s stock in the eyes of the world was about to go up in the next week or so.
Government House, Dublin, one hour later
Trevers was not a happy man at the moment. Bad enough that he was being made to wait for the Taoiseach, but he hadn’t liked the looks he’d gotten from the various staffers when he’d entered Government House for his appointment to discuss what was already being called the “Rape of Rome” in the Western news services. What was worse, he was sitting under the glare of what he would normally consider a very attractive wench, and the false smile he had pasted on his face was starting to make his muscles ache. Inside, of course, he was seething with thoughts of just how he would break the bitch for her defiance if they were back on his estates, but, well, they weren’t, dammit. He’d have to settle for the sweet thoughts instead, which added some sincerity to the smile. A buzzer jangled his thoughts, and the bitch spoke up.
“You may go in, sir.”
“Thank you, m’dear.” Trevers rose, snatched up his diamond-tipped cane and top hat, adjusted the ruby earstud, and opened the door.
Eamon de Valera rose from behind his desk and extended his hand with a slight smile, murmuring, “Good afternoon, Robert. I’m very pleased to see you at last. I apologize for the delay, but I had to sign a bill the Dail sent me unexpectedly. Please, won’t you sit down? Would you care for any refreshment? Tea, perhaps?”
Travers’ smile stayed on his face, as he returned the Irish leader’s handshake. Yuh bastard, he thought. He couldn’t stand the stuff, and de Valera knew it. He seemed to go out of his way to irritate the Drakan ambassador in petty ways, but Travers wasn’t going to let that get to him now. Especially not now.
“No, thank yuh, Ned,” and Travers chuckled inwardly as de Valera winced at the familiarity, “I’m doin’ well. I cam’ heah t’ talk ‘bout the…incident that happened yestidday in Italy…in Rome.” De Valera raised his eyebrows at that, and indicated that his visitor should take a seat.
“By all means, Mister Ambassador. I feel it is my duty to warn you, however, that the people of Ireland take this…incident very seriously indeed, especially given its consequences. However, we are a fair people, and therefore I felt I should, in the spirit of goodwill, give all parties their chance to tell their story, especially given the relationship between our two nations.” De Valera resumed his seat as well, and rang a buzzer at his desk. His secretary entered at once.
“Brigid, a pitcher of ice water and two tumblers, and see to it we are not disturbed.”
She nodded smartly, then left quickly. De Valera turned back to Trevers, who was sitting with his hat in his lap.
“You were saying, Mister Ambassador?”
“Well, Prime Ministuh, it’s like this. Yuh know how our military is made up, raht? Two forces, one fo’ Citizens, an’ one fo’ bush-ah, Janissaries?” That was close, Trevers thought, don’t do that again! But de Valera merely nodded, as though the slip had gone unnoticed, and Trevers forged ahead.
“Well, it seems that at Rome, our Janissaries got out o’ hand. Whut c’n yuh expect from ‘em? It’s in they nature, raht? Anyway, they slipped th’ leash, so t’ speak, an’ went berserk, shootin’ an’ hollerin’ an’ grabbin’ ever’thin’ they could lay hand on. Just like animals, really. Even grabbin’ women and havin’ they way wit’ them, never min’ whut the centurions are orderin’. Had t’ hang a bunch jes’ t’ restore order aftawards. In any case, Ministuh, from whut the War Directorate tells me, a Janissary lochos, whut yuh’d call a squad, came upon this heah old man in robes, kneelin’ down, an’ they din’t know whut t’ do, so they called they decurion…the sergeant over, an’ he din’t know whut this fella wuz doin’, so he asks him, shakin’ him, and this ol’ fella jes’ smiles at him. So the decurion, well, he gets angry, an’ shoots him in the back a’ the head. Whutcha gonna do? Fortunes a’ war, right? Yuh’ve been there, Prime Ministuh.”
De Valera could hardly believe his ears. This…thing in human form was telling him that Pius XII had been murdered by his people, and he dared compare it to the struggles of the Irish people for their freedom? A hot surge of anger seemed to sing in his ears, and, just for a moment, he felt as his ancestors must have when they faced their foes across the fields bearing pikes and swords and screaming their war cries. He wanted to leap across the desk and strike this man down for the crimes his people had committed, but he couldn’t. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm.
