Who Cares
Constantinople - December 16
The train suddenly slowed down.
“Now arriving in: Constantinople,” the train intercom announced, accompanied by another rendition of “Onwards, Christian Crusaders!”
Tania quickly stirred awake, thanks in no part to that stupid song.
Not that godsdamned jingle again. I was just about to forget it! Anyways, Constantinople…almost nine years late, but better late than never, as they say. But after what we saw of Vienna, I’m positively dreading what they’ve done here.
“Okay, remember the plan. “We wait until the area’s clear, then we sneak out and—”
“Yeah, we’re going to switch to the Baghdad train,” Angelica said, “Just like transferring trains normally. Only with an addition of instant death if we’re caught.”
“I’ve already figured out what train to take,” Ruby said, “From the itinerary in Vienna, the Baghdad train should be on Platform 4.”
“We get it. Just lead the way. Chief?”
Billy nodded. “I’ll watch for any Crusaders.”
As soon as the train stopped, Tania took out her rifle and slowly rolled open the cargo bay door to scout around for any threats.
We’re somewhere in the Westend, from the street names on the signs. Probably an old civilian station, but from all of the cargo boxes and fences set up, I’d say they’re using it as a cargo station now. Shipping weapons and ammo further east to Mesopotamia. No guards or anything so far, but I can’t be too sure. Oh, there’s a camera watching the platform. Fortunately, it’s not pointed at us, but it’s blocking the way, and I see other cameras throughout the area. I’ll have to disable it. One bullet should be enough, but as soon as they go out, we’ve got to move fast.
Tania attached a silencer to her rifle and fired at the nearest camera. The bullet tore through the camera, and sparks flew from the other ones. Their lights turned off. Somewhere in the distance, alarms began blaring.
“Let’s move!”
From all those camps we raided back in France, I predict reinforcements will arrive on average in precisely 38 seconds.
They got out and ran across the platform. Ruby and Billy scouted ahead, pistols ready. Tania watched from the back, peering through her scope to see if anyone came from behind.
12 seconds and counting. Making good time, but we also have to worry about getting in the car and closing the door on time..
Julian peered around a corner. “I see the train on Platform 4. There’s as cargo car near the back. Empty and unguarded.”
“
Oui, that’s our ride,” Angelica said.
They crossed over to Platform 4 and approached their car. A window sat near the door. While Billy pulled open the door, August happened to glance outside and gasped, stopping in shock.
“August, we don’t have time for sightseeing,” Angelica said.
20 seconds and counting…
August blinked and shook his head. “No…it can’t be…”
“Can’t be what?” Angelica looked out the window. “Oh…
sacré dieu.”
Knowing what had happened with Vienna, everyone simply looked out the window.
24 seconds and counting. I’ll just glance out the window quickly and…
Tania saw what August was looking at. “Gods, what have they done to Tsargrad?”
The window had a great view of the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn, the Ostend, and the harbor, but was all hardly recognizable now. The Ostend was completely devoid of the skyscrapers that had defined it for decades, with the exception of One World Trade Center, which now bore a large eye symbol set against a red letter T.
The symbol of Argus. How appropriately totalitarian. 28 seconds…
But that wasn’t what August was looking at. He was looking at the harbor, specifically what was once Restoration Island. “The statue…”
The Statue of Saint Wilhelmina was gone. The old statue of Romanitas had been torn down. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst thing was what had replaced it. Yet another giant gaudy cross. A Jerusalem cross too, for good measure, which took up way more space than the old statue, as if demanding attention. Dozens of Jerusalem flags hung from the arms and tips, and solar panels covered its horizontal surfaces. Bible verses and more flags covered the vertical surfaces. Even Restoration Island itself had been paved, sunk, and filled in to resemble a second Jerusalem cross, with more solar panels set up on its arms. The only people Tania could see on the island were Shepherds of the Future surrounding the cross, hands linked to form a circle. Their heads were bowed in constant prayer. It was a complete travesty. It just felt wrong on every level.
33 seconds.
“Okay, enough dawdling, everyone inside!”
They got in the car, and Billy closed the door just as they heard footsteps and shouting outside.
38 seconds. Right on time.
They remained absolutely quiet for several tense seconds, listening to the footsteps get closer and closer. Finally, Tania saw the shadows of feet through the gap at the bottom of the door, and she readied her rifle. But the man outside quickly left.
“Alright, false alarm! Probably a system malfunction. Let’s get this train out of here.”
Another few minutes later, the train lurched and rolled out of the station. Tania sighed and began dismantling her rifle back into more portable parts. “We’ve got to stop cutting it so close.”
She looked at the rest of the group. The various rebels from Alençon were talking among themselves. Angelica had made herself comfortable on a crate of guns. Billy was thinking to himself, while Ruby shook her head.
