Confliction: Chapter 2

         A mighty blast of air swept the concrete landing pad, and swirled around a black limousine parked haphazardly on the edge of the pad.  Tiny pebbles skipped across the smooth surface into the leather boots of the general standing at ease next to the passengers side door.  He was alone in the area as the small ship section touched down just off the middle mark.  The Karakean general pulled a packet of gum out of his jacket pocket as the engines shut down, popping one into his mouth and throwing the wrapper on the ground to be carried into the city on a gust of hot air.
         A small hiss of hydraulic steam sprayed, as a small door rolled up the side of the rounded vehicle.  Scramble Sparta; a slim Puritan woman hopped out of the ship without waiting for the stairs to deploy, landing on the ground and standing on her heels.  She wore a black floral pattern dress that rose above her right knee, and around her other ankle and rings of fabric encircled her tail.  She carried a small leather bag on her arm. Her eyes were red, and she glanced around her as she walked towards the general. 
         He stood at attention as she walked briskly towards him.  “Good morning, High General Sparta,” he said, clacking his boots together.
         “General Teznin,” she responded. “It's good to see you again.” She waved her hand and broke his attention.
         He opened the car door and she sat down, pulling the door shut herself. He jogged around the car and sat in the drivers seat next to her, placing the key in the ignition and pulling the car away from the landing surface.
         For a moment they sat in silence, listening to the revving of the engine.
         “Anoosa has changed,” she said as she looked out the window. They were pulling onto the highway, and rising above the city; a horizon of glass and black steel. “Four months is a long time during war.” 
         Teznin changed lanes. “We were rushing you out when you were last here.”
         “I remember.”  Sirens and the smell of smoke were in the air that night.  Three power stations had been attacked by Pyromancer sympathizers, and two of them had exploded, drenching the city in darkness.  The flames spread quickly and lit up the city again, as the firefighters and police struggled to get control.  When the power had gone out, she had been grabbed by a unit of faceless Karakean soldiers with flashlights and carried to an armoured car in a turtle-shell phalanx of riot shields and machine guns, and they had sped through the city as flames assaulted the skyline.  They had thrown her into a helicopter despite her protests; just following orders.
         “The rebels were caught and imprisoned, but the fires did a lot of damage.  We rebuilt quickly.”
         The new buildings were build from dark steel, and stood out next to the ones in the distance made from coloured brick and glass.  Buildings charred by design.  The highway ran five stories up from the ground and was mostly empty of smaller cars, but packed with military vehicles, heavy duty industrial trucks and buses travelling in both directions; the sides of them marking such obscure locations as Purmir Street, and Meldmek Theatre; stations created as refugee camps.  It was in the city's best interest to limit people to mass transit.
         A lurch in the highway, and it slowly sank to the ground level, meeting up with several side streets heading in every direction, the buses split up, and their limousine changed direction, north and slowed down to a steady pace.  The auto-pace light blinked on the dash and Teznin pressed it, taking his feet off the pedals.
         Pedestrians swamped the sidewalks, moving in all directions and jamming traffic signals.  Many of them carrying their entire lives on their backs or in suit cases wheeling behind them.  The car hummed past a public park resting between intersecting main streets. Entire families stood around waist high tables eating lunch with no chairs.  Large trees were filled with children swinging from branches while the parents sat on the benches and the concrete trading stories of home and family. The fountain had been shut off, and an artificial riverbed filled with trash, void ration stamps and wrappers was dried in the hot sun. Three men with large guns stood at the corner of the square, laughing amongst themselves, completely separate from the rest of the people in the park.
         “Are those soldiers?” Scramble asked.  The car buzzed by slowly.
         “Those are police.  After the last attack, many officers were killed.  The city felt that they need to be better equipped.”
         “Isn't that a violation of Anoosain civil rights?”
         “Technically no.” He gave a half smile. “They are still police officers.”
         “They are equipped as soldiers though. The only difference would be the return address on their paychecks, am I right? I would call that martial law.”
         “You wouldn't be alone in that conclusion.  Some people still fight against it.”
         “Some people?” Scramble said.
         “Hippie activists and slippery slope conspiracy theorists mostly. Most people aren't fighting it.  The refugee population is so huge, and the enemy so strong that people feel safer knowing that the police have assault rifles and spidersilk rather than handguns and Kevlar.”
         “Freedom for safety.”
         “We have suffered our fair share of pain since this war has started, and we are doing everything we can.” He began to raise his voice slightly.  “Every decision; every single one; has been met with criticism, when all we are doing is trying to survive.  Maybe if we were a military dictatorship...”
         “Calm down, soldier,” Scramble said, and shifted slightly to the outside of the vehicle.