“So, you’re saying this entire regrettable incident was, in fact, a breakdown in discipline among your forces? Does your government recognize the serious ramifications that this incident poses to its relations with this nation? I value your government’s friendship a great deal, Mister Ambassador, and I believe you know that, but this casts that relationship in serious jeopardy. Already, my government has had to give in to popular pressure to begin economic measures against Drakian firms,” Trevers’ tanned face went white at that, and his fists clenched visibly, “and the bill I had to sign was a law ordering a boycott of Drakan firms unless a full apology for the Rape of Rome was forthcoming within twenty-four hours, full restitution made to the Vatican, and all offenders punished to the full extent of your military laws.” Trevers made an angry noise in his throat, and de Valera spread his hands in a placating gesture.
“Mister Ambassador, there is nothing I can do in this case. Had I not signed the law, my government would have fallen, and you would have faced a coalition of anti-Drakan parties that would have almost certainly declared war. Given that Germany, France, Poland and…let me see…ah, yes, Austria, have already done so as a result of this incident, I doubt the remaining neutral countries would like to see yet another nation join against you. In all honesty, Ambassador, you need all the friends you can get right now, and a boycott of goods does not mean your shipping can’t dock here, or that your Navy can’t visit here. However, you may wish to communicate to your government that the situation here is extremely tense, and I cannot be certain of keeping it under control. Please, for your own safety and that of your staffers, I advise you to remain in your compounds, both here and in Cork, until this blows over.”
Trevers’ lips were compressed into a thin white line. How dare this insolent, pompous arrogant bastard speak to a member of The Race like that? ‘Remain in your compounds’? Fik that! The Draka went anywhere they liked, took what they liked, and crushed anyone who got in their way, and if the Irish government thought they couldn’t keep their own people under control, maybe it was time they were taught a lesson. He rose from his chair and clapped his hat to his head.
“Mistuh Prime Minister.” De Valera rose from his desk and extended his hand; Trevers looked at it, and took it briefly, then turned and marched from the room, bumping into the secretary, who spilled the water over the tray and almost dropped one of the tumblers.
“I’m so sorry, Taoiseach, I didn’t mean-“, but de Valera cut her off as he went to her side.
“It’s all right, Brigid. Mr. Trevers has other things on his mind.” He smiled as he spoke.
September 13th, City of Cork, 12:30 A.M.
Conyngham had a weakness for redheads. When he found out he was assigned as a Diplo-Tetrarch Consul in Ireland, he responded in public as expected, with stoic disappointment, because everyone knew that gloomy island was a cold, wet dead end for careers, but inside he jumped for joy. Not for nothing was the island described in the classic texts as the Blessed Isle, as he’d found out on more than one occasion to his delight. The sheer number of attractive serfs of both sexes here was wonderful, even if they were rather straitlaced about such matters. It was one thing to try to find a female for pleasure, even if you had to be discreet about it, but he chuckled to himself at the fate of his predecessor, who tried looking for a prettybuck. Had THAT been a mistake! If he hadn’t had diplomatic immunity, Ingersoll would have been lucky to escape with his life, let alone his manhood. No, look but don’t touch was definitely the rule when it came to that part of the game here, Conyngham thought as he headed back to the Drakan Consulate.
Tonight, though, was a different matter. She’d been good in bed after a night on the town, and say what you might about the Catholic superstition, it didn’t have any strictures on contraception to interfere with the pleasures of mating. Of course, he hadn’t finished inside her; that wouldn’t have been right. Still, she hadn’t complained with the fee he’d paid her, and they’d both been satisfied with the arrangement. Kathleen, that was her name. Nice name, for a serf bitch. He’d likely visit her again in the week to come, but he wanted to find some others as well, spread the wealth, so to speak. He grinned at that; this was a nice posting, when you thought about it. He had to oversee the Domination shipping coming into Cobh, the second-largest port after Dublin, and the major source of Drakan imports, and so he was responsible for a large part of this nation’s economy. Imagine that! A lowly Diplo-Tetrarch! He chuckled again at the thought; these bushmen had screwed up their country so badly they couldn’t organize whores at a-
The cobblestone came out of nowhere and caught him hard above the kneecap, and he grimaced with pain and grabbed at the leg, looking around even as he did so. Five figures emerged from the storefronts half a block ahead, and he could see they were carrying heavy sticks of some sort in their hands, and hefting cobblestones in the other. All but one, that is, whose left hand was empty of a stone. He immediately dropped into combat awareness mode, and his right hand whipped out the ornate dagger he always carried in his boot top (damn the Diplomatic Directorate and their directive on carrying guns in neutral countries!). He tested the leg; it felt tender, but it would stand the usage. Five ferals against a Draka wasn’t much of a fight; he’d be home in time for a good night’s sleep.
