In the Ruins of Empires
Kathmandu - August 29
Ironically, for a war that Jerusalem started, the Reich and its former allies were the ones that suffered the most from it. India, one of the Reich’s oldest allies, suffered the worst of all. When Jayasimha finally returned to his home after so long in exile, he recognized absolutely nothing.
Dharanagara had fallen to Jerusalem, back when it was still wearing the corpse of the Reich as its disguise, in the war of 2034, and the Crusaders ruled it with an iron fist ever since. Over five years of occupation and battles against Indian troops attempting to take it back in the recent war, the city had been thoroughly devastated. The millions of civilians who were trapped there since 2034 were subjected to Jerusalem’s barbaric depredations, from the “usual” oppression of a military occupation to scientific experiments carried out by “curious” Jerusalemite researchers to cruel games played by bored soldiers. As the war turned against Jerusalem, its cruelty towards India only intensified, and even though Jerusalem itself began to fall apart, the Crusaders here devoted every bit of their energy towards eradicating all things Indian. Even as surviving Indian troops gained ground and Jerusalem’s occupation forces suffered irreplaceable losses, the Crusaders continued their suicidal and maniacal obsession with finishing the Purification of India—the Scouring of India, as Indians called it.
By the time the last Crusader was killed and the Indian flag was raised, there was nothing left of Dharanagara to call it a victory. The ancient Paramara capital had been effectively erased from the map of India. The last efforts of the Crusaders, after razing the entire city to a more thorough extent than had been done in Denmark or Lithuania, was to contaminate the entire metropolitan area with every last biochemical weapon they had in their stockpile, poison the lakes and cisterns, and mine the rubble with land mines containing both conventional explosives and more biochemical weapons which were now constantly set off by hundreds of thousands of refugees who desperately tried to flee this death trap. The total death toll was unknown and constantly rising. Dharanagara was dead, and it likely would never recover while Jayasimha was still alive.
Which was why he was in Kathmandu and not Dharanagara.
Originally a city of less than a million people, its demographics had massively changed over the last several months as many locals were killed in the fighting between Ranjit Ahluwalia’s army and the Paulluist regime that had previously ruled Nepal before being swamped by millions of refugees coming in from uninhabitable India. Civil authority had already been destroyed in the battle, leaving only Ranjit and his officers with the power to maintain order. But he was having trouble sorting everything out due to the large number of new arrivals.
“At our last estimate, the new population of Kathmandu stands at roughly two million, though at the current rate that is likely to double by the end of the year.” Ranjit gave his report to Jayasimha and the rest of his cabinet in a small conference room in what was once the royal palace of Nepal. The monarchy had been purged by the Paulluists when they took over, and the survivors had disappeared into the chaos of the war, so they had occupied the palace for the time being. “I don’t think there will be any reinforcements coming.”
“So what we have is what we’re going to get,” Jayasimha said.
“Yes. Every soldier who could have evacuated has already done so.”
“This is all a mess.” Jayasimha shook his head. “I would’ve hoped we’d have at least a part of India we can call home.”
“Do you really want to live in the northern Punjab or Kashmir?” Ranjit said. “Those places are far less developed than Kathmandu, far more open to bandit attacks and Crusader raids, and still have abnormal levels of certain toxins. We can’t risk it.”
“So you’d rather set up shop in an occupied capital of a nation we were just at war with?”
“It’s either that or the end of India itself. Besides, I’ve taken all appropriate measures. We’ll be holding a referendum on Nepal’s status once things are settled down. The remains of the old Paulluist regime are being dismantled, and I’ve ordered my men to not seize any property that isn’t already vacated.”
“That doesn’t put me at ease,” Jayasimha said, pointing at the ceiling, “I don’t feel comfortable taking this palace.”
“We can build you a new one once we have the funds and stability,” Ranjit said.
“That feels just as bad in these times.”
“In these times, your only options are ‘bad’ or ‘worse’. Pick one.”
“We should at least consider the wishes of the people.” It was then that Lakshmi spoke up. She had been patiently listening for most of the meeting. “Both refugee and native. Their concerns must be equally addressed if we want to rebuild India.”
“Most of the Nepali population was wiped out, and there is little left of the government,” Ranjit said, “It would be more logical to focus on the majority's concerns—the refugees.”
“Helping the majority should not come at the expense of the minority,” Lakshmi said, “That is how you get another Jerusalem.”