         “Apologies, High General.”  Awkward silence filled the vehicle. Teznin flicked a small lever, and they made an abrupt left away from the flow of traffic.  A road block was ahead with several more officers standing behind yellow barricades.  Scramble glanced at Teznin.
         Auto-pace turned off as the car approached the officers.  He took the wheel and slowed down.  There were tall faceless buildings and empty parking lots on either side.  An officer was eyeing the car and talking on a walky-talky.
         “Why are we going this way?” Scramble said. “I need to head to the military base.”
         “We are going to the palace.” Teznin said.  The car was waved through the blockade and they picked up speed along an empty road.
         “I don't need to see the Anaara, I need to see General Farlar.”
         “Anaara Meltorio has been moved to Sceateeko for his safety.  Commander Farlar currently resides in the palace.”
         “Commander Farlar?” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms across her chest.  “So the rumours are true.”
         “Rumours, High General?” Teznin said, looking in her direction.
         “Rocac Farlar has taken over the country.”


         Rocac Farlar stepped down from the podium as the crowd cheered and chanted.  Flashes of light blinded him, and a thousand microphones were thrown in his direction.  Waves of questions washed over and past him, as he descended the stairs, moving slowly and smiling bright for cameras.  He shook a few hands of some vaguely familiar faces that he had no names for, while listening to what people in his peripherals were asking him or his escort of generals.  This was an important part of these press conferences; not only do they find out what you know, but you get to listen to what the people know too.
         He was looking respectable, wearing one of his best suits; black with a slight blue tint to match his eyes, and with his brown hair parted just off the centre.  His charisma was what made him popular with the people.  Long before he had gained technical control of the military, he had been a direct route from the upper commands to the people of the country, and was placed in front of cameras whenever possible.  His previous commander had recognized that, and although he had died before the war had really begun to ramp up, had understood that this conflict would be a conflict of the people, and had made sure that Rocac was groomed to replace him; the people would need him to be the face and mind of the magi wars.
         He smiled big while he shook hands with a Puritan general, just in time for ANN cameras to be thrust into the front lines snapping photographs and rolling video.  There was so many questions and shouts this close to him that no one would hear what they were talking about; vitally, as they were discussing the weather and General Maritan's daughter's college career, rather than matters of war and troop placement.  The news would like to see the optimistic looks on their faces, rather than the mussed up hair and furled brows that were more common for such discussions.
         He moved his way through people and made brief eye contact with his assistant, Rae Taseero. She nodded and looking into the ocean of bobbing heads and flashing lights, she held her hands above her, and shouted that she would be taking all questions for the commander.  This thinned the crowd slightly, as they swarmed Rae, and gave Rocac a chance to break away to a barricade manned by several men with guns nearly as large as their wielders.  He patted one on the shoulder, while two more stepped forward to block the intimidated river of followers.
         He stepped around an ebony pillar and slowed his pace down to a stroll while he ran his fingers through his hair and took a few deep breaths.  Large groups of people scared him.  He had never quite managed to get over his fright, despite being in the focus of the countries attention for many years. The relief was enough to make him laugh hysterically or break down and cry every time, and he always found himself wanting to smoke afterwards. He continued to walk along the grand stone walkway that ran along the side of the palace.  The walls were a solid black marble all the way along, for a hundred metres and every five or six, a pillar descended from the overhanging roof, blocking the hot sun from his face for a moment as he passed.  Beyond, large green trees stood in a perfect layer of green grass, with clean new benches in the shady spots and a thin cobblestone path meandered through the evergreen shadows.  Pretty pink and blue flowers jutted out of brown flowerbeds every few metres along it.  He loathed this garden now.  It was too sterile and artificial. He put one arm and leaned against the pillar, following it's shadow up the wall as it changed the colour of stone and grass alike.
         He started when he heard the voice behind him.
         “Fancy new digs.” He turned to see Scramble Sparta standing a short distance away beside a  bust of an old resident of the palace that had been lovingly restored from its complete destruction. “Looks different than I remember it, though.” She scanned the side of the building.
         He smiled when he saw her, and they walked towards one another with vigour, throwing their arms around each other with balled up fists, thumping each other on the back. “It is so good to see you again,” he said, pushing her to arms length and looking into her red and white eyes.  “Last time I saw you, a bunch of my soldiers were throwing you in a trunk if I recall correctly.”
         Her eyes narrowed and she pulled away from his grip, but her smile remained. “I have yet to forgive you for that. I still get back spasms in the mornings.” She stretched her shoulders, giving a great cracking sound.
         “Tragic.  Maybe next time, I will roll you up in a carpet.”
         She looked up the side of the palace. “I see you rebuilt quickly. But I think this is a new model, am I right?”