“Well, now, lads, we seem to have caught a Snake, by Jaysus.” That from the one without the stone. Good, he was the leader. Kill him and the rest would scatter. Don’t waste time on idle chatter, just coil and-
FIK! Another stone smacked into him, from the rear! This one hurt, as it caught Conyngham’s arm holding the dagger right at the shoulder joint, and reflexively the dagger flew out of his hand before he could stop it, skittering across the bricks to his left, as Conyngham snuck a quick look back across his shoulder to see three more men with stones and thick sticks in their hands advancing from his right rear. Conyngham reconsidered the situation; eight against one now wasn’t looking as good, especially since they were armed and he wasn’t, and all eight were advancing with what looked like murder in their eyes. By the time he recovered the dagger, they’d be on him, and he might take two or three with him, but he’d be beaten to death before any help could arrive (or would want to arrive, he thought sourly-Draka weren’t very popular right now). No, it was time to retreat, and he knew where; he’d passed an alleyway on his way here, and he could climb the metal fire escapes they had here, then run along the rooftops and climb down another building close to the consulate, and he’d be home. In the morning, he’d file a complaint with the Gardai, and then he could resume his hunt for the fairer sex. All this went through his mind in a fraction of a second, and he whirled and bolted away from the advancing men, back down the way he came.
“After him! Don’t let the filthy Snake get away!” With that, the eight men charged after Conyngham, tucking their sticks close under their bodies and gripping the paving stones tight; there would be revenge tonight, one way or another.
“Keep your eye on him, for the love of Christ! Did you see where he went?” This from the leader, as Conyngham rapidly outstripped the men, being unburdened by their weapons. Still, he wasn’t as lucky as he’d hoped.
“Aye, he turned down there, Seamus!” One of the men pointed down the alleyway, as the men came panting up. Seamus looked down the dark stretch, and saw a shadow jumping up and tugging at the metal ladders that served as fire escapes for the tenements and stores.
“Saints above, if he gets up on the roof, we’ll never get him.” He let out a breath. “Right, we’ll have to chance it. We’ll all toss the stones when we get in range, then half will club him with our sticks, and half hit him like a poker, get me?”, and he used both hands to demonstrate. Suddenly, a metallic skrreee indicated that their target seemed to be getting closer to achieving his getaway. Seamus turned to the entrance of the alley and raised his stick.
“Come on, lads!”, he roared, and the seven others shouted and poured down after him.
September 13th, City of Cork, 7:30 A.M.
Garda O’Reilly could hardly keep his breakfast sausage down. The body barely looked human, which wasn’t the way to start your morning shift; he’d been looking forward to a nice quiet morning beat, but then a street sweeper had noticed the flies gathering in the alleyway and had investigated, since he’d just cleaned it out the day before. O’Reilly certainly couldn’t fault the old man’s sense of civic responsibility, but why did it have to end up in his lap? Good thing his Sergeant was on the way to help out, but he just had an unlucky feeling that this was not going to end well. Some damned Draka, by the look of it, (forgive me, Lord, he whispered mentally), but why was he down here? Whatever the Snakes were or were not, robbery wasn’t high on their list of crimes, but this one had been beaten to death for some reason. Given their…interests, he had his suspicions, by the Snakes couldn’t be that stupid again, could they? He’d let the Sergeant sort this one out; that’s why Leinster House paid them the extra money. As it was, this lad was for the morgue. Still, he’d had company, judging from the bloodstains on the rest of the alleyway; not even Snakes bled that much, so it looked like several people had somehow expressed their displeasure with whatever the naked, battered corpse had been doing. What was worse, he couldn’t seem to get hold of the local Drakan consul to identify the body, curse the luck.
Sergeant Murphy arrived fifteen minutes later to find an equally repulsed and frustrated Garda O’Reilly on the scene of a crime that he’d never encountered before, and thirty seconds later hoped he never did again. The body was definitely Drakan, given the muscular development and the fact that there had been several earrings missing, torn out by the persons who had beaten the man to death. He could tell it was a man from the genitalia stuffed in the corpse’s mouth, although he’d have preferred not to identify the gender in that fashion. Still, it was a quick way to do it. The face was so badly beaten, however, that it would be almost impossible to identify without the help of the consul, and contacting him was the job of the Gardai. Best to see what progress had been made on that front.