She winced as she recalled the last few years. Jayasimha found himself looking down at his legs and his beaten up wheelchair. He had been using the same once ever since that one Crusader had crippled him out of pure spite and pettiness. Ranjit’s men informed him that same man had now lost his memory and was now doing penance in the Roman settlement. He didn’t know how to feel about it. Of course he would have wanted him to stand trial for his crimes. He wasn’t alone. There were probably thousands of victims and survivors just like him who wanted to see him brought to justice. But since he lost his memory, would that really bring closure? What would that justice even look like if he didn’t even remember what he did? But on the other hand, was it right to let him effectively walk free? The contradiction ate away at him more than any physical injury could.
No. I can’t dwell on that too much. It’s out of my hands anyways. I trust that Willie knows what to do. I’ve got other things to worry about here.
“If we try to help everybody, we’ll run out of resources and end up helping nobody,” Ranjit replied.
“We are Indians!” Lakshmi leaned forward, pounding a fist against the table, “Heirs to Jayasimha I and the Chola! Like it or not, the people here fall under our responsibility too! As the one who will reign over them in the future, they are my people too, and I will not abandon them! Are we clear?”
“Your Highness, as much as I’d like to agree, there are certain realities that will make that difficult.”
“But not impossible?” Jayasimha chimed in. He hadn’t expected Lakshmi to make some good points and join their conversation as forcefully as she did. It reminded him a lot of the stories he had heard of Empress Sita rebuilding India after World War II.
We need a new Sita, now more than ever.
“We’ll have to make significant adjustments to the plan. Troops need to be deployed, budgets reallocated to different areas, stockpiles found and used, paperwork filed—”
“So it can be done. Get it done, then.”
As opposed to his stubbornness when talking to Lakshmi, Ranjit immediately folded when talking to the much older and sterner Jayasimha. The general saluted. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“And you will afford Princess Lakshmi the same degree of respect you give to me.”
“O-Of course, Your Majesty!”
“Now get on with it. Dismissed.”
Ranjit saluted again and left the room.
“Is this how it’s always going to be?” Lakshmi looked disappointed. “Nobody listening to what I have to offer?”
“You’re still young,” Jayasimha said, “Having been at war for so long, General Ahluwalia just isn’t used to talking to people your age.”
“I had to rely on you to get my plan out there. What happens after you’re gone and I take the throne? What if people still don’t listen to you?”
“Lakshmi…” Jayasimha put a hand on her shoulder. “This is perfectly natural. I was like this when I was your age. So was Sita. She didn’t start out the accomplished and dignified leader that we all remember her as, but she grew into that over time. Just as we’ll grow into our duties and become the leaders that the people count on.”
“Are you sure it isn’t because of…my decision?” Lakshmi looked at her body.
Jayasimha immediately shut that down. “No. The only people who hate your choice are Jerusalem and the traitors who supported them. There may be those among our people who still have…misgivings about it, but I’m sure that they’ll come around once you start ruling. Believe in yourself, and they’ll follow. It was like that for Sita, it was like that for me, and it will be like that for you. I guarantee it.”
Lakshmi nodded. “I…I hope so.”
“India has a long road ahead of it,” Jayasimha said, “I know we can make it to the end, even if I may not be there with everyone else. But I know you can do it in my place, no matter the odds.”
He smiled. “After all, we’re Paramaras—the descendants of Jayasimha I, who did the impossible and united all of India. If he can do it, we can rebuild India. Nothing is off-limits.”
Lakshmi smiled back, her hope restored. “You’re right, Father. Nothing is off-limits.”
Shiraz, Persia
“Set down that couch over there.” Gunduz stood in the middle of the room, giving directions to her vast army of movers. “Careful with those chairs. They’re Saltuk’s favorites—and no, I’m not returning them to whoever controls Baghdad. Especially Orhan. That brat’s getting too ambitious for his own good. Oh, and set that TV up in my room. Hey, that vase is worth way more than your entire company! So don’t—no, hey, hang that painting on the left! No,
MY LEFT YOU FRAKKING IDIOT!”
“Ma’am, I think you should take a break.” Shayan appeared from one of the hallways. “I’m sure Shahrokh can take it from here.”
“Shahrokh’s only certified to talk about the damn walls and ceiling,” Gunduz muttered, “I’m the one handling the interior design. I’m the frakking shahbanu, so I must have a well furnished palace! What would it say about the state of this country if I can’t even have that much?” As she said that, she backed down a little bit. “Though I suppose there’s some stuff I can sell off for charity. Wouldn’t do good for my image if I’m the only one living in luxury.”
“Of course. Persia needs the money to rebuild.”
