Iridium Dawn

The Year is 2011 In December 2008 at the American-British Recession Response Conference in Geneva, all G8 countries unanimously accepted a World Bank proposal to place deliberately punitive taxes on international trade between the G8 community and 'pragmatic communist' states (with emphasis on China) to draw a political line in the sand. The World Bank would steward the taxes which would ultimately be used for poverty remediation and establishment of free-market systems in Africa and South America. This works beautifully for a short while until the now impotent United Nations cannot prevent inhouse squabbling which results in intra-unional trade tariffs and ultimately an effective absolvement of the G8 community and the UN as well as the establishment of a mercantile America... cutting ties with the rest of Earth. 3 years ago nations turned inward in a blind panic, fears of recession on the horizon and international terrorism escalating beyond anything ever seen before... and then there was peace. The terrorism stopped. Fear of retaliation, a 3rd world on the brink of savagery and dwindling local resources resulted in the re-establishment of international dialogue. The UN was reformed. Peace was achieved...

Iridium Dawn: Prologue Don't you sometimes find that rain drops seem alive on your windscreen? Charting their individual courses across the glass pane, criss-crossing their little moist legacies as the car turns another corner and a wandering gust sends a vapour of wet companions off into the night air. Free to wash away the grime and filth of our great civilisation. The funny thing about water is that it always comes out clean. Michael wondered if he'd enjoy the same privilege. It had been sixteen years since University. Sixteen years of politics: boycotts, sanctions, demonstrations and finally a cushy desk job at number 10 Downing St., aide to the Prime Minister. Sixteen years since he'd felt like an observer, untainted by the plague of human depravity. Sixteen years since he first took up the burden of society... and it hadn't released him yet. 'The Great Michael Scott' voice of the underdog, saviour of humanity, 'King Arthur returning to Britain'... “Shall I take Park way or are you in the mood for some fresh air Sir?” Watson, the chauffeur enquired over the limousine's intercom, disrupting Michael's train of thought. He realised it was serendipitous, that spiral of thoughts lead only downward and Michael had probably spent far too much of the taxpayer's money lately in unproductive hours of deep melancholy. 'Surprise me' he replied, releasing the intercom button, only to hear the all too expected response 'Kensington Church and High it is Sir, if we take the Holland Park turn off now we can be home in 20 minutes, assuming this traffic lets up a bit of course'. 'That'd be fine Watson', he replied, at least one could catch a twilit glimpse of the Prince Albert Memorial. Maybe he'd have some answers, Michael joked with himself, knowing that like Samson, Albert would probably have relinquished responsibility of the nation to his wife for a haircut and perhaps some hard-boiled eggs. 1

