The North PacificBoard

A letter arrives in the mail:

Dear imperial representative or esteemed entrepreneur,

My name is General Hull and I am the recently appointed Deputy Commander of the Fusean Republic.

I am writing to formally invite you to attend Her Highness’s Security Innovation Convention in Hamilton, Calvary. The Security Innovation Convention is a pivotal event organized for select political and commercial representatives of nations belonging to the Entente Internationale. It has been endorsed and subsidized by the Empress of Fusea, who will be in attendance on the eighth day of the convention.

The SIC is a nine-day event starting on the 9th day of September, and aims to present military and security advances made by defence contractors in the Peninsular Empire and the Fusean Republic.

If you are attending as an entrepreneur, your organization has been provided an itinerary and your management team will be providing you a detailed shift schedule for your company’s pavilion. You will have time to both browse and network with convention attendees as well as man your pavilion in order to showcase your company’s innovations.

If you are attending as a political representative, you are invited to follow the enclosed attendance schedule in which you may visit the convention and browse the pavilions. In the interest of the safety of all attendees, visiting political representatives are asked to abide by the schedule in order to limit the possibility of security incidents.

Given the sensitive nature of the convention, there will be a high police presence both at the convention site (Palace of Industry) and in the city of Hamilton itself. Attendees will be asked to comply with comprehensive identification methods outlined in the enclosed convention programme.

We hope to see you in Hamilton for nine days of exploration, collaboration, and the advancement of continental security.

Yours Truly,

General Rory Hull
Deputy Commander of the FR

~

Hamilton, Fusean Republic
Wednesday, September 9, 2026

After the final security gate lifted, Ange Marie-Horace walked into the Palace of Industry with his cohort. He shovelled a barrage of identification papers into the pockets of his brown trousers, and stopped at the railing over the mezzanine. Only here could you see the enormity of the great conference to which he had been invited.

“Another great commotion in which I am expected to impress my superiors.” He muttered to himself, careful to look around for the ‘superiors’ he had rebuked.

Ange was the son of outcaste parents, called Bohèmes. One was a Gens field labourer and the other a Folke pamphleteer. The family lived in a claustrophobic quarter of Damarques, and were only redeemed among society when Ange’s father conscripted in order to fight in the Civil War.

“And the brave fool died, leaving my mother and I behind with a couple of piasters to spare.” He muttered to himself.

His father’s funeral was paid for by the Throne and his death granted his mother a monthly stipend.

“Suddenly I turned up in boarding school, with a fancy tweed jacket and a pair of leather shoes. I blamed Maman then for leaving me behind, but I don’t anymore.”

Ange graduated in time for those raging Horsemen, the Meliboreans, to take their numbers and launch their wild attack on the Imperial Province. He purchased a bus ticket to his mother’s homeland and swept her out of the house as quick as he could. They arrived in Hargo after standing straight for nine cruel hours, packed like biscuits in a tin.

“That’s about when I met Lieutenant Durant, and my luck began to change. I knew Calvish and Cersian from my parents, and I had a diploma from my school in Damarques. He introduced me to his circle and I started the national paper for the new government: Le Devoir de la République.”

Ange smirked as he watched these high-collared generals and admirals sit on velvet divans, smoking cigars and drinking Calvish whiskey as though he had not seen them all in those early days of the Republic. These men once squatted over fires in worn combat gear, arguing with each other over torn maps at their refuge in the barren Lake Country.

He walked down from the mezzanine into the heart of the convention, passing two pavilions where some of the latest Fusean firearms were being presented to Jenovachi investors.

“Monsieur Marie-Horace?” A questioning voice rang out.

Ange turned from the pavilion and saw a familiar face seated at one of the velvet divans he had overlooked earlier.

“Durant, I knew I would run into you at some point.” Ange bowed his head in the respectful Fusean manner.
“I am always glad to. You are a true gentleman, and a physiocrat, I hear!” The recently-made Admiral beamed.

Ah yes, that pitiful status that refuses to remain in its time: when crop failure meant social anarchy.

“Several hectares of cornstalk in Cersey have been swept over to me for my trifles. Nothing to write home about.” Ange laughed, flattening his tie.
“Those hectares mean more for you than just trifles, lad,” said Durant. “Why don’t you come and sit with me for a minute?”
“If you insist, Admiral.”

Ange took a seat next to this old acquaintance of his. He had darker skin like his, and a wiry black moustache which hadn’t changed since he first met him save for a touch of grey. He was drinking out of a glass coffee cup while a leather-bound journal rested on his lap.

“If I recall, you have been invited here to report on the convention, no?” Durant asked.
“Originally I was going to send one of my junior men, but he is reporting on Her Highness’ trip to Sampyrea and the negotiations with Rizal Galang.”
“Galang… what a pushover, that one.” Durant scoffed.
“From what I’ve heard he’s quite a cunning statesman. Some even say he is already raising taxes and weaning off foreign investment. Durant, if I just have to know… why was such a man picked out of all the other possibilities?”

The Admiral looked at Ange with disturbed gaze and placed his coffee cup on the low table in from of him.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about?”
“Well, the way I see it…” Started Marie-Horace, “It seems clear that we had no small say in who was going to replace the old Prime Minister. Galang was specially manoeuvred into place, no? Weren’t you in Transfusea while the coup was taking place? Why not someone more malleable?”
“Now I see what you’re talking about.” Durant frowned.

“Listen, Ange. You are a damn good journalist, so I think you know better than to use the gossip you might from factory workers with a couple pints in their hands as a lead. Stick to the truth… the reality. Look around and see the greatness in this place. Yes… there’s your next lead.”

Ange felt the sharp pain of truth as the words left the Admiral’s mouth, but he maintained his well-manufactured composure and nodded his head as he listened.

“I suppose my inquisitive nature sometimes leads me where I shouldn’t. Sorry for disturbing you, Admiral Durant. Please enjoy the rest of the convention.”
“Do not apologize, Monsieur Marie-Horace. You are called the voice of the Republic within our Command, and we could not have achieved the incredible things you see around you without your contributions. Especially those you made just after I found you passing out calls to arms in the refugees’ shelter.”
“Farewell, Admira.” Ange said, dusting off his trousers and shaking his hand.

Ange walked across the floor, turning by another pavilion and disappearing around a corner. He sighed heavily as he leaned himself against one of the massive columns in the Palace of Industry and shook his head with regret.

And to think I was squatting around those same fires, watching their backs.