Fourth Vector Ch. 27

"There will be no one to stop me," said Avila. "I just have to extend my hand and I'll make it happen."

"No one to stop you?" repeated Aurelius. "What about this foreigner that I keep hearing about? This one that aids our enemies? You don't think that there might be more to this man than meets the eye?"

"The foreigner will be dealt with," said Avila with a smug smile. "Already, my agents in Picardy are tracking him. When he is dead, there will be nothing left in my way."

"Your arrogance blinds you," spat Aurelius. "If you refuse to see threats for what they are, you'll never keep your throne."

Avila started to chuckle. "Kind of like right now, Aurelius?"

To his surprise, the former emperor started to nod. "Exactly like this. I should have squashed you when I had the chance. I should have razed Cormfeld to the ground and used your corpse for target practice."

"Target practice? Not a bad idea," said Avila. "I think I'll do the same with your body once you're dead."

"Enjoy it now," said Aurelius with a simple shrug. "You have my congratulations on achieving the throne but know this—ultimate power is fleeting. The nature of our country means that only the strongest will sit on the throne. That might be you today but it won't always be you, Regaulfus. Someday, someone will do to you what you've done to me. I can promise you that one day that threat will rise. I hope you'll be ready where I wasn't."

"Wise words from a pathetic old man," replied Avila. "Too bad no one will get to hear such wisdom from you again."

Aurelius didn't bother to respond to that, causing Avila to regard him silently. The old man seemed to know when he was beaten, and he put his head down in shame. Once more, he sunk to his feet and sat against the concrete floor like the haggard wraith that he was.

The once great Swabian emperor had been reduced to nothing.

"You're wrong about one thing though, Aurelius," conceded Avila a moment later. "I'll be ready when that threat arises. And I won't suffer your fate. Speaking of which, it's about time we talk about what's going to happen in the morning."

A tear actually descended down Aurelius' cheek.

The time for pity was over.

*****

The next morning was the time for revenge.

It was a breezy and overcast, a typical spring day in that part of Swabia. A light rain fell in the morning hours just before dawn, almost as if the sky knew that blood would be shed later that day.

The grounds around the imperial palace were buzzing with activity. Servants could be seen in their finest livery, most of them new additions from Cormfeld, but some of them having served the previous regime. The newest members of the Emperor's Guard could be seen with pristine uniforms doing a much less strenuous version of their morning drill.

Throughout it all, Emperor Avila watched the grounds with silence from his vantage point high on the fourth floor. From this height, he could see the entire city of Dagobern stretching out below him, all the way to the harbor where the rest of his fleet was anchored. They were augmented by ships of the other various lords of Swabia.

Today, they would celebrate the naming of a new emperor.

By the time that everyone had assembled on the parade grounds outside the palace, the rain had mostly stopped. The sky was still angry but only a smile could be seen on the face of Avila as he watched the coming spectacle from the emperor's box.

The parade grounds were usually used for celebration or events to keep the populace happy like the great hunts. Today it would become a graveyard, a way of casting off the leadership of old and welcoming the new emperor.

All of those lords, the most important of them, were located just to Avila's right. They had their own box as well, and he could already spot Godric and Clovis amongst the others. Both of them wore satisfied smiles, no doubt congratulating themselves in their roles at making today possible. The rest of the lords didn't look nearly as smug. In fact, many of their expressions were unreadable. Avila could understand why. A few of them would lose their favored son status once their old patron lost his head.

That old patron arrived on the parade grounds last of all of them. Aurelius Raggathorn had been cleaned up somewhat, but it wasn't hard to tell that he was still a broken old man under his simple clothing. Avila had ordered his guards to clean him up, not wanting the shit-smelling former emperor to be presented to the crowd in such degradation. As much as he despised Aurelius, he would allow him to go out with a little more dignity than that.

The guards stopped Aurelius on a small platform directly in front of Avila's box. Upon the platform was what appeared to be a simple chair. What differentiated it from others was that this chair had a full neck and head support, and there was a long leather strap that dangled from that neck support.