It seemed quieter than usual tonight. London had started living again since the reformation of the UN, since the lines of communication were opened. No longer fearful of becoming another notch on a terrorists bedside for going to the supermarket, Londoners had populated the streets once more, one might even dare to suspect a bit of hope amongst them. Parliament's decision to shift to privately funded law-enforcement allowed the newly instituted 'bobbies' to keep most of the streetlevel crime under control. One could dress them up as quaintly as one liked, Michael thought, but it's difficult to hide the fact that most of the 'Novus Ordo Excolo', the new order police, provided by the courtesy of the Roman Corporation, were ex-SAS mercs, cold-blooded killing machines. As Kensington High lead into Kensington Gore, the neighbourhood became greener and softer to the eye, one of the few memorial parks that was left untouched by the violence. In the distance Michael could just see the tip of Prince Albert's cross, still intact in its vigilant guard over the domed Royal Albert Hall on the opposite side of the Street. For the first time in months a sense of patriotism warmed Michael. 'This is after all still my London, our London' he thought remembering endless childhood Summers in his parents' backyard in Kensington, days and hours spent leisurely playing as the great Peter Pan. 'This Peter grew up far too quickly' he concluded. Thinking of Peter and Wendy made him realise he had been dwelling on her again, probably for the last few weeks. In fact there was rarely a moment these days when Michael didn't feel the need to cling to some fleeting memory of Ruth, his late wife. She had died of leukaemia soon after Michael had accepted the post as aide to the Prime Minister. 'One day this'll all be over' he decided, not in an optimistic way, for long ago he had committed to these people, deciding that Michael Jonathan Scott was the people's man, whatever the cost. And since Ruth's passing the burden of possibly giving his life up for these people had grown into an almost comforting thought. Michael resigned himself to finish the rest of his scotch, and undoing his tie he returned the tumbler to the limousine's fold out bar. By this stage the black Rolls Royce had reached the crossing between the Memorial and the Royal Hall, it was still raining. Prince Albert looked quite respectable in his gilded state Michael thought as he reclined in the leather seat, noticing a solitary black figure on the steps before the Statue. It was a woman, Michael decided, based on the curves of her waist but without an umbrella or anorak. Rain gleamed off of her unusually tight outfit accentuating the femininity of every part of her clearly athletic body. Following the natural flow of her anatomy upward Michael's eyes met hers only to find hers waiting for him with a glare that undeniably said 'I know you. It's about time'. 'Watson, stop the car!' Michael screamed as he hammered on the sliding hatch to the front cab. Without putting on his trench coat he exited the limousine and ran toward Prince Albert, leaving the door open and receiving not a few irritated honks from now trapped cars. The rain and virtually horizontal gusts of London made it almost impossible to see the shadowy figure at the top of the marble stairway turn and walk past the statue and descend into Kensington gardens. At the top of the stairs Michael could see her moving lithely along Lancaster walk, every now and then radiating a ghost-like aura as the she moved through the glow of a lantern under the cavernous monstrosity formed by the overarching bare Magnolia branches. Running down the rear of the memorial and along the walkway Michael wanted to call after her but his scream got stuck in his throat as a sense of desperate peace enveloped him. He heard himself recite the words in his head as though his own: 'There is no need to speak, there is no need to run'. Wiping his wet peppered grey hair out of his eyes he could see the owner of the voice waiting at the end of 2

Lancaster, standing serenely at the foot of the Physical Energy Statue. For a brief moment Michael questioned her intentions, questioned the ease with which he approached her but all too soon the soothing voice began again: 'Come'. George Frederick Watts' equestrian statue eased his fears further as if it stood guard, the gesture of the rider shading his eyes as he stared defiantly into the rising Sun up Lancaster walk heralding Michaels arrival. They were standing a few feet from each other. 'It has to be her' Michael thought. The waistline, the arch of her nose, the mole on her right cheek, the wavy chocolate brown hair even the cat-like eyes, all demanding the same verdict: 'Ruthie?', he enquired as he tried to walk toward her but found his feet to be made of lead. Once again, without moving her lips her voice echoing its Oxfordian accent in his head 'The times have reached their fulfilment, Michael'. He found himself replying in his mind without speaking 'What are you talking about? Where have you been? Seven years Ruth?!'. 'Oh it's been longer than you can imagine Michael' came the reply, 'but we shall have our moment in time, don't fret'. Michael noticed the gleaming immediately, not even the gloom of Winter in London could mask the other six of them that encircled him now. A deep sense of foreboding started growing in his stomach as he surveyed them, moving from one pair of feline eyes to another. All distinct and perfectly beautiful, all women, not natural somehow. Feeling the chill of the rain as it breached his clothes entirely now he met her gaze again. 'Why me?' he said, out loud this time. 'Michael,' she said 'you were spoken of a long time ago in 'The Ordinance'. With a cold realisation Michael surrendered himself to the inevitable, this was his moment, this was what it felt like to sacrifice oneself for the people. Londoners who are asleep in their homes with coals gleaming warmly in the fireplace; night watchmen who are ensuring the safe passage of those who aren't yet asleep; cab-drivers waiting for their next customer; pub owners throwing out the last drunks and stragglers. All people who didn't know him from a bar of soap. His reverie was interrupted by the serene voice gently speaking inside his head again: 'The time is now, Michael. Penumbria must rise from its slumber. He foretold this'. This was immediately met with a serpentine chant from the others: 'He who isn't named, He who received the Light, He who set ablaze the Pyres of our Cleansing'. The chant rattled Michael's mind and seemed to want to pull apart the very fibres connecting him to his body. Shaken, he stood up to her again. Once more, louder this time she said 'He foretold this!', only to be met with a repetition of the Chant from the other six. Michael reeled falling forward, catching himself before he toppled over. A single drop of blood fell off the tip of his nose and splashed into a puddle of water at his feet, streaking a red line around his Italian shoes. 'Always comes out clean' he said, 'always comes out clean'. Ruth repeated herself and joined the six as the Chant began again and again and again, growing increasingly louder. They weren't stopping! Michael felt undone, he couldn't tell if they were actually chanting or merely in his head. In desperation he cried out the one thing on his mind: 'ALWAYS COMES OUT CLEAN!'. And he fell silently into darkness as his words echoed between the 5-storey apartment blocks of Kensington only to be washed away by the shush of the rain.