“Why…why do they keep doing this stuff?” August said.
“Because they can,” Billy said.
“Because nobody cares enough to stop them,” Ruby said.
“We care,” Angelica said.
“We do, but we’re only a few people among 150 million Jerusalemites.”
“Not all of those 150 million are on the committee’s side,” Julian said.
“But are they on
our side?”
I’m not sure. The vast majority of people won’t be rebels or something. Like, take the example of the Angeloi. Most people just carried on with their lives as usual, not caring if the guy running Berlin was Otto or Angelos. Meanwhile, those who did speak out were silenced.
“My aunt had a saying once,” Tania said, “She used to say a third of the population would watch as another third killed the last third.”
She was speaking from experience. It was like that in Soviet times, then again after the Soviets fell. People didn’t care who was in charge, as long as their bottom line was intact.
“That still means there are 50 million true believers,” Ruby said, “Which isn’t good.”
“But at least it’s not 150 million,” August said, “That means 100 million could be swayed to our side.”
“Unfortunately, half that number falls into the ‘I don’t care’ category,” Billy said, “They don’t care even when their own neighbors are being slaughtered.”
“Then we’ll give them a reason to care,” Tania said.
“And we’ll rally the other half to battle.” Angelica held up the portable freezer. “Fear of this getting released should be ample reason to fight.”
Ruby sighed. “Nothing like the imminent release of a plague that could wipe out hundreds of millions to rally people to pull their heads out of the sand.”
“It’s people like that who got us into this mess to begin with, who slaughtered Alençon.” Billy’s voice intensified.
“Let’s not point fingers,” Julian said, “We don’t want to antagonize our future allies. That would only help the committee.”
“That’s gotten me wondering,” Angelica said, “The don’t-cares…they’ll still be there after we defeat the committee, right? Even if we win, there will always be people who don’t care.”
“How can we stop them from inadvertently leading to another committee?” Billy said. “It was their inaction that allowed CB to rise and seize power.”
“That’s something we’ll have to constantly work on,” Julian said, “We’ll have to keep making sure enough people care. If we want to avoid something like this from happening again.”
Off the eastern coast of Este Mvskokvlke - December 17
Atoc Sopa Atoc sat in his office aboard the
Ocuil Acatl. The flagship that had led the Eimerican convoy to Heligoland was a state-of-the-art vessel built with parts and crewed with sailors from all over the Eimericas, armed with the latest technology the New World had to offer. Although it was registered as a Mexican ship, the UPM had been the biggest contributor to its construction, as Mitteleimericans had designed and supplied more parts than any other nation. The UPM had emerged from the 2024 and 2035 recessions more intact to most, thanks to its heavy investments in local industries and trade revenue from the Panama Canal. As soon as Jerusalem showed signs of hostility, Bogota began shifting to war footing. Atoc was planning to retire in 2029, after a long and decorated career, but Bloody Tuesday changed everything.
I had plans for everything, too. My kids and I had a schedule planned for when they’d come back with their families. I was already working on how to share my war stories with them. Committee screwed all that up.
And now he was here. A window to his right offered a view of the Muscogean coast. Ten years ago, the coast would have been filled with tourists, including many Romans. The Muscogean Peninsula was well known for its beautiful beaches, attracting tourists from all over the world. It was said even Pierremaskin came here for a vacation once.
After he returned home, he probably wrote a lengthy essay called “On the Eimericans’ Right to Enjoy Their Own Beaches” or something like that. Maybe he did. I’m not too familiar with Meskwaki history, aside from the 20th century. All I remember is Mobile.
But now the beaches had been shattered. Explosions randomly blew up parts of the beaches, throwing up plumes of sand and obliterating any soldiers—both Crusaders and Eimericans—who were unfortunate enough to have been in the area. Blood ran down the beaches to the oceans. Bodies—some of them little more than pieces of tattered flesh now—dotted the sand; they were already being picked apart by seagulls and other birds. Atoc picked up his bottle of fine
chicha and poured a glass.
Ah, yes, that hit the spot. But it doesn’t kick as much as before. Not for many decades. Not since Mobile. I remember pouring a glass that night on January 31st, 1986, after my marines took city hall and the naval base. We had just gone through several hours of straight fighting through the most inhospitable terrain I can imagine. Swamps, rocky coasts, urban centers, destroyed urban centers…reminds me a little of my dad’s stories when he was fighting Kantunil Kin’s boys. That glass was sublime. I felt everything in that glass. A taste of victory and pride, but mostly relief. It was delicious. Everything about it was just right. I haven’t tasted it since then.
He looked back at the tactical map on his desk, showing the progress of his troops so far.