Aurelius was seated in the chair and his arms were cuffed to the armrests to prevent any movement. Then, that leather strap was brought around his neck to latch onto the other side of the neck rest, tying into a small metal mechanism behind his head. Once Aurelius was secured, one of the guards put a small key into the mechanism and wound it back until it clicked three times.

From there, the guard looked back at Avila to await his instructions. The new emperor pushed up to his feet and approached the ledge to gaze into the face of Aurelius one last time. At least it could be said that Aurelius met his end with dignity. He did not weep, cry, or make a scene. His head was held high (as high as it could be strapped into the chair) and his lips were set with resolution.

"Goodbye, Aurelius," muttered Avila as he gave an exaggerated nod of his head to the guard.

The guard let go of the key. Suddenly, the leather strap that was around Aurelius' neck tightened rapidly, being pulled in from the other side and bringing intense, excruciating pressure against Aurelius' neck.

The former emperor's face went red as he struggled for breath. His feet started to kick. His body shook the entire chair as he tried to gasp for air, his tongue never coming more than an inch out of his mouth because of the pressure against his windpipe.

The red face soon turned purple before it finally went to a dark shade of gray. The life in Aurelius' body vanished as his movements ceased.

Aurelius Raggathorn was dead.

Avila watched the entire spectacle with terrible fascination. Now that his old rival was dead, no one would be able to deny his ascendancy.

Regaulfus Avila was in firm control of the Swabian Empire.

It was Swabian custom for the new emperor to check the pulse of the dead, and Avila duly fulfilled that role even as the lifeless eyes of Aurelius fell upon him. As he cast the former emperor to the ground before him, Avila stood champion in front of all of Swabia.

The next process was also rooted in ancient Swabian custom. One by one, each Swabian lord rose from their place in the audience box and made their way to Avila, still standing tall upon the platform. Each of them prostrated themselves in front of him, reaching forward to place the perfunctory kiss upon his boot—the ultimate symbol of their submission.

Some did so happily, like Clovis or Godric, knowing their place was secure in the empire for many years to come. Others did so much more reluctantly, and Avila took the opportunity to kick his foot forward once their mouths were close enough, even to the point of giving one lord a bloody lip. It would symbolize the kind of fate that would await any of them that tried to challenge him for the throne.

Once all the lords had given their submission, Avila was supposed to leave the parade grounds, getting back to the ruling of the empire and letting the entire spectacle come to a speedy conclusion. It was here that he chose to break from tradition and give his own address to the gathered crowd.

"Lords of Swabia! People of Dagobern!" started Avila as he opened his arms. "Today begins a new day in Swabian history! A glorious day, a day that we can all take pride in having witnessed! Many of you know who I am. My name is Regaulfus Avila, and for many years I was the Lord of Cormfeld. For the majority of those years, I watched as the great Swabian Empire languished under an unsteady hand—the uninspired tutorage of Aurelius Raggathorn!"

"From my home on Cormfeld, I watched as this farce of an emperor led us away from our desired role as the first nation in the West and brought us to the brink of oblivion! I watched for years while he made us weaker, dividing us against each other instead of uniting us against our common enemies. I watched as he made peace with the Galician dogs instead of cutting their throats like they deserve!"

The crowd cheered at that one. There weren't many Swabians alive who didn't hold a resolute hatred for all things Galician.

"What could I do?" asked Avila with a dramatic shrug of his shoulders. "Could I continue to watch as our place in the sun slipped away? Could I continue to let Swabia degrade into nothingness?" Avila's face turned firm as he set his jaw. "Or could I do the only thing that a loyal Swabian lord could do? That's why I've returned to Dagobern with my sword in my hand to root out all of those who don't truly believe in Swabian greatness! All of these false patriots like Aurelius Raggathorn will be rooted out and destroyed!"

The crowd roared their approval once more, giving the guards something to do as many of the locals tried to rush onto the parade grounds. Their passions inflamed, they shouted their love and thanks to Avila for rescuing them from the hated former emperor (even if many of them didn't know how bad they supposedly had it under him).

"It's a new day in Swabia, a glorious day!" yelled Avila at the top of his lungs. "For we are going to take Swabia to the height of greatness. I ask every man in this audience to join me now. Join me in forging a Swabia that can destroy our enemies and make good on the incredible promise and potential of this amazing country. Join me in making a new Swabia that will make our enemies tremble! Join me now in waging war and bringing our enemies to their knees!"