“O’Reilly. Any word yet from the Drakan consulate?”
“Well, Sergeant, no one there seems to know where he is. Apparently he went out last night, and he hasn’t been seen since. They seemed a little angry that we even dared to ask, to be honest. Like we were inferring that he was a criminal or something.”
“Did they, now? Well.” Murphy pulled out a pipe and filled it carefully, and lit it, drawing in the fragrant smoke. “Let’s think this through. The Drakan consul is missing since last night. We have a dead Draka here at our feet who was killed sometime last night. Now, I may not have the superior brainpower of the Snakes, but…” O’Reilly grasped the point at once.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God. Should we tell them?” Murphy smiled nastily.
“No, I think the Mayor should be told of our discovery so that he may inform Leinster House; proper procedure, after all. I don’t like to be told we thought the departed was a criminal, in any event. It slanders his good name.” He puffed contentedly on his pipe. No, the Snakes weren’t going to like this one bit, which was fine with Gardai Sergeant Murphy; that’d teach them to make a pass at his teenaged son.
Drakan Embassy, Dublin, two hours later
“The consul wuz WHUT?” Trevers bellowed into the ivory handset, his face purple with rage. He could hardly believe his ears; a full Citizen of the Domination had been killed in the most heinous fashion by a bunch of backwards-ass ferals! From what the local police had released, it sounded like Consul Conyngham might have taken a couple down with him, but none of the local hospitals reported any injuries or deaths, and Trevers snorted mentally at that. As though they would! Bliddy ferals all stick together anyway. No, this was a setup; it had to be. An incident to further embarrass the Domination and humiliate them, just like those damned laws the bastards had passed, boycotting trade and demanding an apology for the actions the Draka took in Rome. What was Ireland going to do about it if the Draka didn’t apologize? Throw potatoes at the Domination? Trevers grinned like a hyena at the thought; thanks to Swenson, he knew the Irish military was no match for a single Citizen mechanized chiliarchy. Their vehicles were outdated at best, and their personal arms were leftovers from the Americans. Oh, they kept them in good order, but the military was far too small to present any real threat to anyone. All it would take was a single landing at Cobh one night, and the country would be taken within a week. This, though, was an outrage, and the Irish must be made to understand that they would have to answer for it. No one went around assaulting members of the Diplomatic Directorate with impunity. He was going to see de Valera again, and damn the consequences.
“Thank yuh, Citizen. I’ll be in touch. Glory t’ th’ Race.”
Leinster House, one hour later
“Siddown, bitch.” Trevers snarled at the secretary who half-rose to stop him as he pushed his way towards de Valera’s office and through the door. His expression was thunderous, his brows knitted together, and de Valera looked up at the unexpected interruption from his desk with a frown as Trevers slammed the door and advanced across the floor until he stood directly in front of the Irish leader’s desk. There was a pregnant pause between the two men, until de Valera spoke first.
“Is there something I may help you with, Mister Ambassador?”
Trevers leaned down and planted both his hands palms-down on the Taoiseach’s desk, and spoke into his face.
“Mistuh Prime Ministuh, I s’pect we both know why I’m heah. Yo’ boys murduhed mah Consul down in Cork, an’ as of now, th’ Security Directorate is takin’ over th’ investigation. Th’ Domination don’ allow its Citizens t’ be butchered like hawgs by jes’ anyone, leas’ of all thos’ it considers its friends. I sugges’ you jes’ step aside an’ let us git t’ work.” His temper was still running high, but he had tempered his words a little from what he had really wanted to say to this man! He looked deep into de Valera’s eyes, searching for the signs of fear or weakness that would mark acquiescence to Trevers’ announcement.
He didn’t find them.
“Mister Ambassador, I regret that you have found the services of the An Garda Siochana lacking, but I can assure you, it is not through lack of effort on their part. They are more than happy to cooperate with your security staff; in fact, they welcome the opportunity. However, the attack occurred on Irish soil, and they are the guardians of the Irish people, and of Ireland herself. As the leader of the Government, I cannot allow the forces of a foreign power to take jurisdiction of a crime committed on our soil. No, sir, the Gardai have jurisdiction, and they will exercise it in this case.” De Valera looked calmly back up at Trevers, who trembled slightly in his building rage. He’d never been talked to like that before, and certainly not by this man. Who was he to talk to a Drakan Citizen like that? What was his country, to stand up to the power of the Domination? The pitiful joke the Irish called a “police force” didn’t even carry guns here! How did they deal with criminals? Drink them to death? Trevers took a deep breath and straightened up.