They needed lots of it. After all, that was why they were in Shiraz. That fierce battle that closed out the war in Persia laid waste to most of Isfahan, and the admittedly extreme tactics that Julian and the Ryukyuans employed resulted in most of the old capital being reduced to uninhabitable ruins. It would take many years to clear out all of the rubble, to say nothing of reconstruction. Much of northern Persia was in a similar situation, and their economy was in shambles. She had initially hoped to leverage trade ties with the rest of the Central Asian Confederation—recently renamed to the Khorasan Pact as the old name was an invention of the Reich—but Turkestan and Afghanistan both had suffered horribly due to Pesah epidemics, so the reverse was likely going to happen. She’d have to spend lots of money and resources to keep them stable. If they collapsed to the same degree as the Reich and India did, the resulting warlordism and refugee waves would push the massively weakened Persia past its breaking point.
“Part of that is my fault.” Murad appeared next. “Parviz destroyed everything we built to serve his nationalist ambitions, and I could only go along with it.”
“Stop beating yourself up, old man. It’s getting pathetic.” Gunduz was, frankly, tired of the bit. Looks like he needed some tough love. “This isn’t befitting of someone who nearly usurped this country from me. You repented for it by turning yourself in and fighting alongside me, and you will continue your service to the nation for the rest of your life. That is penance enough.”
“She’s right,” Shayan said, “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. You’ll have plenty of time for redemption if you don’t think you’ve earned it by now.”
“I…I suppose that’s true.” Murad sighed. “But there are some things that can’t be undone, right?”
Gunduz remembered the hateful words she had said many weeks ago. The words that she had been forced to say because of what Parviz did but after he had been deposed, because she had been given little choice. Because of that, the Romans had been permanently expelled from Persia, where they had lived in exile for five years, before they became scapegoated and demonized as terrorists and invaders by the Persian people. Even now she could not rescind that order she gave upholding Murad’s expulsion decree. It would cause social chaos and undermine the authority of the monarchy and the civilian government, and no Roman would reasonably accept it or trust her word. So there was no point in doing so. The most she could do was bury it and pretend this had always happened. It wasn’t the best solution, but the only other option was to double down again.
“Yes” she said, “I’d know just as well as you do.”
“We’ll all live with our sins until the day we die,” Murad said, “I only hope that Ahura Mazda recognizes the goodness we have done since then.”
“Me too,” Gunduz said.
After their talk, Gunduz returned to her room and slumped into her bed with a sigh. It was another tiring day for her. The move into the palace was going well, despite her earlier exasperation, and their work in the rest of Shiraz to convert it into a long-term capital that could accommodate thousands of refugees from across Persia, Central Asia, and the new occupation zones in the former Roman Middle East, was proceeding as planned. Tomorrow she would have to give a speech to the people about that progress. She didn’t particularly like the what she had to say, though she knew it was to keep morale up.
“This year, three thousand years of rivalry between Persia and the Greco-Roman civilization finally comes to an end, and against all odds we have emerged triumphant over the forces of Angra Mainyu, thanks to the guidance of Zoroaster and our own righteousness…”
True, it was a victory by any measure. Persian troops were currently marching through the ruins of Constantinople—a feat that no outside enemy had ever accomplished in the city’s long history. Persian occupation zones had been established over much of the Roman Middle East. Persia had survived the war almost intact, despite the state of Isfahan. Persia could arguably be called a winner. But that was fleeting. The Artesh was overextended. Much of it had been pulled back by Julian to carry out his strategy in the homeland. Another group had mutinied and joined the Romans. The rest were scattered across the Middle East, and when Chinese troops hopped up the Red Sea coast and raised the azure dragon flag over Alexandria, Aden, Mecca, Medina, and Jeddah, she had no choice but to order her troops to march forward and secure as much former Roman territory as they could before China did. The Persian lion and sun was raised over the rubble where the old Great Palace and Hagia Sophia once were just a day before a Chinese carrier strike group reached Constantinople. Fortunately, that was enough for the Chinese to turn back to Egypt. Han didn’t bother to land troops in Athens or the rest of Hellas—apparently Alexandria was his limit and Constantinople purely a prestige project. If anything, Persia got the short end of the stick, because now Gunduz had to sort out a Persia that was over double the size it was before the war—almost as large as it had been under Darius the Great 2500 years ago. Her own people, as drunk on success as they were despite everything around them being bombed to Duzakh, would not let her give up those “conquests.”
“Damnit…this isn’t a victory at all. It’s a defeat spread out over many years.”
The coming famine would be brutal, and with her resources spread out over too large an area, she would not be able to save everyone. She was already in talks with Mali, Abyssinia, and Nsorala to buy their soybean exports. Soybeans could be grown and harvested in about three to four months, and if they started planting them now, they could harvest it in time for winter. But even then, they wouldn’t have enough time to feed everyone. Millions would still starve. Though if Gunduz prioritized delivering the soybeans to her own people in Persia proper, she might be able to save as many Persians as possible, while also letting the famine kill off troublemakers in the occupied regions and reduce their populations to acceptable levels. As soon as she thought that, she gasped.