"Join me and together, we will make a new Swabia that we can all be proud of—one that backs away from no foe. One that will take us to heights we've never known! Will you join me, Swabia?"

The crowd's response was unmistakable. "Yes, emperor!"

*****

The town of Amboy continued to feel the tension of the Javan marine presence as the rest of the week wore on. Not many people ventured out of their homes, most in fear of being seized and held in that awful prison that had now expanded from the cellar to take over the entire house. The closer one was to the house, the more audible the screams of those within it.

The once tranquil streets of the town were now filled with marines at all times of day, and not even nightfall brought a respite from the Javans. In fact, the Javans had established a strict curfew after dark, no doubt not wanting to invite the same kind of attention that was bestowed upon the ill-fated supply convoy from weeks ago.

Throughout this entire time, Trevor maintained his day job of working in the store, all the while constantly looking over his shoulder for that inevitable day when the marines might show up with shackles with his name on them. The rest of the leadership of the town's Movement members seemed to be just as jumpy. Gavin Gower, Trevor's appointed second-in-command, stayed posted at his sawmill throughout the day, returning promptly to his house just before curfew set in. The sheriff of Amboy, Bowen Flint, rarely left his office. There were plenty of reasons for him to be out protecting the people from the abuses of the occupying force, but Bowen was following Trevor's instructions to lay low, lest he draw the spotlight on all of them.

That was one thing that had been on Trevor's mind since he talked with Reese Bach in his office the other day. Even though Trevor had recommended caution for the time being, he couldn't deny that Reese had a point. One way or another, this was only going to end with another war. Tensions amongst the Tyroleans were once more reaching a boiling point, and there was no way that the Javans would let them go their own way without a serious contest.

But admitting such out loud was also to admit that this serious contest would happen in Tyrol. Trevor knew what real war looked like, and there was no desire to see Amboy become like all those Ruthenian towns in the Desert War—hollow, burned-out, and soulless.

Every day that he kept the war at bay was another day of life for Amboy and the rest of Tyrol. But was that a life worth living? Was the constant occupation by the Javans the price of living out the rest of their lives without bloodshed?

These questions and more occupied Trevor's thoughts as he stocked shelves that morning. He was so caught up in his mind that he didn't hear his name being called until it was repeated a second time.

Trevor set the box of canned goods on the floor and spun around, his blood going cold at the sight of a Javan marine looking at him with innate curiosity. His rifle was slung over his shoulder but there was something hostile about his presence from the start. Something that promised a subtle hint of violence. Trevor could tell from the insignia on his shoulder that he was a captain.

"Excuse me?" asked Trevor while trying not to stammer on his words.

The marine officer blinked. "Are you Trevor Downing?"

Trevor resisted the urge to slug the man and run and instead stepped forward as the business owner that he was. "Yes, I am. I'm the proprietor of this grocery store. How can I help you?"

The marine officer sneered as he looked around the store. His eyes focused on the canned goods that Trevor had placed on the floor before he nodded toward the back of the store. "You got an office or something, Downing?"

Trevor nodded. "In the back. Do you need provisions for your force, Captain?"

The captain started to laugh. "Something like that. Let's go to your office now. Lead the way."

The walk back to Trevor's office was tense as the arrogant captain followed directly behind him. Trevor sat at his desk in the back office while the captain closed the door behind him. He moved to the chair opposite the desk and sat town tentatively, not before giving the entire room a once-over. There wasn't much to see. A few file cabinets had been squeezed into the cramped space but there was nothing in the room that could hint at Trevor's pastime activities.

Nothing except the small bag of gold in the bottom of his desk drawer. The same gold that Trevor had been given by the agent. Even though it was a poor counterfeit of Javan currency, that much gold would generate some serious questions. Trevor started to perspire at the thought of that discovery.

"My name is Captain Roland Smart," said the marine after he was done looking around the room. "I command Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion of the 27th Marine Regiment. It's one of my platoons that's stationed here in Amboy. The other two are in the area." Smart took a moment to smash a fly that had landed against his hand. "I'm in complete control of your town."

