Chapter 3

  The Emperor climbed the winding staircase leading into the throne room, stopping on the landing to take up a vantage point as partygoers moved to each side of the foyer to make way for the princess’s gift procession. Amelia stood at the base of the stairs locking arms with her husband just behind a clothed rectangular table.

  The first gift brought out was a meticulously groomed silver horse, its fancy trot earning amused laughter from the guests, the bun-bag strapped to it's hips made it a little less fancy, however. The horse and its handler came down a carpeted path from the southern hall, stopping just a few feet away from the princess. The handler began to boast and bloviate the horse’s exceptional skills, cooperative behavior, and athletic talents as well as the innate value granted to it due to its blood purity, a claim that drew the emperor's ire. The crowd reacted to his speech with entertained laughter and applause as the emperor internally groaned.

  The handler bowed in respect after a brief interchange between him and the princess, leaving and leading the horse back down the southern hall it had come from, passing by three flamboyantly dressed, dark-skinned men.

  All three men donned white head wraps, jewels affixed into their center above the forehead with red feathers sticking straight up from behind the jewels, their dresses made of shimmering red and gold silk. Although strange and foreign to the natives of Asphydyyl, the Emperor recognized it as a typical dress for those related to, or employed by the Royal Imperial Family of the Kingdom of Al’Balas, hailing from the warm southern continent of Qeratella.

  The man in the center carried a large gold vase, capped by a sort of wingéd lid. The other two men next to him carried much smaller versions, identical to the larger one. As they delivered the vases to the table, the center man’s deep accented voice began filling the room as he advertised his gift; the Emperor, however, chose to focus on a sound of approaching footsteps, coming from behind him. They stopped directly behind the Emperor in the otherwise vacant Throne Room, allowing him to turn to see a palace servant.

  “Your Majesty, Minister Stophan has returned from Rilyn City.” A male voice said in a soft, neutral tone.

  “Thank you, show her to the War Room.” The Emperor replied.

  “Yes sir.” The footsteps started up again and at a quicker pace, their sound receding as the servant walked further and further away.

  The Emperor looked back to Amelia who was inspecting the vases, smiling widely, finishing her engagement by shaking the emissaries’ hand. The Emperor smiled, if only briefly out of pride and happiness for what his daughter had become after so much sorrow, allowing a warm wave of joy to spread through his body, emanating from his lower back and up through his arms.

  His body returned to its previous state quickly however, a cold and stoic expression replacing his grin. His thick eyebrows furrowed as he puckered his lips, accepting his call to duty. He nodded his head rapidly with determination before turning around, heading towards the elevator in the corner turret of the tower. He paused briefly, turning his head back and quietly saying "I'm sorry, Amelia." Burying any guilt he might have, he continued to the elevator.

  The Emperor arrived to the palace tower’s fourth floor, just outside of the War Room. He stood before a dark and gloomy hallway occupied by two honor guards on the left-hand wall, standing at attention, flanking two heavy double doors that stood no less than eight feet tall. The dark wooden doors were decorated with ornate carvings and enameled gold handles.

  As the Emperor approached, the guards reached for the handles and parted the doors in unison with a heavy click. A line of bright light drew from the crack of the door, stretching over the dark hallway and creeping up the opposite wall, growing ever larger until the doors had opened completely, leaving a square of golden light in the center of that gloomy hall. The Emperor turned the corner of the doorway and entered the brightness of the War Room, a large square chamber with a ceiling resting at least sixty feet above the floor.

  The status of exuberance and power emulated by this room was expressed through every single facet of its décor. The walls were composed of simply four large dark stone columns and huge multi-paned windows taking up the space between each column. This applied for all of the walls except for the west-facing wall – which bore the entrance and the partitioning hallway wall – and the east facing wall. The east wall was instead dominated by a massive steel sculpture of an eagle, standing at a menacing forty feet tall, reaching all the way up to the ceiling with only a few feet of room to spare.