The Crusaders airlifted themselves into Este Mvskokvlke last month and set up several forts around Cuscowilla, then seized the capital and used that as their main base of operations. Our goal’s to take back Cuscowilla, but it’s easier said than done. They obviously knew we were coming, and they know we don’t have the aerial capabilities to counter their antiaircraft guns and land our paratroopers further inland, so they fortified the coasts. My idea was to fire several missiles from Cuba, as well as fly in a few bombers from there, to target the southern tip of the peninsula. Tejas and Mexico would mass a fleet to the west to make it appear like we’re going to invade there, while I lead the real invasion fleet north and attack the eastern coast. Our forces rush straight for Cuscowilla and cut off the main Crusader army to the south.
The
Ocuil Acatl fired its guns. The boom was deafening, but it wasn’t unexpected; Atoc had heard it so many more times. The room gently shook from the recoil, and Atoc almost spilled his drink. Seconds later, a portion of the treeline at the edge of the beach exploded, taking out a Crusader tank that had stopped there.
This isn’t going so well, is it? We’re not making much progress. After several hours, we’re still struggling to secure the beach. The Crusaders are in the middle of a significant counterattack using tanks and helicopters, which is somehow pushing us back into the sea. We only expected marines and paratroopers, not freaking tanks! Though that would explain how Cuscowilla fell so quickly.
A little bit inland lay Cuscowilla, their target. Its history dated back to the mid-18th century. Thirty years before the Sunrise Invasion, the northern Muscogean peninsula formed the northeasternmost altepetl of the Triple Alliance, with Este Mvskokvlke controlling the southern half. Due to Este Mvskokvlke being a minor power compared to the then-hegemon of the Eimericas, the border wasn’t as heavily patrolled as the constantly shifting northern borders with Tsalagehi Ayeli and the Chahta Yakni (Choctaw kingdom). As a result, at one part of the border, up near the northeastern coast of the peninsula, two towns emerged, one founded by Nahua settlers and the other by the local Muscogeans. They traded closely with each other for several years, developing a tight friendship that transcended political ties. When the Sunrise Invasion began in the middle of a Triple Alliance campaign against the Jin Dynasty, tying up the majority of the empire’s troops in South Eimerica or on the other side of North Eimerica, Este Mvskokvlke launched an invasion to reunite the Muscogean peninsula under its rule. The Nahua town that had traded with and befriended its Muscogean neighbor defected from Tenochtitlan, bringing with it a sizeable garrison of jaguar warriors and local mercenaries. The two towns became a crucial staging ground for Este Mvskokvlke’s reconquest of the peninsula and later the conquest of all claimed Muscogean territory, which was accomplished by 1772. For their contribution in the “War of Muscogean Sunrise,” the two towns were merged into one and became the new capital of Este Mvskokvlke, known as Cuscowilla. Although it fell from power a couple decades later when Este Mvskokvlke fell under a personal union with the rising Meskwaki Empire and subsequently became little more than a provincial capital for the next 300 years, it remained a moderately important city, with commercial ties ranging from the Kanatan/Rhotinonsionni cities on the northeastern coast to the Mexican heartland to the Mayan Caribbean and UPM. Regaining its capital status after the fall of the equalist Union of Thirteen Republics in the late 1980s, Cuscowilla quickly grew with significant foreign and Eimerican federal investment, regaining some semblance of its former glory within 30 years. The Crusaders were now aiming to turn back the clock.
But they’ll soon realize that the bond between the two old towns is not something they can overcome with raw firepower. Especially when we Mitteleimericans are coming back to free them. Just like we did with Mobile in 1986. And it’s not only Mitteleimericans storming the beaches. We have Muscogeans, Cherokee, Chahta, Mayans, and even Mexicans. Yes, the Mexicans who once oppressed you. They’ve finally come around and realized the errors of their ways. Now they no longer step on your land to conquer you, but to protect you. Just as the Nahuas of Cuscowilla chose to side with Este Mvskokvlke three centuries ago.
Atoc looked at the door. Nobody came through. He looked at his watch. It was about 1300 hours, local time.
Usually at this time I would have a reporter interviewing me. It was like that back in ’86. A young reporter from Neurhomania was following me back then. She was willing to jump into a very dangerous front when no one else did. We sailed deep into CSSA-controlled waters, where one wrong movement could mean we die from a mine or expose our position and get blasted with several missiles. But she was still there. She didn’t care. You know what she said about her post?
“Nobody cared for this front nobody expected would even exist two weeks ago. Everyone thought it was suicide. And everyone wants to cover the flashier fronts elsewhere, like Berlin, or the Balkans, or the Baltics. So I chose this one.”
“Why did you?” I said.
“Because somebody should care. That’s what journalism is all about. Covering stories overlooked, getting the truth of things, no matter how obscure they are. So we arrive at a better understanding of our world. Not just the most obvious things.”
He looked at the door again. Still nobody. There would be nobody coming today. Just like yesterday and the day before. His schedule had no interviews booked, but he still looked.