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INTEL The Penumbra Guild A pseudo-religious inquisitorial guild of neo-assassins (performing everything from martial arts to cyber-terrorism), monitoring the world, prepared at any moment to mobilise it's geneticallyengineered Spectral Guard of Envenomed mercenaries to simply erase any immoral nation from the face of the planet. True to the secrecy of the Guild not much is known about it's history. However, 'He who must not be named', the progenitor has been traced to medieval Europe, that's where INTEL ends. The Guild's headquarters are suspected to be in London but the speed and nature of some assassinations suggests that Penumbrians are active in all corners of the modern world. [For more on the social order and architecture of the Guild refer to articles on 'Penumbrian Neotropes' and 'The Spectral Guard'.] Spectral Guard (SpGu) Gender: female Occupation: assassin One of the genetically engineered Spectral Guard assassins of the Penumbra Guild, children of Netropic parents but modified as blastocysts. Though most of the body is covered with a form of black latex Lance Corporal Childs of the 3rd Neo Rangers Reconaissance team caught a glimpse of the living conditions of the guard while undercover in New London: he hasn't recovered since. Military psychiatrists have been able to decipher very little from the few ramblings he is willing to produce. It is evident however that these creatures are pseudo-androgynous Sophisticated killers, preying on fear before striking from the shadows. Unlike their human counterparts, the Guards have no 46th sex-determining chromosome but rather a synthetic replacement: DELORES (Determinant of Extensible Life and other Required Expressed Somatic traits). The result being a caste of formal female beings with vanishingly under-developed and non-functional genitals. Controlled juvenile oestrogen-doping however makes them dramatically beautiful. It is said that they are identifiable by their vertically slit feline pupils allowing effective night vision. The Spectres (as they're known within the sisterhood) have modified retractable canines that are capable of injecting their own envenomed blood into a victim. Envenomation take place via several glands in the body producing a cocktail of toxins chosen by the Guard (causing paralysis, necrosis, nausea, bewilderment, and such). Life span is considered perpetual due to telomerase transformation and rather termination is placed in the control of the Guild by agent-specific targeted ricin-antibodies released into a common area (e.g. water reservoirs). Such forms of termination usually fall under the jurisdiction of the Penumbra Bar, a judicial priesthood of Neotropes (humans who are essentially all over 100 years old) who execute the legal statutes found in The Ordinance of His Divine Providence, a law book with which the Guild judge the world. Penumbrian Neotrope (PeNe) Occupation: Judge, Jury and Executioner The Penumbrian Neotropes form a caste of nobility within the Guild of perpetuated human beings, 4