  It was the Imperial Emblem of the Asphydyyl Empire, acting as a backdrop behind the emperor’s seat, clutching a bold industrial hammer in its right talon, and a sword in its left. The eagle’s wings draped down the sides of its body proudly, framing an emblazoned horizontal red-white-red triband coat of arms on its torso. Above the eagle was a huge flag of the same colors that hung from the ceiling, draped from the south side of the ceiling to the north side creating a canopy and a vacuum of light behind.

  The titanic scale of the décor truly atomized the human within the space, even the Emperor could not help but feel small in this room, despite it standing as an extension of his own power.

  The centerpiece of the room was a large circular table, contained within the rim of the table was an interchangeable scrolling map, currently set to one of its second widest maps, displaying the continents of Ascencia and Qeratella. Minister Stophan stood over it, analyzing the map.

  The doors closed heavily behind the Emperor as he entered the room. He walked forward, stopping briefly to pull a large lever on the right hand wall of the extended doorframe. Two large steel vault-like doors began to slide over the wood doors. They followed along metal channels in the floor and frame of the doorway, sealing the War Room shut with a loud metallic clicking.

  The Emperor began towards Minister Stophan slowly, anxious to hear her news, but equally as nervous.

  The matter of this late night meeting was a number of experimental weapons capable of previously unachievable destruction: large mechanic automatons outfitted for self-piloting, and a structure – a stationary weapon – a machine so devastating that its mere existence would be enough to halt the thought of war for many years to come. The Emperor justified this Machine as a necessity to protect the empire – and by extension modern civilization – from the destructive forces of war.

  As Asphydyyl and Elysium have grown, so too has their power, and their appetites. Both empires had seen seemingly unstoppable progress and growth that has created a new class of power within the hands of private industries becoming increasingly uncontrollable, and now the only thing standing in their way forward, was each other. Because of this, the Emperor had to find a solution to the problem that was the inevitability of war on a massive industrialized scale.

  He came within a few feet of Minister Stophan, triggering her to turn around, her gray-blue eyes meeting with his instantly.

  Her face bore telltale signs of exhaustion such as dark bags under her eyes and a droopy gaze. The wrinkles on her were face made worse by the fatigue, however, her gray hair – which was made into a bun – and her military pantsuit ensemble were spared such a disheveled appearance. The Emperor stopped, putting his arms behind his back.

  “How are our affairs in Rilyn?” The Emperor asked with a solemn tone, hesitant as to the minister’s reply.

  “They’ve completed the plans for the Machine. I didn’t bring them with me for obvious security reasons.” Minister Stophan replied, her voice as sharp and forthright as ever.

  “That’s alright. Are they on their way by other means then?”

  “Yes sir, they should be arriving by armed escort tomorrow.”

  “Excellent, and how is production of our automatons?”

  “Going as planned, though Rilyn’s Chancellor has requested an advance in payment. He said he requires the capital to alleviate discrepancies in the budget.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The Emperor puckered his lips, thinking for a moment, “I suppose we can manage that,” He replied hesitantly, “I’ll leave that business to Minister Dietrich.”

  “Very well. I was fortunate enough to see one of them operate yesterday. They are terrifying creations; their existence alone should end wars before they start.”

  The Emperor chuckled, “Perhaps, perhaps. We will see. In the meantime, I’m more concerned with their cost, 13,000 Aurum per unit...” He sighed at the thought of the expense.

  “If we could put one automaton into every infantry legion, that’s about,” Minister Stophan paused, calculating the amount in her head, “That’s about 2,000 Automatons to cover every defense army and every foreign force; that even covers the Reserve Corps.”

  “Meanwhile that’s a cost of twenty million Aurum to purchase, however more it will cost to maintain. That’s raising our expenses quite a bit, not to mention how much the Machine will cost to build.” The Emperor said with a tired voice, “I’ll meet with Minister Dietrich in the morning and see how much we can expect to pay for the Machine and keep these numbers hidden. You have the parts manifest, yes?” The Emperor asked.

  “Yes sir.” Minister Stophan replied, reaching into her black leather satchel to retrieve a binder of papers, handing it over to the Emperor. He took the papers, checking over the practically endless list of assorted items briefly, sighing slightly before raising his hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to quell an oncoming headache. He lowered the paper and turned back to Minister Stophan.

