2218 February 8,
New Windsteer Memorial Hall,
“When you’re ready Mr Prime Minister.”
William Blenheim conjured his signature half-smile as he acknowledged his aide’s whisper with a silent nod. She was about half his age, making her the youngest thus far, but to Blenheim, youth was the least defining feature of his subaltern. In fact, Eliza’s near-superfluous charisma and work ethic often inspired a sense of nostalgia in Blenheim; a mirage of his younger, more energised self. A minute grin appeared on his face once more, before swiftly dissipating as the weight of the situation recrudesced to dominate his mind.
In an attempt to alleviate the creeping dread of his imminent address, Blenheim gently leaned back on the hastily prepared office chair, his bulging eyes wandering up to the dimly lit statue at the centre of the room. The Statue of Courage, he recalled. The marble masterwork depicted two men, one a Westrayan infantryman and the other a farmer in tattered clothes, lifting slabs of rubble as their blood and dust-covered hands reached towards a frightened child stuck under the wreckage. It was an image Blenheim, himself a Vocavian, was all too familiar with. The statue was sculpted in honour of one of the first images to come out of Windsteer after the impact, a timeless snapshot of both the worst and best of kerbalkind exhibited that day. But had there been vengeance for the fallen? The perpetrators shimmered away like a dream, and as usual, the world moved on; the anguish of a million extinguished by the march of time.
“Mr Prime Minister?”
His eyes darted back down to the voice, his gaze briefly lingering on Eliza’s rather pleasant face before concluding on the leather document case he had wrapped his slender fingers around for the past hour. Blenheim delicately ran his fingertips across the smooth leather finish, making every effort to stray his mind away from the contents of the case. He had thoroughly devoured both documents Eliza and her team had prepared for him on their ride to the memorial hall, but the prime minister was none too pleased with their offerings. Of course, he had no qualms with the objective quality of the script, yet the carnal desire for a grandiose performance remained unsatiated. His eyes drifted back to Eliza, the warm lamp behind him softly illuminating the deepened crevices of her small face. He sensed his spontaneity would not be as appreciated today.
In just a matter of minutes, the dim room transformed into a bustling chamber, the massive stage lights above him roaring to life as it glared into Blenheim and his ever growing audience. He felt his hands slide up to his neck, gently caressing his deep-navy tie for the umpteenth time, his nerves settling with each stroke against the soft silk. There was a silent sigh, his hands now gripping the humble lectern before him. The coolness of the hard oak, amplified by his lachrymose palms, radiated into his chest, grounding his crackling heartbeat as his lips unfurled itself at last.
“Good afternoon.”
“I come before the nation and the world today with harrowing news in mind.”
“8 days ago, an IRN vessel intercepted a stream of encrypted messages originating from what is believed to be the central military command of Suid Kafrica. It took the nation’s top minds at the Imperial Information and Intelligence Agency 172 hours to decrypt just one of the messages. I believe it is my duty as Prime Minister to communicate our understanding of the matter.”
“Currently, it is the belief of the intelligence apparatus and central government of the Imperial Union that Francisco Grail III, who was previously presumed dead, is in fact alive, with the nations of Suid Kafrica and the mercenary organisation Stahl Sieg providing refuge. Furthermore, satellite imagery reveals extraordinary Suid Kafrican advances into Central Kafrica, far beyond any past estimate. Severe institutional infiltration and sabotage by SS elements are heavily suspected, especially with the pre-war prominence of the SS-advocacy group SLACK in Central Kafrica."
A short silence followed, punctuated by the anxious whine of camera flashes and shutter clicks. As his gaze wandered around the room, eyes flickering to gauge the reactions of his audience, he eventually found himself carefully studying the statue to his periphery. The harsh lights bounced off the smooth marble surface and into his strained eyes, evoking an uncannily familiar sensation. His mind raced to recall a parallel, memories reverting year by year, desperately searching for the suppressed snippet that now tyrannised his senses. Then, as sudden as its evocation, the deja vu resolved into a vivid stream of senses, leaving Blenheim staring at the statue through eyes 40 years younger than his own.
He now remembered how the enigmatic titan, his father’s father, dismantled before his eyes. How the expansive room swelled with hollow wails for one’s mother and father and sister and brother. How the throbbing in his ear drowned out the concerned murmurs of strangers and the bawling and the snivelling. How comforting his father’s wrinkled silk shirt felt as it kissed the back of his neck and how ticklish his toes were nervously squirming around in his shoe and how odd it was to have moisture steadily sprinkle down to his scalp.
In that split second, it was Will who stood behind the lectern, a helpless boy seeking refuge between his father’s quivering arms.
His eyes shifted back up to the audience, wondering how long his episode had lasted for them. There was Eliza in the far corner, her thumbs twiddling beneath her round jaw as she peered back into his eyes. He thankfully could not detect a concerned look on her face, but instead there was a persuasive one, no doubt urging him to adhere to the clinical, almost sterile script they had planned for. But that wouldn’t be what Will wanted.
“My fellow citizens”
“The Imperial Union and her people stand before another arduous crossroads.”
Colour drained from Eliza’s face. The prime minister was adrift.
“In the closing days of 2091, joint Operation Vengeful Liberty was brought to a feeble end with the tragic slow-bombing of this very city by Francisco Grail’s Zokesia.”
“And today, almost 130 years later, this very continent appears to be subjected to the very same chain of events that led to such a catastrophe”
“The recent subjugation of independent Svarskia, formerly a colony of the Imperial Union, and the raging conflict in our neighbouring Central Kafrica confirms my very worst fear as a descendant of this great city; that this planet was never cured of the foul disease we call Grailism.”
“Considering the disturbing level of SS influence in Central Kafrican politics and the lacklustre capabilities of their armed forces, my advisors have provided me with an estimate of a fortnight until the complete capitulation of Central Kafrica occurs. Yes, a mere fortnight before THIS city comes within marching distance of the Stahl Sieg and the Suid Kafrican army.”
“It is of the utmost importance that such an eventuality does not come to pass.”
“My fellow citizens.”
“As of this moment, the nations of Suid Kafrica and Central Kafrica are declared hostile by the Imperial Union of Canstana, Vocavium, Westray and Soltem. Forward elements of the Imperial Expeditionary Forces will now proceed with the valiant task of neutralising any Grailist institutions deep within the aforementioned nations.”
“Make no mistake, this is not a war borne out of borders nor ideology nor malice. This is the Imperial Union and her people reaffirming their right to defend itself, a declaration that the haunting echoes of our slain forefathers will not be ignored.”
“I now call upon our former adversaries across the straits of Aontas, to terminate our bickerings and petty squabbles, even temporarily, in the face of far greater evil that lies between our nations. I call upon the great citizens of Aontas, not as the prime minister of the Imperial Union, but as William Blenheim, a citizen of Windsteer, to heed the faint cries of our predecessors, to continue the legacy of the brave crewmen who had made the ultimate sacrifice 127 years ago to spare Tekkia of the fate Windsteer had suffered that night.
“Together, we will purge the Grailist rot from this great continent, and our children shall inherit a world devoid of this poisonous misanthropy.”
The crowd before him erupted into a flurry of passion. Applause, shouting, cheering, jeering - he could not make sense of it all, not now at least. His eyes drifted away from the crowd, frantically searching for a familiar image as he battled to conceal the subtle moisture that now obscured his vision. Blenheim’s eyes locked with Eliza one last time, and for the briefest of moments, he glimpsed a proud grin of an older man on her lips.
His lips warped into a smile of his own.