         “No, it's the same palace rebuilt with a blackened marble. It was a priority project.”  He knew she would understand.  The palace had been among the last man made wonders in Anoosa when it had been burned by a rebel group that attempted to clear the way for the Pyromancers, along with a large portion of the northern city.  It had been an immense moral defeat to the citizens of the city, who had already begun to lose faith.  He had made sure the city would be rebuilt immediately and grander than ever before, and had set aside a massive budget to speed it along.  That had been five months ago, and since then, the city's horizon had been peppered with rising construction projects, and all manners of artisans had been crawling all over the palace, painting, brick laying, smelting, and sculpting.  The gardeners had done a particularly impressive job, but it could never be the same.  The old paths cracked by emergent roots, and crumbling walls, overgrown with ivy had given the old place character, and try as they might, the green tint they had given to the stones that made up the fountain could never replicate their algae stained predecessors.
         She raised her eyebrows a little. “Why black?”
         He knew her concern.  It looked burnt.  There was a little of the attack that would always remain with this city.  The once great white palace that had been here before had been forever charred by the kiss of flame. “There's a black marble quarry just south of Tearinoon that has so far been untouched by the war.  The owner knew that he would need to leave soon, so he gave us a deal if he would help us mine it.”  Most white marble had come from Xenore, and whatever remained in Anoosa was too dangerous to acquire at this point.  Every building that had been rebuilt had been in black, to accommodate the new style.
         “I see.  I like it, I really do.”
         “All but the colour,” Rocac said with a smirk.  Never mind that.
         “You live here now.  I hear that comes with a promotion.  Should I congratulate you?”
         “Coming from you, that would mean a lot.  In reality, all that it means is that I act while the Anaara is out of town.  Anaara Meltorio departed from Anoosa on the same day you did.”
         “Although probably not by the same method.”
         “I'm pretty sure the Disciples goal was to murder the Council members.  A lofty goal that got most of them sent to military prisons.”
         “Definitely lofty.  Do you have any idea when the Anaara will be returning?  The protection on the streets seems to be lofty itself.  Besides, you sent for me, and this isn't even my country.  Meltorio must be desperate to return.”
         “I don't know that he is.  He speaks through me, but lately, more and more of his orders are...” Rocac paused.  “Implied.  As if he is giving me advice more than giving me commands.”  Rocac stared at the cobblestones beneath his feet, pale and evenly spaced.  They both knew what that meant.
         They walked a short distance in silence, until the approached the end of the gardens.  A giant yellow tree with droopy leaves obscured them from whatever stragglers hadn't left right away from the press conference.  They stood a while to avoid starting a second frenzy.  He knew that Scramble had arrived earlier that morning in a secretive private transport, unbeknownst to the media.  Her presence would mean the beginning of something big, and the last thing he wanted was a second swamp of cameras and questions.  They lingered beneath the big yellow tree.
         Scramble broke the silence. “Have you dealt with any subsequent attacks?”  She had a way of changing the tone of her voice when she had to talk business that made it super obvious.  It was infectious, the way she did it, and couldn't help but make everyone around her sit up and pay attention, often adopting the same tone she did.
         “No, but we did identify the attackers as a rebel group known as The Burning Disciples.”
         “Magi?”
         “No, actually.  It seems to be an entirely sotor group, but they pledge their full support for the Pyromancers.”
         Scramble looked around the trunk of the tree, counting any remaining news vans that had yet to drive away.  “Treason then.  As if we don't have enough trouble fighting an enemy, we need to fight one another now. Why did they strike when they did?”
         “They were operating under the assumption that the Pyromancers would be marching north-west into the peninsula after they sacked Vio Taseo.  We were under the same assumption, so we moved defences away from Anoosa.  They were hoping to create havoc back at home, making it easier for the Pyromancers to invade Quintoa.”
         “But the Pyromancers didn't invade Quintoa.”
         “Right, so the losses we sustained were mostly infrastructural with minimal loss of life.  The heavy action response police were already suited up for a quick transport to Quintoa, but since the Pyromancers didn't attack, they got a quick response, and routed up the attackers.  Twelve were killed in action, but twenty three surrendered.  They didn't last long under interrogation.”
         “Cowards.  If it were me, I would have all their hands in a box.” 
         Rocac stared at the bark on the tree.  As barbaric as Puritan justice seemed, there were times where he would prefer it.  The Disciples had burned through more than enough of the capital to warrant a punishment worthy of Purity in his books, but he was no more than a slave to the system he was born into.  Inside he wondered what it would be like to be more than a public servant.
         Scramble glanced around the trunk of the yellow tree again. “Come on, they are gone.”