What the frak am I thinking? Letting non-Persians die to save Persians again, after everything we just went through? What have I become? But the logical part of her mind told her there was no other way. If she spready out the soybeans across every part of her empire, it would only make the Persians suffer just as much as everybody else, and then the country would collapse as Persians turned against her. But if the Persians were fed well enough, then her own rule would be secured, and the occupied regions would be weakened by comparison.
No! I can’t go along with it! I need to find another way!
But Gunduz wasn’t sure she could. Just as before, she felt like she had been forced onto a path she couldn’t get away from. And she feared the consequences that awaited her.
The Kujawy region
The flight from the Astrakhan region was quiet and safe. Although bands of Crusaders and warlords still roamed much of Europe, their power was generally limited to the ground, allowing planes to fly over them completely unscathed. That allowed Angelica, Tania, and August to get to Kujawy with the bare minimum of a military escort.
As they descended through the clouds, the lands of Kujawy were clearly visible below.
So this is where my ancestor came from, August thought. Raised in Italy, he hadn’t been to Kujawy before. It looked more rustic than he expected, or maybe that was because of Jerusalem, the war, and the collapse causing massive deurbanization. The town they were heading to had a few piles of smoke rising from certain neighborhoods, and he could see wooden palisades set up along its outer limits.
Almost like a medieval settlement. Like we traveled back in time to Saint Gunhilda’s life.
They landed at the airfield that had previously been used by Persia, Ryukyu, and the anti-Moria rebels to coordinate their resources. Leaving the plane, they were greeted by troops wearing a variety of uniforms from all over Europe, including quite a few ex-Crusader ones. A Middle Eastern-looking lady stepped forward.
“Hello,” Binar said, “Welcome to Kujawy.”
“Thanks for having us,” August said, putting on the poise of a nobleman.
“Please, right this way.” Binar gestured to a waiting car.
After a short drive, Angelica, Tania, and August entered Lev’s office. The former Rusian general was working at his desk, reviewing reports on food shipments. Frederica, Sigmund, Binar, and Ludolf sat next to him, while Angelica, Tania, and August sat opposite him after shaking hands.
“Hello,” Lev said, “It’s nice to meet you all in person, ahead of next month’s big event.”
“Likewise,” Tania replied in perfect Rusian, “I’m glad to see that some part of my ancestral homeland was preserved under your leadership.”
“Same with my own,” August said.
“Oh, you flatter me,” Lev said, “It’s been a group effort from the start. Without my allies, we would have fallen to Jerusalem’s onslaught. Though not all of us made it out.”
August noticed Lev looking sadly at a photo of Boris and his Lithuanian troops.
“I see a Roman and a Rusian representative, but what about the Lithuanians?” According to the intel they gathered, the largest pre-war demographics in Kujawy were, in order from largest to smallest, the Lithuanians, Rusians, and populations formerly considering themselves Romans. However, Boris Bradziunas’ death left a power vacuum among the Lithuanian troops.
“The Lithuanian and Rusian royal families will be arriving soon,” Lev said, “Both are still held in high regard by their populations and seen as victims of Jerusalem. That should put to rest any concerns of a power imbalance.”
“But will the people here accept them?” August asked. “They were gone for most of the war.”
“That remains to be seen,” Frederica said, “But it’s our best shot for now. We don’t have anyone else who could step up to be a leader without reverting to warlordism. Especially since many of the talented will be heading off to the Roman settlement soon.”
Kujawy had recently entered into an agreement with the Roman settlement, which would provide any Roman or other individual of Kujawy with transportation to the settlement. The terms placed a higher priority on skilled individuals, in both practical and academic disciplines, which inadvertently resulted in a brain drain out of Kujawy. Still, there were many capable people who had chosen to stay in Kujawy, despite the program. Their work would be made much harder now.
“I promise you, we will be sending more aid as soon as we can,” Tania said, “Our yeast production is still getting started, but you will get much of the first batch.”
“Thank you for the offer, but don’t give us special treatment,” Frederica said, “There are millions elsewhere in the former Reich, the Eimericas, and Central Asia who need it more.”
“The former Reich is too dangerous for us, the Eimericas are out of reach for now, and Persia has stubbornly refused all of our aid,” Angelica said, “So really you’re our only trade partner.”
“Alternatively, we can try relocating all of you to the settlement area,” Tania suggested, “We have the aircraft to get everyone there by the end of the year, and we’ve got plenty of land that we’re developing at a breakneck speed. It would be far from any warlords or disease-filled regions, so it would make things much easier for you.”