that is, persons who are of normal birth but have had their life extended by various (sometimes crude) techniques including: chromosome-stabilising technology and harvesting body parts from a servile caste known as the Speechless. All matters legal and leadership fall under the jurisprudence of the Penumbra Bar, a judicial priesthood of Neotropes (humans who are essentially all over 100 years old) who execute the legal statutes found in The Ordinance of His Divine Providence (The Book), a law book with which the Guild judges the world. The highest ranking control structure within the Guild, The Pure Circle, a committee of 7, are all Neotropes, mostly descending from a long line of visionaries stretching back to 'He who isn't named, He who received the Light, He who set ablaze the Pyres of our Cleansing' (a ritualistic chant uttered by all Penumbrians when referring to 'Him'), the progenitor of the Guild, the author of The Book. Being an entirely secret organisation only few within the Pure Circle know the true identity of He who isn't named. The Guild had been dabbling and perfecting scientific knowledge for centuries before what they dub 'The 4th or Final Unveiling', the discovery of Recombinant DNA technology. Thus Penumbrians group their research into 4 'vertices': The vertices of Mind, Matter, Energy and Relationship (DNA-tech being the last). The Speechless A servile Prenumbrian caste, not considered as citizens of the Guild but rather as slaves. The Speechless are clones of the Circle of Purity, and thus there are only 7 types: 4 male, 3 female. INTEL has designated these using the NATO convention: Mike (for 'male'), Foxtrot (for 'female'), and a specific alphabet letter: Therefore, the males are all Mike Charlie, Mike Mike, Mike Romeo and Mike Victor. The females are: Foxtrot India, Foxtrot Juliet and Foxtrot November. Field operators often colloquially refer to the Speechless purely by their specific names in codeform. For example: the sentence 'This is going to be a hot Indian November, Charlie' would naturally indicate the presence of 2 female and 1 male serviles. The Speechless differentiate into 2 castes: 1. Ordo Bellicus The mercenaries who routinely perform military and reconnaissance tasks at the behest of the Circle or authorised representative. 2. Ordo Creatura The servants of nobility that take care of mundane tasks including everything from plumbing to administration. They are the 'working class' of Prenumbrian society. Importantly, this class is harvested for organs to extend the lives of Neotrope noblemen. The Roman Corporation In 1896, an American Business man named Henry Roman founded a company dealing in mercenaries much like the medieval Helvetian pike guards. Services were rendered to the highest bidder unless Mr. Roman's friends disliked the highest bidder in which case he was 'processed'. The Roman Corporation soon went multinational and 70 years later began dealing in arms during the cold war under the auspices of Henry Roman Jr. causing suspicion amongst allied western countries. The two head-offices are in Washington and Terra Angeles (former Los Angeles, before 5

the west coast cataclysm1) with extensive arms research and training facilities in the Midwest as well as Nigeria. Typical mercenary services are provided ranging from assassinations to all out military coups, if the price is right of course. After the destabilisation and decent into mercantilism of the western world many special operations soldiers were left without employment as the national guards took over homeland security and international relations were all but amputated, thus providing The Roman Corporation with an ample supply of fresh 'operators' as they're known. Upon the reformation of the United Nations, the Roman Corporation offered a new product to aid escalating domestic crime and terrorism: 'The Novus Ordo Excolo', or New Order of Police. These are special service operators forming an iron fist hierarchy ensuring strict adherence to homeland law in the US, Britain and now France. Other countries are soon to employ them. UC612F Underground Compound 612F was established by a reconaissaince unit under the early command of Major John Rawlings. The compound is named according to the conventional nomenclature adopted by the troops: %##@ where: % - numeric category of established outpost (1-grand HQ; 2-moderate HQ; 3-communication relay station; 4-supply depot; 5-vehicle storage/maintenance facility; 6-barracks) ## - successive number assigned to discovered areas @ - type of terrain (A-great building; B-medium building; C-small building; D-airport; E-underground network; Funderground node; G-roadway; H-mountain, I-bridge) Note: nomenclature colloquially called the 'Papa Hotels Alpha' from the NATO: international radiotelephony spelling alphabet)

1 See Appendix: 'A. The West Coast Cataclysm'

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Appendix: A. The West Coast Cataclysm In 2009, the San Andreas fault quaked at an unprecedented 9.4 on the Richter scale which set off various aftershocks literally fragmenting the West Coast of California. Los Angeles was broken away from the Coast forming a mostly ruinous Island now known as Terra Angeles. Gone are the days of Hollywood and Beverly Hills, Terra Angeles is now only inhabited by those who couldn't afford to get off the island and is being slowly converted into a penal colony.

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