“Mistuh Prime Ministuh, I’ve been heah long enough t’ know that tryin’ t’ force th’ Directorate on yuh is a bad idea, so I won’ push it, but I will say this, suh. Yuh are a coward an’ a fool fo’ listenin’ to those people in th’ streets, an’ if yuh wuz any part of a man, I’d slap yo’ jaw an’ force yuh t’ resent it. As it is, suh, I’ll jes’ take my leave.” He turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him. De Valera’s face remained creased in a frown, and he punched the buzzer on his desk after a minute with more force than usual.
“Brigid, I need you to call the Minister of War, and the Sergeant at Arms for the Dail, and set up an emergency meeting.”
Streets of Dublin, three hours later (1:30 PM)
“EXTRA! EXTRA! Draka Ambassador threatens Taoiseach! De Valera appeals for calm in emergency session of Dail! Gardai placed on high alert!” The Dublin Times was going into printing overdrive, and the stands and newsboys were besieged with customers. Papers were passed around as fast as they were purchased, and more tempers were beginning to rise against the Domination, trading status be damned. Not just in Cork and Dublin, either.
Waterford Docks, 3:30 PM
It’s been said that a dogfight can bring on a battle, given the right circumstances. In this case, an incautious remark sparked a riot.
DTS Archona’s Pride was loading one of Ireland’s most famous exports; Waterford’s namesake crystal, cut into goblets and tumblers and art glass for the homes of Citizens back in the Domination. Rather understated, by Domination tastes, but there were those who liked that sort of look, and it did catch the African sun beautifully. The Irish dockworkers helping to bring the crates to the cranes were unforgivably undisciplined by Citizen standards, but there were rules here, and the Cohortarch in command sighed in disgust. Now, a good, properly-disciplined group of serfs would have had these crates aboard in one-third the time, and they’d have weighed anchor already. Instead, there seemed to be an argument down near where the last group of crates was being loaded aboard into the nets.
James Butler stared at the Snake sailor with his right fist clenched, even as he waved his men back with his left. He had a false smile on his face, and was determined to keep his tone light and try to resolve this dispute peacefully; maybe the Snake didn’t understand what he’d said wrong?
“Would you mind repeating what you just said, laddie?” Which was true; Butler had at least twenty years on the Snake, and a good forty pounds. He might look old and heavy, as opposed to the Snake’s youth and trim physique, but he doubted the Snake had been fighting dirty around Ireland’s docks all his life since the age of fourteen. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. The Snake didn’t seem to want to oblige him, though. He sneered at the stevedore and repeated what had touched off the crowd.
“I said, serf, that if yuh an’ yuhr gang o’ masterless cattle were anythin’ like our boys back home, we’d be done ba now, but yuh ain’t. Yuh lower than cattle. Undisciplined, smelly, an’ prob’ly drunk t’ boot.” The Snake smiled at Butler, as if daring him to take action, and jerked his head up towards his ship, where his crewmates were no doubt watching. The stevedores’ mutters were louder now, and angrier, and observers along the docks were drifting over; some of them had caught the final words, and their faces were turning an ugly shade as well. Butler shook his head sadly. If that’s the way things were going to be, then…
He charged forward, and the Snake’s eyes widened in surprise as this fifty-year old man caught him off guard, sinking a meaty fist deep into his stomach and forcing the breath from his lungs with a whoop! The crowd surged forward, and the Cohortarch screamed a curse on the bridge. There’d be hell to pay for this bliddy fuck-up, but he had to make sure none of the natives got on to his ship first, and that meant the machine guns had to come out.
Drakan Embassy, 7:30 PM
“Will someone please explain t’ me whut the FIK that damnfool cap’n thought he wuz’ DOIN’?” Trevers could hardly believe it when the news came from Waterford. Just when he realized what he had done, and was ready to try to make amends with de Valera, this had to happen! He almost wanted to take the easy way out, open his desk drawer and use the automatic hidden in there, but that would be a betrayal of the Draka. Still, there wasn’t going to be any way to control this. The Brits had learned that the hard way. You couldn’t open fire on the Irish and expect them to forgive you after gunning down over a hundred men on the docks; those memories were simply too fresh for them. It didn’t matter that the captain said the Irishman threw the first punch; the Irish would claim the Drakan crewman had said something to start the fight, and it would all boil down to whose word was good here. Trevers knew where that road led, and it wasn’t Archona. Now the capital’s namesake was barely making steam for home after a mob had rushed her despite the weapons fire; it turned out that there were many Irish who still had dreams of a fully united Ireland, and rifle fire had started picking off crewmen on deck, allowing someone to rush up and throw a gasoline bomb through a porthole into the forward cargo compartment. The crates and tarred ropes had added to the flames, and the crew had to abandon the guns to fight the flames, which would have allowed the mob to swarm aboard…if they’d wanted to.