“Thanks again, but no thanks.” Lev shook his head. “Those of us who want to leave—” He looked at Frederica and Sigmund and then at Binar and Ludolf. “—have already chosen to do so. The rest of us have chosen to make a new life here—a new country as well. I hope you understand that.”
Tania nodded quietly. “Yes, of course. We’ll give you all the support you need to do so.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
---
After the meeting, Binar knocked on the door to Ludolf’s room. “Hey, Ludolf. Are you ready?”
“Almost done,” Ludolf said, “Hey, can you come in and help me with the last bit of packing?”
“Sure.” Binar was still trying to get used to Ludolf’s more peaceful demeanor. Ever since the war came to an end, he had made every effort to stop being a soldier. But the issue was he didn’t know what to do, so as a result he had been bouncing between jobs every couple days. Everybody appreciated his enthusiasm, but it was getting a little annoying.
She helped put the last of his few clothes into the suitcase, then began sorting out his documents. “Identification papers? Check. Map? Check. Notebook? Check. Wallet? Check.”
“Thanks.” Ludolf put the documents into a pocket inside the suitcase and closed it up.
Binar noticed the guns placed on a nearby desk—the Jerusalem-issued assault rifle and pistol he had used for the last few years, along with their magazines, stocks, sights, bayonets, and other add-ons. “You’re not taking that?”
“Someone here will find better use for them, now that the biometric locks have been turned off,” Ludolf said, “It’ll cause problems in the settlement too. They aren’t keen on Jerusalemites, or people who look like them.”
“That much is true,” Binar said, “Have you given any thought of what you’ll do in the settlement?”
“I was hoping I’d find an answer before the plane arrived. But I’m still lost.” He shook his head. “It’s just like how I joined the Crusaders, really. I was lost and didn’t know what to do.”
He was an ordinary Roman man one could have found everywhere back in the day, lost and without aim as flawed economic policies cost them jobs, the cost of living went up, and traditional manufacturing jobs dried up due to international outsourcing. With nowhere else to go, they turned to the Shepherds’ Brotherhood, which eventually turned them into Crusaders. They would do anything for Jerusalem because it gave them a
purpose, something to strive for in life. Now that Ludolf was freed of Jerusalem, he had returned to how he was before Jerusalem’s rise, for better or for worse.
But this time, Binar would make sure he didn’t go down the same path.
“I hear Angelica’s setting up a bakery in the yeast production plant,” Binar said, “She’s looking for chefs and cooks.”
Ludolf gave her a puzzled expression. “Me? A baker?”
Binar shrugged. “I mean, not like you have any better ideas, right?”
“I know, I know, but I don’t really see myself as a baker.”
“You won’t know until you try,” Binar said, “Come on, give it a shot. It can’t hurt, can it?”
Ludolf looked at his suitcase, and then at the guns he would be leaving behind. “I suppose it can’t hurt to try. I’ll ask Angelica on the flight.”
“Alright! We did it!” She grabbed Ludolf’s hands and bounced up and down in excitement.
“What’s with all this?” Ludolf asked, confused. “You’re acting as if we won something.”
“We did.” Binar was genuinely relieved and excited. She wasn’t exaggerating any of that even though it had been years since she last felt this way. “We won your future back.”
---
That evening, Frederica finished packing her things. Not that she had much. After so long on the run, the most she had were her clothes and medicine for Sigmund’s injuries, as well as some personal effects. Wait, where did that last one go? She first looked in her suitcase, but it wasn’t there.
“Damnit!” She desperately searched the entire room. Pillows and blankets and cushions flew. Desk drawers loudly rolled open. Chairs and tables creaked and screeched against the wood floor. “Where did it fall to?!”
“Frederica?” Sigmund entered the room. “You okay?”
“I can’t find it!” Frederica’s heart rate had spiked, and her eyes were wide with fear. She hadn’t felt this way since her lunar lander crashed all those years ago. But this was just as bad.
“It?”
“You know what it is, Sigmund!” Frederica snapped.
Sigmund did know what it was. He had made it for her in college, as a Christmas gift. And yet…
“We don’t have time. The plane’s leaving in an hour.”
“Surely they can wait a few minutes. We’re no longer at war. There’s no rush anymore.”
“Still, holding up the whole plane because of
that?”
“They’ll understand.” Frederica continued searching. “Wilhelmina will understand.”
Fortunately, it didn’t take long for her to find it. “Ah, there it is!” She held it up triumphantly. “Now we can leave for our new home without regrets!”
“So are you going to put that in the suitcase?” Sigmund asked.
