Chapter 658 – Unfurling The Nuclear Carpet
I did not live through the Age of Heroism, by the time I incarnated, it was already ending. Paramethus and Arascus both had a bounty upon their heads for the facilitation of Heroism, the arms-race for the superpowered was nearing completion, villains and those who had managed to trick, or steal, or obtain, the power of Heroism were silently scheming with their cults. The natural dangers of Arda had been conquered, Titankind was no more, Monsters were being driven into dungeons for sheer amusement. Swamps were being drained, deserts reclaimed, magic was unbound and free, malicious Divinity was nearing the end of its existence.
I suppose that at some point, I helped cause Worldbreaking. Warfare, at least in that Age, started as a critique of Heroism. Arascus and Paramethus did not solve the issue of Divine Individuality, that is the fact that no matter how powerful a Divine is, they are still a person. (Or, if we wish to disagree with that, they are at the very least, a biological body). They merely inundated the world with parodies of Divinity. These parodies of Divinity managed to form teams, in the same way that the Reconstruction Authority functions now, yet they never managed to achieve what the descendants of Obsession managed to create.
For Malam and Helenna did not merely sum up the power of humanity into a single force, they somehow managed to multiply the Love and Hatred of the collective in such a way that humanity managed to singlehandedly end the Age of Monsters. They did not possess such things as tactics or strategy, they operated like wolves teaching their pups how to fend for themselves. My first, most poignant, critique of Heroism was the fact that these beings possessed power yet did not strike directly at the source. They extended battles, seemingly for the love and joy of the brawl itself, rather than to achieve victory. Viewed from that manner, and armed with the intention to simply end the Age of Heroism, was the answer not utterly obvious? The figure of Heroism had a weakness, all it required was a single strike. There was no war to drag on.
So was conceived the First & Final Doctrine. It proved itself immediately, to such an extent that even to this day, we do possess any state as centralized as even the weakest Magocracy or Divine Tyranny. It serves as the blade that hangs over each and every king’s head. Noble or Corrupt, Just or Cruel, does not matter. The blade makes itself known for the purpose of reminder. F&F Doctrine was born with the intention to wage on Heroism.
Paramethus was the creator of Heroism, even if Arascus had been killed, Paramethus could still keep on doing what he was doing. And Heroism is not to be viewed through the lens of Divine Individuality, where each God or Goddess has to be tackled individuality, yet as a collective. Every hero alive was not to be viewed as a single person yet as part of a greater whole.
That greater whole had a single link in the chain that held it all together, did it not?
Yet I did not kill, nor even assist, in the killing of Paramethus. It came somewhat as a surprise. The only reason Arascus and Paramethus were able to get away with what they did for so long was the fact that the two may have been some of the most respected deities of the time. Even to this day, I do not know who did it.
Elassa now says that Worldbreaking was the time when magic unbound broke the world in righteous fury. I would argue that Worldbreaking was humanity calibrating my First & Final Doctrine.
- Excerpt from “Warfare, Three Centuries In.” Written by Goddess Kassandora, during the height of the Reconstruction Authority.
The Goddess of War, in her pristine, black, celebratory uniform, complete with cap and belt and everything, stood with all the eyes of Rancais Command upon her. Bunker lights shone bright above them, monitor screens flickered as every head turned towards their commander. And Kassandora did not care in the least about the eyes upon her. She reached down to below her desk as cameras switched on the main screen ahead of them. A camera at the Rancais Launch Pads. Switching feeds from satellite imagery focused upon the third landbridge. Even floating buoys that had been left behind by the Western Fleet, so that they could film from within Ashen Skies as humanity found a way to push back Ashen Skies. Out came a glass and a bottle of whiskey. Kassandora put it on the table with a smile as she twisted the cork and poured herself a drink. Every set of eyes silently watched their Goddess, forty men in the clean black uniforms of military leadership that didn’t need to serve under Ashen Skies.
Drinking was bad for you, supposedly. Someone had that, someone with too much sense in their heads and not enough appreciation for the finer things in life. Malam drank all the time, and look at what she did. And now, Kassandora smiled and idly hummed a marching song that had been unheard of on Arda since the times of Sythia. There had been a time when a breakthroughs were one in millennia, when the horse was tamed, although that was before even Kassandora’s time. Then, breakthroughs had started coming every century. Throughout the Great War, every decade saw an advancement within warfare.
And now, there was a grand breakthrough that seemingly swept aside all known doctrine every month. Missiles that could pierce Ashen Skies, they were artillery on a scale unimaginable. It broke all physical rules that once governed warfare. Then came the O-Bombs that had levelled Arseille and Legion with it. That had been another triumph. It was the greatest leap forward within warfare in all of Kassandora’s life.
And now, the two combined, would surpass the Goddess of Uncreation.
They had cracked the atom open to save the entire planet.
Kassandora kept on humming as marched to her desk in the control room overseeing Strike One. It wasn’t an operation, those involved boots on the ground and fighting. It had commanders, it saw soldiers, it needed a hierarchy and plans both long and short term. The Goddess of War blew some of her crimson hair away and smiled to herself, the fact that these new Legionkiller Missiles had added to a naming scheme unchanged for thousands of years proved exactly what they were capable of. No, it had to be called a Strike.
And this one would set the bar for what they could do.
