By Force of Will

Foreboding, Recorded Year 1996

Makeland 11th Budding In (Tuesday, April 1st)

Sench Zuedon, Tauzzreen

A distant rumble, coming closer, preceded any sighting of the treads. The ground trembled underfoot, and water rippled in Mayor Sench Zuedon’s cup. A crowd stood three to five rows deep along both sides of Tauzzreen Avenue, a thoroughfare of the city with the same name. These men and women were supposed to be on holiday, and the children had no school. They all were wearing light coats, and some wore hats on this crisp early spring day.

The mayor stood on a temporary wooden platform outside the city offices with other local dignitaries and their families. He shielded his eyes from the bright glare of sunlight, and considered the azure dome overhead, unblemished by clouds. “This could have been a fine Founding Day with this nice weather.”

His wife, Larzil, swept a long fluff of blond hair from her face and leaned on his shoulder. “We’ve had warmer ones.”

And worse, Zuedon thought. Last year we had snow. Founding Day, the eleventh day after New Year, could have any weather. At least no wind stirred this year’s crisp air.

His brother, Bronlan, flanked his other side. “This day would have been plenty good for the parade.”

The usual Founding Day parade of fire trucks, fancy coaches, street performers, bands, and civic groups walking behind banners was pre-empted. The avenue’s four lanes were devoid of traffic, and no coaches filled any of the parallel parking spaces lining the curbs. The rumble of the imposter parade approached, becoming a louder metallic clatter.

Bronlan pointed. “Here they come.”

The lead treads appeared coming around a quarter turn in Tauzzreen Avenue by a great hill less than a horizon westward. The steep slope provided a backdrop of needled trees. More rows of the fearsome war machines followed three-wide across the avenue, sprouting the big barrels of their main armaments, and bristling with repeaters. Their tracks tore the pavement to pieces.

“Curses, we just resurfaced this street,” said Zuedon.

His business associate, Sidlim Jonerch, leaned forward from behind. “This is an outrage, Zuedon. The army could have paraded these treads without unloading them from their trucks.”

“The chancellor is overplaying his power.” Zuedon had hoped so, although it was not Chancellor Robintz Vinlon, but the men using him. “He doesn’t realize the effect of a government invading its own city.”

My city, Zuedon mused, a city of his own making. Today Tauzzreen would be celebrating the seventeenth year since its founding, if it wasn’t being put under martial law. Its original name was Fenzsench (Senchtown) before Larzil convinced him that was pretentious, and so he renamed it after the river flowing through it.

“They’re not shy about displaying the colors,” said Bronlan.

Each tread flew the Snarshyim national flag from its communication antenna. The flag had a cobalt blue background with a stylized rendition of a great red bird rising from a fire. The bird’s head was a concave-sided triangle between outstretched wings, with tapered streamers for feathers.

A man stood stiff-backed in the hatch of the lead row’s middle tread, holding onto hand bars by his hips. As the armored formation clattered closer, passing through the nearest intersection of a cross street to Tauzzreen Avenue, the details of his dress uniform became visible. It had a geometric pattern of black leather and gray woolstock with red trim and battle ribbons in a plethora of color across his chest. Pips on his hat and shoulders indicated his rank.

Sidlim nudged Zuedon. “General Warnedeker? I thought he was a larger man.”

Zuedon never had met Warnedeker, but his government moles kept him informed. The chancellor’s advisors considered him to be the only general with the audacity to occupy a domestic city.

“He’s less than four cubits,” said Zuedon. The clattering of tracks churning up the pavement, and the roar of engines, had become so loud he had to shout. “No taller than you, Jonerch.”

A deeper droning sound seemed to oscillate from the shaking ground, but increasing in pitch and volume, the noise came overhead. Bronlan pointed to fighter aircraft coming up the valley over the Tauzzreen River, several squadrons flying in wedge formations. The shrill whine of high-spun engines and propellers overwhelmed the cacophony of the treads.

Zuedon gazed upward to dozens of silver aircraft passing overhead with barely enough altitude to clear the tallest buildings of central Tauzzreen. The formations continued northward on way, he supposed, to buzz his mansions on the lakeshore.

“An outrage!” Sidlim shouted after the fighters became distant enough for him to be heard. “Those are your Tornadoes, Bronlan!”

Zuedon expected no less, that the military would use the aircraft constructed by his brother’s company in the show of force. “They’re trying to provoke us.”

“What are we going to do, Zuedon?”

“Not what they want. We’re not doing anything.”

Warnedeker Vikth, Tauzzreen

Cursed Air Command! Warnedeker Vikth refused to look up. If he commanded the squadrons, he would have left them on the ground. Last year the general had opposed separating the air attack and defense forces from army command. Bad enough the navy commanded itself, and more irksome, since the coming of platform ships, the sea force maintained its own air units, and his son was a flyer in one.