Frederica shook her head and closed the suitcase. “Nah. I’m holding it in my hands the whole way. Good luck, you know?”
At first, she hadn’t thought there would be any benefits to the collapse of post-industrial society, but she supposed not having to deal with airport security checks would be one of them. Might as well make use of it before society rebuilt itself to get back to that level, though she didn’t know how long it would take.
“Suit yourself,” Sigmund said, “But you’ve got only yourself to blame if it breaks.”
They left the room for the last time. After a short walk, they arrived at the airport. The only security checks came from soldiers watching a gate leading onto the runway itself. By then, the sun had disappeared below the horizon, and the moon was rising in the darkening sky.
“I wonder what the settlement’s like,” Sigmund said, “Thea made so many grandiose claims about what she was doing there lately, but can she really deliver on all of them?”
“Guess we’ll have to see,” Frederica said, “That’s why we’re going, right? To help her out?”
“Admittedly it sounds great. ‘We will restore the values and ideals of Roman society as embodied by Saint Gunhilda, to preserve them for future generations of humanity.’ But I’m not sure if we can achieve that in this broken world.”
“We won’t know until we try,” Frederica replied, “We have all the time in the world now. Plenty of time to find an answer.”
As they approached the plane, Sigmund looked back at the town. “An answer for just the settlement, or the entire world?”
“If you still have your misgivings, we can come back here anytime to deliver aid and teach people what we’ve learned,” Frederica said, “Not like we’ll be locked away like under Jerusalem.”
“True.” They reached the plane, and Sigmund got onto the steps first. “Anyways, we should really get going.”
“You go on ahead first. I’ve got to sort out some thoughts first.”
“Now, of all times?”
“It’ll be quick, Sigmund. Only need a few seconds.”
Sigmund nodded. “Alright, then.” He climbed inside.
She was the only one on the tarmac, ignoring the people inside the plane. Tuning out the hum of the idle engines, she looked up at the darkening sky, then at the shining Moon whose size and brightness commanded her attention, then at the small red light of Mars barely visible behind it. She stretched out her hand skywards, holding up her Palla bobblehead as if letting it take flight into the stars. Once, she had been up there, before being cruelly cast back down to earth before her job was done. Now the people responsible for that were gone, and there was no longer anything stopping her from pursuing her dream.
“Someday, I’m going to fly again. And I’m going to fly further than anyone has ever flown before.”
Reykjavik, Iceland - September 1
Here, on this volcanic island in the middle of the Atlantic, Nordenland survived. What remained of the government and military relocated here when it became clear that the mainland was both lost to Jerusalem and largely uninhabitable. Formerly a minor fishing town exporting cod to both the Reich and the Nordenlander mainland, Reykjavik now took in thousands of refugees. Its population in September 2039 now surged to roughly three times what it was before the war. As Clara walked through the streets, she saw constant reminders of this. Entire extended families were panhandling from cardboard boxes, with the lucky ones residing in small tents stolen from abandoned camping equipment stores. Those who had arrived early enough to be assigned housing were crammed into small apartment blocks. The streets were almost as crowded as Tingvalla's were.
Fortunately, that would change soon. The Roman settlement was offering to take in many of Reykjavik’s refugee population, particularly those with learned skills. The Nordenlander government had already signed a preliminary treaty, hoping to alleviate the strain on Reykjavik’s social services and establish friendly relations that could lead to economic benefits down the line. Clara and Sylvia were among the first to register for the program. Reykjavik hadn’t matched up to their expectations. The population issues and collapsed economy meant they couldn’t achieve their old dream of owning a new home. But perhaps the Roman settlement could help with that.
“Come on, keep the line moving!” Soldiers in strange Roman-style uniforms waved them along. “We want to get everybody’s papers processed in a timely manner. Please be ready to show your papers.”
There were only so many flights that the settlement and Nordenland could organize every day. They couldn’t even use the old airport, as it had been bombed to pieces by Jerusalem. Luckily, Jerusalem’s bombs had missed the runway itself, so planes could still use it. However, everything had to be handled manually. There were no gates, no air traffic controller, no baggage check-in. The only security measures were these soldiers, guarding a gate in a metal chain-link fence. Although they arrived early in the morning, there was already a long line. This was their third attempt to get on a flight to the settlement. The previous two times, they had lined up but were turned away due to running out of room.
“Hey, doggie!” Eleven-year-old Oliver pointed at a guard dog. “He’s so cool!”
Clara noticed it seemed to be a bomb-sniffing dog, much like the ones she used to work with. It didn’t look that intimidating, and it was well-trained, as it didn’t bark or bare its teeth. As they passed by, it dutifully sniffed their bags, then continued on to the people behind them.