  “How is mining of the Benthlanyn crystals proceeding?” The Emperor asked, bringing up the precious and extremely rare gems that serve as the power source for the Machine and for the construction of the automatons’ alleged intelligence.

  “Very well sir, the next heavy shipment should be cut and shipped to St. Polten within a few weeks. We’ve also found evidence of reserves deeper in the Andenese Mountains.” Minister Stophan replied.

  “Alright, I believe that’s all. Thank you for meeting with me so late, and I apologize for all of these quick meetings but I’m sure you understand.” The Emperor said.

  Minister Stophan bowed her head in acknowledgement, allowing the Emperor to continue, “Get some rest Anneliese; I’ll call a cabinet meeting tomorrow.”

  Minister Stophan forced a smile, “You as well sir. Good evening.”

  “Goodnight.” The Emperor said, concluding their meeting.

  Minister Stophan headed for the War Room door, her hands held in a dignified manner behind her back, her heavy military boots clicking on the polished marble floor with every step.

  She stopped just before the door to pull the lever up, releasing the massive vault doors. They trailed back into a cavity within the wall. Minister Stophan stood unmoved for a moment, turning back to the Emperor briefly to say, “Tell Amelia I said ‘Happy Birthday’.”

  The Emperor cracked a smile, replying with a quiet and sincere, “Thank you. I will”

  Minister Stophan left the war room. The Emperor remained a while longer, looking over the world map below him, contemplating his decisions.

  Bernyce walked down the, rarely quiet, Kessel-Donner Platz, a main avenue in Canton which met with the Imperial Mall at a T-Junction right outside of the palace, which she had just left, her notes from the interview with the princess in hand. A light fog had descended on the city and the only noise still present came from the very scarce traffic of carriages driving along the avenue.

  Bernyce was bound for the offices of the Imperial Rebuttal, the largest newspaper distributor in the entire empire, owned and operated by the imperial government directly; the Imperial Rebuttal also served as a printing press for much smaller magazines and newspapers within the capital, such as Bernyce’s own paper, the Canton Free Press. Her goal was to use a pre-approved emergency edit to bypass the regulatory censor and publish her article on the princess unabridged and unadulterated.

  She kept on forward, not concerned about being chased down by palace staff, or bothered by any zealous honor guards, confident in her belief that the princess lacked any sort of sense that would otherwise inspire her to retrieve Bernyce’s notes and have them destroyed. Better yet, Bernyce thought, have Bernyce imprisoned for her impolite attitude and conspiracy to abuse the privileges granted to her paper by the Imperial Censor.

  From the minute she left the palace she began writing the article in her head, formulating the perfect sentence structure and choosing the best words available to her vocabulary. Before she had even realized it, she had passed by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and was on a bridge which crossed the River G?tzerinn.

  Ahead of her, across the river and to the left of the bridge were two rows of columns separated by a plain white wall, the columns supported two pediments that decorated the southern fa?ade of the Ministry of Finance and the Economy.

  To the right, across the bridge, was the intricate gothic fa?ade of the Canton City Hall displaying a number of buttresses that skirted along the wall of the building, forming into spires that stood menacingly high in the sky. Out front of the City hall was an oxidized copper statue of some antiquated soldier riding horseback, his left arm holding reigns and his right arm reaching into his coat. The statue was flanked on both sides by large flagpoles flying the imperial colors.

  Bernyce arrived at the other side of the river, passing by numerous armed military guardsman patrolling the street outside of the Ministry of Finance. She decided to turn left where the ministry building ended to take a shortcut by Parliament. She turned just before a large block of opulent apartments, which had been appropriated by the Asphydyyl government into office buildings and embassies. Tucked into the myriad of row houses of varying size and style was one Elysian flag of a blue horizontal stripe on a white field, jutting from a mount on the wall, marking the Elysian Embassy. 'Soon', she thought.