It needed no name, for anything would diminish it.
Kassandora took a deep breath to the silent command room. “Begin Strike-One.”
Immediately, the room turned and got to work. Messages were sent out, for cities to start measuring radiation spikes, for soldiers on the Esberian and Rilian coasts to get away from the water. And, most importantly, a message travelled down one line, a flash of lightning that almost instantly traversed a continent. Two hundred miles to the north-west of Kassandora’s headquarters, a headset buzzed on an elven general’s head.
General Miryim knew about the signal, the work had been relentless. MURGS was still not operational so every rocket needed to be manually targeted, every coordinate had to be cross-referenced. Every litre of fuel measured out. The 1st Strategic Missile Corp, a unit made up of technicians, engineers and mathematicians, worked relentlessly to organise. “We have green light on Strike-One.” He said to the control room. “Open all silos, prepare for launch.”
Out of his bunker, the Plateau D’Albion Rocket Launch Site began to whine and hiss as the soldiers of the 1st Strategic Missile Corp got to work. Pairs of men would slide keys into keyholes on either side of the room, a lever in the middle would unlock, a third man would pull it and salute as the ambience of the night sky flooded into silos the size of barns. Each one bearing a proud spear with two sets of fins for its stabilization. The control rooms would light up, countdowns began. Back in headquarters, Kassandora’s eyes grew wide as she stared through the cameras display the site hidden in the Rancais Mountains.
Huge circular doors would lift in half to reveal the deep silos, lights turned off as men raced away, into the surface bunkers and dived into trenches, their helmeted heads reappearing to gaze upon the launch of the Legionkillers. General Miryim called the final shot, twenty four missiles had been prepared, given permission, their jets were beginning to hum, every step of the launch had been completed. He was simply firing the starting pistol. The elf took a deep breath and pressed down upon the red button. He could do it this time.
The landscape, lit up only by the waning moon and a perfect, clear dark blue sky pockmarked by white stars, suddenly started to glow with a blaze of orange and red as rockets slowly rose out of the ground. Warheads of material, each one painted with a figure of a mascot. Some of them Kassandora, some of them Neneria, some of them the artist’s own wife or girlfriend. The only commonality was the lack of clothes and the mocking gestures and smug smiles.
Miryim watched through the cameras as they rose from the silos and then left the ground.
Whose hands was it in now?
The Empire’s he supposed.
Back in the bunker, Kassandora’s eyes grew wide. Even the fact someone had drawn her in a ridiculous swimsuit did not matter, soldiers needed their reward. The 1st Strategic Missile Corp had been idle for too, her smile deepened as she watched through the cameras. They had taken a great leap forward with the atomic bombing of Arseille, now, it felt like an even greater leap forward. Missiles did not need planes nor even air superiority. Missiles could be assigned a location and then they would be shot and that was that. She felt like was watching the advent of the trebuchet all over again.
So twenty four missiles ascended upwards towards the sky, leaving great pillars of smoke that slowly spread out to fill the valleys of the Plateau D’Albion. They tilted, turned and flew south, trailing their orange flames behind them like an artist trying to tear apart the night. Over towns and villages, families on balconies and porches looked up in curiosity as to what was happening. A couple sharing a cigarette and a drink on a walk gazed upon the stars. Cars came to a stop to once again see objects in the skies. Children playing in the garden paused their ball game and began to point at the meteor shower. Cameras began to snap photos and record videos.
As the flock of missiles travelled further south, campers began to look up to see what was happening. Soldiers looked up, a few questioned themselves on whether they should raise the alarm. It was coming from the north though, towards the south. That meant it was the Empire striking back, now Tartarus sending flames to them. Admiral Sprance marched out onto the desk of his ship, his fleet had been tasked with the patch of charred concrete that was Arseille and record any movement. The lieutenant by his side spoke. “You know what that is?”
“No.” Men turned their heads up towards the night sky to watch the two dozen comets slowly disappear behind the horizon as they flew straight towards Ashen Skies. Back in her headquarters, Kassandora tracked it all with a perfect precision. Slowly, as the rockets reached their target, the third landbridge that had been confirmed by Sprance’s Western Eparika Fleet, they began to twist down and descend.
Holes were poked into the dark flood of ash in Arda’s cloud-layer. One by one, the points furthest north first, and then another, and another, and another, until all twenty four missiles disappeared into that black duvet. Kassandora held her breath and had to force herself to loosen her grip over the whiskey glass. The rest of the headquarters had already poured themselves their own celebratory spirits, now, everyone was just waiting for the moment of impact.
For a moment, silence.
Everyone stared up at that feed coming down directly from the satellite as it passed over Arda.
One man’s monitor lit up, seismic quakes detected by Esberian sonars. Then another from Rancais, from Rilia. The ships were reporting changes in the Ashfront. Radar focused in and tried to detect what was happening. Kassandora did not care, she just stared at the feed from space.
A moment later, Ashen Skies began to glow as the Empire threw two dozen suns at them. The Goddess of War had to loosen her grip again. She could see the explosions from space. The stunned silence lasted for minutes, Kassandora eventually called it as she raised her glass. The order that had been given to not allow retreat would be rescinded and replace: It was time to start marching forwards.
But that was tomorrow, today, there was only thing left to do. Kassandora raised her glass. “To victory and to tomorrow!”