“Why does this feel so familiar?” Sylvia said.
“Yeah, it really does,” Clara said.
“I hope it doesn’t end the same way, though.”
That would be a shame, but not entirely unexpected.
After a few minutes, they reached the head of the line. With a clear view of the gate, Clara saw the runway behind it and a waiting plane ready to take them to their new home. But before they could board it, there was one more soldier in their way. He politely held out his hand.
“Do you have your documents?” he asked.
Clara handed her and Sylvia’s papers to the soldier. There were a lot of them—their application for this resettlement program, the Nordenlander IDs they had been using most recently, their work and residency permits, Oliver’s school records and birth certificate, their old Roman passports and drivers’ licenses, Clara’s Athanatoi badge, and Clara and Sylvia’s marriage certificate. The soldier took his time looking through them, carefully making sure every detail was in place.
“How old is your son?” He looked at Oliver.
“Eleven,” Clara said.
“I see. Must have been hard raising him in these times.”
“It has,” Sylvia said.
“Don’t worry, things should be getting easier for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Roman settlement prioritizes those with useful skills and cultural significance, sure. We just admitted a
guþi who carried a sapling from the Sacred Tree of Uppsala. But we also prioritize children and their parents. By the way, good job providing your son’s birth certificate and your marriage certificate. That must have been hard to hold onto over the years. So you’re in luck.”
After clearing that up, he looked at the adults’ papers. “So it says here you had Roman citizenship?”
“Yes,” Clara said.
“And you have Nordenlander citizenship?” He asked Sylvia.
“Yes.”
“Okay…” The soldier consulted a paper notebook. “That shouldn’t be an issue. You’ll be allowed to travel together, since you’re a family.”
“Really?” Sylvia said.
The soldier looked at her weirdly. “Of course you are. You have the papers to prove it, and Nordenlander law backs you up. So does the settlement.”
“Gods, the last time this happened to us, it started nightmare that would never end…” Sylvia couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the soldier replied, “I know Jerusalem was cruel, but we aren’t Jerusalem. We won’t separate families, no matter what.”
Tears flowed from Sylvia’s eyes, and she buried herself in Clara’s shoulder. “Thank goodness! The nightmare’s over!”
The soldier tapped his earpiece to accept a call. “Hello? Yes. Uh-huh. Got it. Understood.” He turned to the other two. “Please come through the gate, but we’d like you to stay off to the left.”
“Why?” Clara asked.
“Your papers got flagged in the system. Someone would like to talk to you.”
Sylvia’s heart dropped, and her eyes widened. She wrapped her hands around Oliver protectively. “No! Not again!”
The soldier patiently held up his hands. “Calm down. You haven’t done anything wrong. Somebody just wants to double-check a few details.”
“I don’t want to miss the flight,” Clara said.
“You won’t. It’s not going anywhere. We’re not leaving you behind.”
“How long do we have to wait?” Sylvia asked.
“Not at all!” a familiar voice said.
Clara gasped when she saw Angelica approaching, waving casually.
“Hey, Clara,” Angelica said, “Been a while, huh?”
“What are you doing here, Angelica?!” Clara spluttered.
Angelica took out a dusty and tattered photograph of Sylvia and Oliver sitting in a living room. “I’m here for that damn house tour! Even though it was probably nuked a while ago.”
Clara stared at her for two seconds, trying to process everything. Then she laughed out loud.
“You actually remembered!” she said. “Even though it doesn’t mean anything anymore!”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Angelica said. “It kept me going all this time. Speaking of which…that’s a nice haircut you got. Though now that I’ve seen it, I think you look better with long hair.”
“I agree,” Sylvia said.
Clara became self-conscious of her hair and twirled a strand in her hand. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Anyways…” Angelica pointed at the plane. “We’re all waiting for you.”
“Really?” Clara said.
“You may have lost your house in Oslo, but we can get you a new one in the settlement. We’ve got plenty of room, and Thea’s got plenty of resources. I don’t know how she’s funding the whole thing, but money’s no issue…hopefully.”
“You sure?”
Angelica grinned. “We’re not separating you again. Not on my watch.”
More tears ran down Sylvia’s cheek. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
Clara gave Sylvia a reassuring hug. “Alright, then let’s go.”
They took Oliver’s hands and followed Angelica into the plane.
