UCHRONIA

For a whole week the skies had been filled with dark clouds which hung mutinously over the city; at noon, the sky was blood red. The occasional claps of thunder illuminated the interior of the automobile which drove at fast speed through the streets, lit by the many street-lamps that provided the citizens of London with adequate lightening in these dark days. The automobile slowed down and finally halted before the high gates of the palace. A solely figure stepped out of the car, which drove off almost immediately thereafter. He looked up at the skies, tiny drops of rain falling down on his pale face. The man opened his umbrella, held it in his right hand which was protected from the cold by a black leather glove, and walked hastily up to the entrance of the gate. He was greeted by a mere nod from the guards on duty, who let him pass without notion. Quickly he walked further up to the palace, the dark weather bringing destruction and malice to the otherwise grand aesthetics of the building. A servant was waiting for him at the door, taking his umbrella upon his entrance.
----'The King?' asked the man.
----'His Majesty is asleep. Sure at this early an hour –' The other man cut him off with a gesture of his hand. The servant bowed slightly, and beckoned the other man to follow him. They ascended a grand staircase, walked through a long corridor and finally arrived at the King's sleeping quarters where His Majesty lay to rest. 'Allow me, sir,' said the servant, who entered the room, gesturing the other man to wait outside. Soft mumbling was heard, then the sound of a heavy man getting out of bed. The servant appeared again, followed by the King who was wearing a dark-red night robe and coughed heavily.
----'What is it, Fury?' asked the King obviously annoyed by being weaken this early.
----'Majesty... we have received reports of Russian tank divisions crossing the Palestinian border from Persia. There are even sources indicating the Imperial Army has already occupied Damascus and is marching upon the city of Amman, sir.'
----'My God... How old are these reports?'
----'The first reports came in an hour ago, sir.'
----The King started walking down the corridor. 'Fury, get Cunningham and Whitefield down in the situation room. Call Lloyd George and Lord Milner, we'll –' he coughed again; his bronchitis was beginning to weight heavily on the King's physical condition'– we'll probably have our forces concentrated along the Canal to meet the Russians there. Oh and Richard,' added he, beckoning the servant, 'get me something decent to wear, will you.'

In the Forbidden City, the sun stood already high up the blue sky. Sky-linked lotus leaves, endless jade-blue sunlight bright on water lily bloom... reds of all hues. A lone figure sat in a green garden, surrounded by marvels of Chinese architecture and natural beauty, elegantly writing mysterious symbols on paper white as the colour of his gloves. His surroundings were coloured by the reflection of his golden mask and yellow robe, which made his figure appear to be glowing in the bright light of the sun.
----A bald figure with dark features, whose face seemed burned by his many worries, came over to the person in yellow, whispering words which the other heard through thin openings in his mask at the place where one's ears are placed. The mask moved slightly up, facing the bald figure who immediately bowed his head. The mask moved slightly away, upon which the yellow figure unsteadily pushed himself to his feet, reaching out to take the bald man's arm to steady himself. The bald man continued to stand bowed as the yellow figure walked toward the large building in front of the garden, leaving the words he had just written down behind. Then came the thunder of clouds... the mist of willow blossom fills the garden... the lotus flower closes solemnly, rain drops falling.