Instead, they chopped her mooring lines and screamed curses at her as she drifted away from the port, calling for a cutting torch to cut her anchor chain. The Cohortarch had solved that problem for them, raising anchor even as his crew fought the flames, trying to get away from a city that had gone mad. Incredibly, the crew had brought the fire under control in less than twenty minutes, which said something for the skill and discipline of the Transportation Directorate, but much of the cargo was ruined, and there were several casualties among the crew from the rifle fire. As he rubbed his temples, Victoria Swenson, his Security Directorate aide, arrived with a note.
“Ambassador. This jes’ arrived from th’ office of th’ Irish Prime Ministuh. It’s marked “Urgent”, suh.” Trevers turned it over in his hands. A plain, ordinary diplomatic note, but it was indeed marked URGENT across the front in red ink. He opened it and began to read.
Mister Ambassador, it began, you are hereby notified that Dail Eireann is scheduled to meet tonight in Emergency Session at 8:00 to consider the state of diplomatic relations between our two nations. As Diplomatic Representative of the Domination of the Draka, you are hereby formally invited to witness these proceedings. I regret matters have been taken from my control by recent events.
Eamon de Valera
Taoiseach
Trevers tore the note into pieces.
“That sumBITCH! I knew he wuz behin’ all this! Oh, I’ll get him yet. I’ll have his head fo’ a trophy on mah wall back home befo’ the year is OUT!” This last was shouted at the ceiling, and Vicki Swenson was alarmed for the first time in her association with Trevers. This was bordering on paranoia, and it was unhealthy. He calmed down, and turned to her.
“Vicki, call a cab fo’ me. I’m goin’ to their joke of a gov’ment, and be sure to have the staff pack our bags. I think our time heah is about up.”
Dail Eireann, 9:40
“The motion having been read, and the debate ended, the Question now stands before this Dail. Do we, as a result of the Waterford Massacre, break off diplomatic relations with the Domination of the Draka, and declare the Citizens thereof to be personae non gratae in Eire and her possessions, boycotting all trade with her possessions, combines, corporations, and individuals, known and found to be such? Bear in mind, gentlemen and ladies, the burden we bear here tonight. This is a responsibility we do not shoulder lightly. The Dail will now divide on the Question.”
Trevers left early. He knew the outcome already. De Valera was smiling from his seat on the front bench. He hadn’t planned things this way, truly, but sometimes prayers truly were answered. For once, Fianna Fail and Fine Gael would be working together.
Now, to talk with the American Ambassador and ask about that interesting program they were using with the Russians. After all, Ireland had an army, but it needed a bit of help at sea. Giving them basing rights at Cobh might be a nice incentive to start from.
Yes, he could see how things would start looking up. James Dillon of Fine Gael came over and clapped him on the shoulder, interrupting his reverie.
“Well, Dev, you’ve done it. A near-unanimous vote to break ties with the Draka and get them out of here. Well done, even for an old IRA type like yourself.” He threw out his hand, and de Valera smiled slightly and shook it. Dillon looked serious, then.
“Of course, we’re going to have to mobilize, now. This can only mean they’re going to declare war; the Draka don’t take kindly to this sort of thing. I just hope we’re ready for it, but I can tell you we’re behind the Government, Dev. No Opposition this time.”
“I appreciate that, James. I truly do.” Dillon smiled back at him, looked thoughtful for a moment, then burst out into laughter, which echoed around the chamber, causing heads to turn towards the leader of the Government and his rival. A shocked silence fell over the Dail, as de Valera looked affronted at the display. Finally, Dillon recovered himself, and wiped his eyes; he looked around at his fellow TDs, and smiled.
“Don’t you see, ladies and gentlemen? Don’t you understand? Our Taoiseach shouldn’t have been named Eamon at all, but…Padraic!” Comprehension slowly dawned on faces, and smiles started to break out on faces as de Valera turned a bright red, and Dillon indicated their leader.
“He’s driven the Snakes out of Ireland!”
END OF CHAPTER 1