"And how can I be of assistance to you, Captain Smart?" asked Trevor.

Smart didn't mince words from the start. "Tell me, Downing. Are you a rebel?"

Trevor's heart rate spiked. It took him a second longer to respond than normally. "Why would you ask me such a thing?"

Smart shrugged. "I find the best course in having a difficult conversation is often to be as blunt as possible. So I'll ask you again, Downing. Are you a rebel?"

Trevor recovered a degree of composure. "Would we even be having this conversation if I was? If I were a rebel, don't you think I'd be out in the countryside with my merry band of militia?"

Smart pursed his lips. "Militia need to eat sometime too, Downing. They have lives. They don't stay in the countryside or in the shadows all the time. Most of them have regular jobs, families, and pastimes. On the surface, you might never know who's a rebel and who isn't."

"I'm still not sure what brings you to my store," countered Trevor.

"So you're not a rebel then, are you?" quipped Smart.

"I'm a loyal son of my country," said Trevor. "I've fought in Javan uniform before."

"Where at? What unit?" asked Smart.

"In the marines," said Trevor. "I was a sergeant during the Desert War."

"A good little war that was," said Smart as he nodded his head slowly. "You would have thought the Ruthenians would have learned their lesson, but once again, they've popped their heads up only to get smashed for doing so. Shame on them. Woe for their widows."

"You still haven't answered my question," interrupted Trevor. "Why are you here?"

"Your name has come up as being part of the underground Tyrolean rebel group called the Movement," said Smart as he then reached into his pocket. He dug out a cigarette and lit it, taking a heavy puff before exhaling. "Of course, the man who told us that was delirious with agony so he may have just been spewing names at that point. However, I thought it was a lead worth investigating."

"What man told you this?" asked Trevor, automatically fearing the worst about Owen Bach.

"I don't have his name and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you that," said Smart nonchalantly. "Conflict of interest you see. If you are a rebel, I can't have you threatening the man's family for talking. That wouldn't look too good to the higher-ups if word came to light about that."

"And since I'm not a rebel," countered Trevor. "And I simply want to know who it is that is dragging my name through the mud? What then?"

Smart regarded him for several moments before speaking again. In the interim, Trevor wondered how thorough this captain was going to be. If he was just here because he was given the thankless task of investigating some names yelled out during torture, Trevor could very well see him going on his way now after this brief exchange.

But if Captain Smart believed there to be more to this situation than met the eye, they could just be at the very beginning of their interaction.

"Maybe you're right, Downing," conceded Smart a moment later, giving Trevor the hope that he was the first kind of man. "I highly doubt a simple proprietor of a backwoods grocery store could be a rebel, let alone a rebel leader like this man let on. You don't seem to fit the description of the man we're looking for."

"It does seem a bit out there," replied Trevor. "But I'm glad we were able to clear the air."

Smart grinned in a torturous way, which sent a shiver down Trevor's spine. "I am too. Now that the air is clean between us, perhaps you won't mind if I sit here and chat with you while I finish my cigarette?" Smart held his hand aloft, showing that he still had more than half of the stick to go.

"Not at all," said Trevor even though he very much wanted Smart out of his store. "Stay as long as you like."

"Wonderful," replied the captain as he leaned back in his chair and put his feet on Trevor's desk. Trevor ignored the slight. He was almost home free. There was no reason to antagonize the captain now.

"Can I get you something to drink?" asked Trevor, causing the captain to shake his head quickly.

"That's quite all right. I'll be gone all too soon," said Smart. "I only have to apologize about my presence here in your store today. It's quite a sad matter that brings us to Tyrol, don't you agree?"

"Sad matter indeed," replied Trevor. "No one likes to see this kind of civil strife."

"Exactly," said Smart as he leaned forward in his chair. His attitude seemed to change instantly, and Trevor got the hint of his arrogance returning after the brief moment of friendliness. "No one hates civil strife more than I do. And yet, here I am. Once again in the midst of a Tyrolean rebellion, much like my father and his father before him. It seems that every generation, there needs to be some kind of action against Tyrol. Why do you think that is, Downing?"