Who cares about this campaign, though? It’s not as crazy or out of the blue as Mobile 52 years ago, but still nobody is coming to cover it. I don’t think anyone cares about it. They all went off to Persia or Vilnius or whatever the frak Higa’s doing down in Sumatra. Maybe they’re scared of the chemical weapons the Crusaders have used further inland. I don’t blame them—I know that Igor Shulkin guy is scared, and I appreciate him being candid about that. Or maybe they just don’t care. So…where’s that reporter who does, then? That one reporter who still believes in the ideals of journalism and seeks to uncover the full truth, no matter how obscure. Are they still around, after what the Reich, China, and India did to their journalists? Where is that original reporter? How’s she doing these days? I hope she’s not dead.
The
Ocuil Acatl’s guns fired again, and another part of the beach exploded. Atoc finished his glass and put the bottle away.
Okay, that’s enough reflecting for today. We have a long road ahead of us. After we take Cuscowilla, we won’t sit around. We’ll march west to the Mississippi Delta, then Tejas City, and then the real prize.
He looked at a map of North Eimerica. He had previously drawn a line leading from Cuscowilla to the delta to Tejas City, sneaking along the Gulf Coast until it veered inland towards its final destination, which was circled in red ink.
Tenochtitlan. Ollin’s place. The ruins of that city are being turned into one huge fortress by the Crusaders, from which they launch missiles full of nerve gas deeper into the continent. Their control of the city prevents federal and member state reinforcements from heading further south to the Tawantinsuyuan front. We need to take it back soon, and then we can focus our attention on Kleinvenedig entirely. I have to do this, at least for Ollin’s sake.
If nobody cared about his campaign, he would give them a reason to care.
Constantinople
Josh entered his house. He was home for the first time in months, as it was on the way. He suspected the rebels would have to pass through Constantinople on their way east. His Panopticon had also flagged a report of sabotage and a triggered alarm at the train station yesterday, which he found suspicious. But he would handle that tomorrow. As for now, he had dinner to eat.
“I’m home!” he said.
There was no response.
Am I expecting one? Well yes but actually no.
“Where’s dinner?”
Still no response. Is something wrong?
After taking off his shoes and putting away his coat, he went to the kitchen. Khulan was still cooking, and rather badly. Which should be expected, as at her age and with her circumstances she would have had little time to learn. But expecting was not the same as tolerating.
Time to be a man.
He pushed her away from the stove and checked the pan. “What the frak is this?!”
“I’m—I’m cooking—dinner,” Khulan said.
Josh grabbed a fistful of fried rice off the pan itself—his Panopticon turning off the pain—and shoved it in his mouth.
Just as I expected, it’s half finished and thus horrible. Again, expecting is not the same as tolerating.
He picked up the pan and dumped everything on the floor. “Look what you made me do, Aida. You made me throw away some perfectly good ingredients.”
“If you had just waited—” Khulan began.
Josh slammed the still-hot pan into Khulan’s head. The girl crumpled to the ground, clutching her head.
“Wait?! Men do not concern themselves with waiting! I expect dinner to be ready when I get home, and I believe I made myself clear many times. It’s your fault for not remembering. Or maybe…you forgot.”
“Please!” Khulan pleaded. “Please stop!”
“A man does not beg for mercy! “A man does not give in to feminine wiles! A man is a vulture!”
“What are you even saying?!”
“I’m saying I’m going to teach you a lesson. If you are to be a good mother to our son, you need to learn.”
He brought the pan down like an axe on Khulan’s leg, hearing the satisfying snapping of bones. Khulan screamed in pain, and Josh next slammed the pan into her mouth.
“Shut up, b****! You’re going to wake him up!”
But Khulan wouldn’t stop whining.
Kids these days. Special snowflakes who can’t help but cancel and censor anyone who disagrees with them. Always whining and asking for handouts. Well, here’s something right out of my hand.
He hit her in the head again, and again, and again. Finally, the screams stopped.
#cancelled.
Khulan lay on the kitchen floor in a bloodied mess. His Panopticon detected no vitals. She was dead.
Oh. Whatever. Nobody cares about a stupid Taurican girl anyways. The judge would understand, and Theodor would put in a good word for me. I can always get another wife to look after the kids. Stupid girl. Why do you have to inconvenience me so? Now I have to call someone to cook. It’s going to make me look bad. Not to mention the cost.
---
I hit some really bad writer’s block with this update and the next one, so sorry about the lack of details.
An update from 12/25-26/21: I spent a while reworking the entirety of the Atoc segment, which was originally an interview between him and Igor Shulkin I couldn’t get right no matter what I did. Hopefully this works better.
Update from right before posting this: I also have to apologize regarding Khulan. She had already disappeared for several updates on end because the story moved too far away from her, and I no longer know what to do with her.