  Bernyce came around the corner and stopped briefly to take in the sight before her. Along her left was the northern fa?ade of the Ministry of Finance, which was an identical mirror of the southern fa?ade, a common trait in Asphydyyl’s symmetry-rich architectural tradition. Further back was a large limestone building, a turret and a cornice near the roof being the only features on the otherwise monolithic building.

  Even further back stood a row of massive columns, reaching far up to support the roof of the parliament building, just a ways down the course of the building was the parliament building’s clock tower, which stood square and tall, capped by a shallow pyramid roof, crowned with a metal beam bearing none other than the Asphydyyl flag.

  Out of the corner of her eye Bernyce noticed even more flags straddling the face of the old apartments to her right. She didn’t dare look at them straight on, out of fear she might lose her mind. The proliferation of flags sent her into a miserably sour mood on a near daily basis, a way – by method of style – to control the people, relying on the very real weakness of the human mind to find strength, power, or validation where it didn’t truly exist. They saw the omnipresent flag as a testament to the empire’s strength, without even realizing that flags could burn and what they represented could change in a single moment. How fragile it all is, but no one sees it. Bernyce supposed it a self-fulfilling prophecy. To be aware would destroy the system in unimaginable ways, she knew that, but she didn't care.

  She continued down the street, veering to the right to avoid a wrought-iron fence surrounding the road in front of the parliament building, as well as the two gendarme police guarding the entrance. She aimed straight for a small pathway shrouded in the bushels of two silver maple trees. The stone path sat between parliament’s fence and another apartment-building-turned-office. The path lead straight into, and melded with a square directly in front of parliament. The wind shook the trees delicately as Bernyce left the quiet space of the deserted backstreet and into the wide-open air of Parliament Square.

  Bernyce was greeted by the sound of crashing water from one of two fountains in the square, the laughs of a few late-night revelers, and the faint melodies of an accordionist keeping the carousers entertained with their dancing, seeking a fine few ori coins for his service.

  She hurried across the plaza and by a final block of row houses, skirting by the fence, not bothering to look at the monumental and brightly illuminated, flag-clad face of the parliament building.

  She finally arrived at the Imperial Rebuttal. It was a square and basic looking structure incorporated into the style of the more prestigious looking terraced office buildings, accompanied by shops lining the street level. Bernyce heeded Oscar’s instruction and proceeded toward an archway leading into the courtyard of the building.

  She passed by the loading dock as workers were unloading large rolls of printing paper off horse-drawn carriages, and onto Leiten Street, an alleyway between the large blocks of office buildings. She approached a coal shed near the back entrance as the door opened, with Oscar appearing inside the doorway.

  “Bernyce!” he said in an excited, but hushed tone, “Come on! And hurry up. They’re about to finish printing the Rebuttal’s papers, they’ve already lined up the plates for some of the other magazines, I told them to do the Free Press last.”

  They entered into a messy office space; beyond the paneled half-walls and glass windows of the office was the large mechanical printing press, moving confidently and pounding loudly with a monotonous assurance only seen from simple machines that were intended to achieve one task without fail.

  “Alright.” Bernyce began, “I’ve got most of the article down, I just need to actually, write it.”

  “You haven’t written it yet?” Oscar replied in a shocked tone.

  “Oscar, it will take me five bloody minutes, calm down.”

  Oscar shook his head, feigning an expression of disbelief. “If you’re not done by the time they are,” he said motioning to the workers setting up the presses, “-then I can’t help you. They’re gonna have to start without you.”

  Bernyce glared at him, “Just shut up and give me a pen.”

  Oscar plopped down into his chair, picking up a fountain pen from the desk surface and tossing it to Bernyce with a sarcastically disappointed expression.

  Bernyce caught the pen before it rolled off the desk, her nostrils fuming.

  “I’m going to stab you with your own shitty pen if you don’t knock it off!”

  Oscar erupted into laughter, “Alright! Damn, girl. I’ll leave you alone then. I have to check on the press anyways.”

  Oscar stood up, laughing and shaking his head as he left the room. Bernyce’s scowl devolved into a smile as she laughed to herself. She began writing her article, grinning wildly at the implications it posed.