The occasional claps of thunder illuminated the room, where a solitary figure situated before the only window. Dressed in matching black trousers, jacket and shoes, he remained unmoving. Nicolas van Orten stood gazing out of the large window of his residence, looking over the city of The Hague which had endured heavy rainfall and thunderstorms over the past few weeks. Although it was still around five in the morning, Van Orten could not sleep. He looked at his own face in the reflection of the glass: his lined face looked old in the darkness. He combed his grey hair with his fingers and remained standing with his hands rested on his temple. It occurred to him that how a person who does good, who serves the public interest with total dedication and discretion, is not esteemed and admired by his fellow citizens. Since people are largely envious and ignoble, the opposite is almost always the case: the harder a person works, honestly and intelligently, for the common good, the more his fellow citizens will look upon him with suspicion and venom, the more they will work to harm him, the more obstacles they will throw in his ways. Honour and success accrue, instead, to those skilled at flattering, adulating and serving the powerful. 'Serving the powerful,' repeated Van Orten softly.
----'Sir?' sounded the uncertain voice of a young man from behind him. Van Orten turned around to face his attendant who probably had mistaken his comment to having been directed at him.
----'What is it, Walter?' asked Van Orten.
----'Sir, Intelligence reports that... well, apparently, Russia has launched an invasion of British Palestine, sir.'
----Van Orten immediately awoke from his state of half-sleep. 'When was this reported?'
----'Merely an hour ago, sir.'
----Slowly he began to consider the consequences of another Anglo-Russian conflict. It was very well possible that the Hegemony was drawn into the war once again. Seeing how the heart of the alliance was located right between the two Greater Powers, the chances of that occurring were even more likely. 'Call a cabinet meeting,' ordered Van Orten, 'I want all the ministers assembled in the situation room within the hour. And see if you can get the Russian ambassador in Stockholm on the line.' Continuing to think up aloud, Van Orten started walking toward the door, down the corridor, Walter following closely. 'Russia isn't invading with no reason. What is there in Palestine that could be of importance to the Russians?'
----'Oil, perhaps, sir,' replied Walter, as they neared the entrance. An automobile had probably been summoned to drive them to the Binnenhof as quickly as possible. 'No, no... Russia has plenty of oil in the Caucasus and in Persia and Alyeska...' Van Orten put on the overcoat Walter handed him, upon which they walked over to the car waiting for them. As Van Orten opened the door of the vehicle, he looked up at the dark clouds, raindrops pouring down on his face. 'Of course,' he whispered.

In St. Petersburg, the sun was rising from behind the horizon, colouring the clouds in shades of dark-red and purple, the facade of the Winter Palace glittering in the morning sunlight. Deep within the massive building Tsarina Catherine III observed the advances of her Imperial forces on the round table in the centre of the room, which showed the army divisions depicted by small iron sculptures in the Middle Eastern theatre. The edge of the table was lit, illuminating the war room in a mysterious, reddish glow. Mounted against the sides of the room were numerous desks from where clerks operated telephones and telegraphic machinery. These received the reports from the battle field. Secretaries took the written reports from here to the clerks manning the situation table, who moved the small sculptures further and further toward the Mediterranean Sea. Forces had now established a front line from Beirut to Amman to Riyadh to Al-bida. Soon all of the Arabian peninsula would be Russian.
----The Tsarina was a young woman, wearing a sleek purple dress, cut low, pushing her breasts up and out: she was proud of them. She wore several golden necklaces bearing a striking resemblance to the colour of her blond hair.
----'All is going as planned, Your Highness,' reported an old uniformed man with a white handlebar moustache, while he waved with his malacca cane over the situation table. 'General Andropov's army will conquer Haifa within the hour, and General Bubkova's 12th army division will take Jerusalem on the limited British forces stationed there shortly thereafter.'
----'And the Canal?'
----'Field Marshal Rubin will personally lead the attack. His army is current here,' answered the man, pointing with his cane at the map, 'south of Amman. We are not expecting too much resistance, considering our forces greatly outnumber the British infantry divisions; their fortifications along the Canal are no match for our new airships.'
----From one of the wide corridors which granted direct access to the war room, a tall, handsome man came walking toward the situation table. The man wore black trousers and a black jacket, a long grey overcoat and black leather gloves which he took off as he approached the Tsarine, upon which he took a note out of his pocket and handed it to her. 'A telegram from King Edward, begging you to withhold your forces at their current positions,' said the man as the Tsarina quickly red it.
----'Obviously, he's afraid his forces won't be able to hold position along the Canal. We'll push through and occupy the Canal. Then we'll negotiate.'
----'You are sure what you're doing?' asked the man, talking softly so that none would be able to overhear his words. 'You know what could come of this...'
----'The British won't let it come to that,' argued the Tsarina.
----'No, but will you?' whispered the man.
----She raised her eyebrow, then turned around to watch divisions moving over the situation table. Soon, soon, Russia would hold both the world's largest oil reserve and the canal that connected the West with the East. An oil-monopoly would allow it to raise prices and make tremendous profit. Then, finally, she could face the social problems that had plagued Russia for decades. And then, Russia would rise again to become the world's leading Greater Power, the greatest of all.

UCHRONIA is based upon Tony Jones' Monarchy World and created by OTTENS.