         Scramble and Rocac walked into the control room.  The room was extremely new.  The last time Scramble had been in this room, it had been dingy and old, with an unfortunate musky smell.  Although  now it was restored, in much the same fashion as it must have been hundreds of years ago when it had been originally built.  The ceiling was well crafted, stained by a large map of Karakeas that was up to date with every city state, although not with the recent Pyromancer invasion.  Several large and overly ornate chandeliers were hanging from the oceans over three large mahogany tables that looked as if they could seat fifty each.  The floors were a grained hardwood and in all four corners there was a desk with several computers attached to it.  The main meeting table stood directly opposite to the doors, which were massive like barn doors, but heavy iron; what Scramble suspected was a throwback to primitive wartime.  Two guards, with visors down, cradled weapons that were comically large, and stared straight forward, ignoring their presence.
         Rocac walked down the walkway between the meeting tables and sat in the largest table in the very middle chair, which looked to be larger than any other chair; a throne of some kind.  She sat on the other side of her.  There was a small crack in the wood of the table directly in front of her.  She swivelled the chair around and put her legs on the chair next to her, leaning back, staring at the roof.
         Rocac glared at her for a second.  Maybe he was used to people sitting at attention in this room.  “So how have things been going on Purity?” He asked.
         “Oh, you know how it is.  No matter how full the army coverage is, the uprisings happen where there are no soldiers.” She looked at Anoosa painted on the roof above her, and drew an invisible line across the peninsula.  “We get there to shut it down, just as a new one pops up on the other side of the world.  It's frustrating.  Give me a real war with a real enemy any day.”
         “Oh yeah, it's a blast,”  he said sarcastically.
         She leaned back forward, facing him.  “Oh don't get me wrong, I know its worse out here, but as bad as it is, things are a little bit simpler here.”  Rocac raised an eyebrow as he tented his fingers.  “In a way.”
         “I've read everything I can find on what is going on over there and it's true, it does seem to be more complicated.  What was a civil war here, has turned into an occupying force.  You still have the civil war.”
         She sighed.  “It's all political.  I don't know who's my friend, and who's my enemy.”
         “Why did you come here when It's so bad over there?”
         “A breath of fresh air to be honest.” She rested her hands behind her head and closed her eyes.  “But it all smells like smoke.”
         Rocac laughed to himself a little.  “Who keeps things in order while you are here?”
         “Norrick.  Probably the only man on Purity who doesn't actually want the job. He will manage, though.  He is more familiar with the troubles over there than even I am.”
         “But I take it you won't be here long.”
         “Right.  As much as I love the smell of smoke in the morning, I need to get back and burn some uprisings.”
         Rocac leaned in close to her.  “No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to keep an uprising down.  I'll put it down one moment, but as soon as we move on to the next, they pop up again, like a game of whack-a-mole.  If we imprison the artists and mages, the people rise up and break them out of prison.  Short of executing everyone, I am at a loss for how to stop these things from popping up.  I hear you don't have the same problem.”          
         Scramble's cheeks got slightly red under her thin brown fur as he complimented her.  “Well it hasn't been easy.  We've found a method we find to be solid.  We get there and start fighting.  More often than not we destroy the disorganized rabble quickly, either killing most of them, or throwing them in prison for life without a trial, but we make sure to get hold of the artists and more talented mages, and then hire them for triple the pay of a regular soldier.”
         Rocac leaned in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing deep. “We tried that, here, actually.  We haven't had much luck with it, however.  Most of them follow the heavily idealized promises of the factions.  Also, there were mass protests about 'the enemy joining our ranks and getting paid more than a friendly' from the sotor populous.  It was so bad, I had to offer a 10% wage disparity at most, which for our army isn't exactly a promise of wealth.”
         “We got a few of those on Purity  I told them that if any sotor can crush a tank to dust with their bare hands, I will pay them as much as someone who can.”  She laughed.  “I tell you, some of those sons of bitches are pretty damn useful.”
         Rocac was quiet for a moment.  She knew he had a few artists in his army, and although it wasn't an immensely significant number, an artist well placed was worth a thousand non-artists.  The silence went on for a while.  Rocac was studying the lines in the table, while Scramble looked in his direction.  At last she broke the silence: “So why did you send for me, Rocac.  You could have sent for me any time in the last several months, but why now?”  He looked at her all seriousness.  His eyes were slightly bloodshot and had begun to sag only a little.  She knew how he felt, she had had very little sleep over the last year, herself, and she knew that Rocac had suffered worse than her.
         Despite this, he cracked a smile.  “I have a plan.”  He spoke quietly, almost a whisper as he said it, and she instinctively leaned in to hear him.