Warnedeker didn’t approve of unloading the treads from the trucks either. Why the provocation? Chancellor Robintz seemed to want the locals to fight back. The general’s duty was to obey, even when orders from his civilian superiors made no sense. Warnedeker recognized his role of protecting the freedom of the Snarshyim people. The Kwatarthyimt and the Noldeesyimt lived in countries with military governments, and those were repressive regimes.

Not that Sench Zuedon shouldn’t be put in his place, Warnedeker considered. Sench, the world’s richest man, had built Tauzzreen to be his personal empire. Such a man wasn’t to be trusted.

The general kept his chin up, surveying the scene of a passive populace standing in ranks on both sides. The young city was impressive, only seventeen years since its founding. The main avenue was a marketplace of thriving businesses, and more buildings were under construction, including a tall one with twenty-five levels. Warnedeker knew from his briefing how the city had its own police and firefighting forces, a school system, and even a college and a university. Its hospital already was considered one of the best. The city also had an express road.

Tauzzreen had become an economic epicenter. The best workers with the brightest minds were relocating there from all over the Snarshyim nation at a rate of a thousand every month. The population soon would surpass a hundred thousand, making Tauzzreen the tenth largest city in the country.

As the city’s growth exploded, so did Sench’s wealth, and his people adored him while sharing the prosperity. A dangerous man, and not to be trusted. Warnedeker understood his government’s rationale for its crackdown.

The general spoke into a mouthpiece by the hatch, ordering his tread commander to stop in front of the reviewing stand. He resisted an urge to have the turret turned so its size thirty-six barrel was aimed at Sench and his entourage. The situation already had become too provocative, and children were on the stand.

Sench had nine offspring. He has too much of everything, Warnedeker thought, spotting three blond girls of the same age who must be his triplets. Their blond mother, a pleasing woman to look at, was standing by her husband. Warnedeker wondered how she kept herself trim after so much birthing, although with typical Sench efficiency, she produced nine babies in seven gestations.

The general climbed off the tread. He didn’t wait for his aides, and ascended the platform to meet Sench Zuedon.

Zuedon removed a knitted band from his ears that made his mass of sandy hair stand upright like a sheaf of grain. He raised his hands, palms open, and smiled. “General Warnedeker, welcome to my city.”

My city, he says, Warnedeker pondered. He returned the open-handed greeting. The Snarshyimt, a sensible people, didn’t spread illness by touching one another in their salutations.

“My wife, Larzil,” Sench introduced.

Sench Larzil’s green eyes were as captivating as actual emeralds.

Zuedon identified the other personages on the platform, but Warnedeker knew them from his briefing. Sench Bronlan was Zuedon’s older brother. Sidlim Jonerch was second to Zuedon in administering his conglomerate of companies and holdings. The entire Rodents Club, the city’s prominent civic group, seemed to be present with the notable exception of Zuedon’s best friend, Speendom Chak.

“General, we offer our cooperation,” said Zuedon.

“What if I ask you to surrender your firearms?”

“We’ll give you whatever you find.”

Warnedeker realized he hadn’t seen any civilian with a firearm since entering Tauzzreen. None of the Rodents members were visibly armed, nor was anyone in the crowd along the avenue, not even the police. “We won’t look.”

Zuedon nodded in mutual understanding. Tauzzreen probably was the most armed city in the Snarshyim nation, if not the world, but Warnedeker wouldn’t make firearms a concern if he didn’t see them.

Sidlim Jonerch wasn’t so cordial. He stepped between Zuedon and Warnedeker. “By what authority do you occupy a sovereign city, General?”

“I personally received the order from the chancellor when I met with him in his office.”

“He has no authority to deploy troops against citizens within the borders of the Snarshyim nation.”

“He does when there’s insurrection.”

“Insurrection!” Sidlim’s face turned blood red, and veins pulsed on his balding head.

Zuedon coaxed his colleague to step aside. “General, I’m not aware of any insurrection.”

“You threatened to secede from Swansh.”

“Why is the national government concerned because we want to join another sovereign state? Don’t you exist to serve the Snarshyim states?”

“We do, and the governor of Swansh appealed to the chancellor.”

Zuedon snorted. “Governor No Fun. He ramrodded the law banning flower bombs.”

Of course Tauzzreen’s dispute with the state government involved more serious matters than flower bombs. Warnedeker knew taxation, and a city with more armaments than some countries, were the real issues. The general smiled. “I’m a fun person. I like flower bombs as much as anyone. Do you have a stockpile for Founding Day?”

“The biggest ever, our way of telling Swansh where to cram its law.”

Warnedeker kept smiling. “Mayor Sench, your flower bombs shouldn’t be wasted.” He would see Tauzzreen celebrating its occupation.