Bielefeld, Westphalia - September 2
When Tania arrived in the town of Bielefeld, she was surprised by its state. While many of the neighboring towns had been devastated during the collapse or by warlords in the current period of post-Jerusalem anarchy, Bielefeld looked perfectly intact, with little damage. If not for the makeshift barricades and wooden palisades set up at the town limits, she could have thought it had been frozen in time since 2029—an average Roman town one could find anywhere back in the day. She didn’t know how it had managed to survive like this for so long. Maybe it was because it had absolutely nothing of value to any would-be conqueror.
Whatever. She didn’t feel like wasting time on a question she didn't know how to answer. She had already taken a big detour coming all the way out here. There was no reason to be here. Well, she did have one, but it wasn’t anything that the settlement had asked of her. She had already cashed in quite a lot of favors to get a plane for her pet project. Then again, the town’s state would make her work a lot easier.
After landing her small plane at Bielefeld’s airstrip and getting her papers processed, she took a bus to the town hall. If this town had miraculously survived the war intact, then its records were probably also intact, which would save her a lot of time.
The bus gradually passed through the suburbs into downtown, and people got on and off on their way to work, paying for their fare with Roman coins. They crowded around her and took their seats, some taking out a book to read. Nobody said a word, aside from some teenagers in the back chatting about the latest gossip. It all felt normal. But to Tania, who had been at war for many years, “normal” was now “abnormal.” She couldn’t process how normal everything was here. Why didn’t they get bombed or attacked or slaughtered by Jerusalem? Why didn’t the warlords who overran every other surrounding town not come after Bielefeld? Why did they pretend there was no war at all? Shouldn’t they suffer like everybody else?
No. She shook that thought out of her head.
I can’t keep thinking like this. If they survived when nobody else did, that’s something to celebrate. We should help them keep surviving.
“Next stop: Town Hall.” The bus arrived at the town hall. It was an old building, probably from the late Imperial Century judging by its architecture, more reminiscent of a castle than a modern office. After getting off the bus, she entered through the heavy front doors and approached the main desk.
“Excuse me.” She reached into her pocket and took out some dog tags. “I’m looking for the individual on these dog tags.”
The secretary nodded. “Lost family in the war?”
So they weren’t totally ignorant about the war. “A friend. He asked me to deliver his dog tags back to his family.”
“I see. Let me check then…” The secretary typed the information on the dog tags into his computer. “Alright, Max Mustermann…date of birth, May 18, 2017…military identification number…huh?” He suddenly stopped typing and stared at his screen. “Strange. Let me try again.” He typed in a few more keystrokes, then shook his head. “Again?” Same response.
“Is there something wrong?” Tania asked.
“Actually, yes,” the secretary said, “The identification number you provided is valid and associated with someone of that name. From the standpoint of the military database, he’s real.”
“But?” Tania suddenly felt a chill go down her spine.
“We have no records of anybody named Max Mustermann born on May 18, 2017. None at all, with no signs of tampering.”
“Impossible!” Tania said. “Maybe the date of birth is wrong. Perhaps he lied about his age.”
The secretary typed on the computer some more. “I just ran a check for anybody with that name. Nothing in the entire database.”
“That can’t be.” Tania’s memories couldn’t be wrong. She knew she was in
that town, where she met
that soldier trapped in a hell beyond all comprehension, who had given her his dog tags and asked her to get it to his family. She knew he was real. She wasn’t lying to herself…was she? “Max Mustermann is real.”
“Not according to our records,” the secretary said, “There has never been anybody by that name in our town. Maybe he lied about his name too?”
“No, his name was definitely Max Mustermann, and I know he was from Bielefeld,” Tania said, “Yet you’re telling me he doesn’t exist?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
Tania couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was unthinkable, incomprehensible, that someone she had seen with ehr own eyes would straight up not exist. The dog tag sitting on the counter before her was proof he had existed, and she knew what she had seen in
that town. Yet the evidence on the computer was as equally real. It was a contradiction, a paradox. That chilling feeling going down her spine continued to intensify as she tried to process what she was seeing now…and realizing just how much danger she was in back then.
What really happened back there, and can It happen again?
---
In case people are still confused, Nordenland is the new name for Scandinavia.
I have changed everything that happened in Delhi in previous chapters to now be in Dharanagara, except for Banda Ahluwalia’s last battle, which is still Delhi. I can’t find a screenshot right now, but the reason I had all those refugees in Kathmandu is because it ended up with at least 8 million pops in-game by 2050. In comparison, this chapter’s outline made a note that Livonia’s population is around 3.21 million pops in 2039. I remember that many older capitals had their populations reduced to 1-2 million, and Yavdi has a comparable if not smaller population than Livonia.
"Max Mustermann" is the closest I could get to the most generic German name possible, equivalent to "John Smith." His date of birth was chosen to be the day I started NWO. Bielefeld, of course, is a reference to the
meme.
