The Hand of God

[Keeper of Hell]

(Author's Note: Most of these times are pretty inaccurate, as I feel the timing scheme in Civ3 fails to accurately reflect reality except where it comes to scientific research. So, when I say "3 days" I probably mean 3 turns.)

Jacques Defarge twisted restlessly in his seat, securely strapped into the military air transport. He knew that they would arrive in Paris in less than 15 minutes, but he was too impaitent to remain still. 28 years of the finest military training that France had to offer. 28 years of iron discipline, of anxiety that he would not live up to his glorious legacy. 28 years of standing in his great father's shadow, of waiting for the day when he would be called upon to serve his country.
The Defarge family had served the Crown for time out of mind, each eldest son assuming the responsibilities of Chief Military Advisor to Joan d'Arc, the Queen of France, upon the death of his father. True, France didn't have a history characterized by conflict, as did the barbaric Persians or the headstrong Aztecs, but they did have the distinction of being able to say that no city originally constructed by the French had ever been under the yoke of a foreign oppressor for as much as a one minute. And they had had their wars- the now hardly remembered 60 Year War with the Germans in which French forces, under the command of Jacques's distinguished ancestor Louis Defarge had routed the forces of the brutish Germans and annexed their territory into the Kingdom of France. And of course there was the disastrous war against the Persains, in which the French Army, though far outmatching their foes, were worn down by shear numbers as unit after unit of Cavalry poured in from the Persian railroads.
On the whole, however, France was a peaceful nation, content now with its large empire, which encompassed more than half the great Central Continent. The evil and cunning English to the north had not harrassed the French since their disgraceful battles during the Persian War, when they allied themselves with the dreadful Easterners and pillaged the northern lands of France for many years, dstroying railroads, mines, and irrigation. An uneasy peace had been in place for centuries, with heavy fortifications along both sides of the border.
But there were indications that perhaps that uneasy peace might soon come to an end. The English-Zulu alliance had incurred the wrath of several foreign powers, including the Persians, the Iroquios, the Aztecs, and even the pathetic Americans. The Persians had pressed north into the heart of Zululand, crushing all resistance, Iroquios warships pounded English coastal cities, and Aztec Cavalry razed or captured some of the more remote colonies of both civilizations. The world was at war, with only the French staying out of the conflict. But there were indications that Joan d'Arc saw an oppurtunity now to repay the now crippled English for their humiliation of the mighty French during the Persian War.
Jacques relished the possibility of glorious battle, the like of which had not been seen in decades. The only person alive who remembered the great battles of the French period of conquest was the ageless Joan, and it was rather difficult to get past her religous mania and dogma to the truth of anything- or so his father had said.
The young general, lost in thought, nearly missed the pilot's signal that they were approaching Paris. He peered out the window at the great city- he had been trained in the north, as had all the Defarges since the English became the barely tolerated scourge they were today.
A few minutes later, the chopper set down on the helipad on top of French Army HQ. Jacques stepped out after the rotors had come to a complete stop, not wanting his dress uniform to be at all ruffled when he came into the presence of his Queen, whom he would serve until his death. He walked down the stairs, trying to contain his pride as he was saluted by some of the greatest military minds in the kingdom, gathered here to get their first glimpse of the young man who was to command them. Jacques stepped into the waiting army sedan which was to take him to the palace, and a few minutes later, was escorted into the presence of the great Joan d'Arc, Queen of all France.

[trickey]

Unbielievable start Don't give up on this one

[Keeper of Hell]

Continuation

Joan d'Arc was a startlingly beautiful woman, and she knew it. She dressed in a manner befitting a great and terrible ruler, and made sure that her outfits accentuated every line of her well endowed figure. Jacques Defarge, the newly made Military Advisor and Commander in Chief of the French Army did not overlook these obvious facts- but he knew, that as the Queen's link with the military, that vital fighting force that kept France secure and safe, he must be completely professional in his dealings with his graceful monarch. He did not allow himself to stare.
Jacques walked into the room and stood stiffly at attention. Joan gestured to him to be at ease.
"So, you are the son of the General Defarge. We have much to discuss."
"I live to serve you, my Queen. Your glorious armies shall defend your dominion stoutheartedly under my command."
"Yes.... defend." Joan seemed slightly displeased at this neutral reply. "Our nation may be called upon to do more than defend in the restless times ahead... that is for our Benevolent Creator to decide. A great kingdom such as France, particularly one touched by the hand of God, may be called upon to turn the tides of history."
"Indeed, M'Lady." Jacques ignored her religous banter, focusing on the part of her short speech that had interested him. He made a daring leap, knowing that he risked his Queen's displeasure already, but hopeful that she would approve. "Perhaps it is time that mighty France showed the English who the rightful master of this land is."
Joan laughed, obviously pleased by her new advisor's outspokenness. "Yes. The English curs will soon learn to fear more than just the barbarians of the West. The time is fast approaching when our mighty kingdom shows the world our great power... and you, my general, will be key in our victory over any who would oppose us. Come, you will join with the rest of my Cabinet in council."
Jacques followed his Queen out of the throne room, pleased he had made a good impression with Joan. It seemed that his time as commander of the army of France might indeed prove to be a very interesting one.


Four hours later, Jacques left the Palace and stepped into the military sedan that was to take him to his new quarters near the Military HQ. As the car pulled away, he contemplated the wealth of information that had been imparted upon him at the cabinet meeting.
As the Queen and her new advisor entered, all rose. Jacques could see that there would be no break from the iron discipline he had known all his years in his new life. Joan did not seem to be the kind of monarch who would be lenient with those who did not afford her the respect a monarch of a great nation deserved.
All the advisors waited until Joan had seated to take their places, and Jacques took the place at Joan's left hand, across from a ratlike man who he knew to be the Queen's Foreign Advisor, Alexandre Turgot. Turgot seemed to be disinterested in this new arrival, giving him a quick cold glance before turning his attention to Joan. First on the agenda were some issues of commerce. Jacques drew on his formal education to fake interest as the Domestic Advisor droned on and on about annual revenue, luxury income, tribute from other nations, units costs, and corruption. Next came the Cultural Advisor, describing the moods in each of the numerous cities in the kingdom... Jacques felt himself almost falling asleep. This was no way to begin his first cabinet meeting, he scolded himself. He must try to listen to each advisor in turn and take an interest in the larger status of France. As it turned out, he didn't have to worry about matters of the happiness of the citizenry for much longer, as Joan seemed to quickly be becoming bored with affairs of state as well. She cut the Cultural Advisor off in the middle of a report on the civil disorder in Brighton and turned to Jacques.
"As General Defarge so aptly commented earlier when I received him in the Throne Room, the brutish English have yet to learn who the true masters of our great continent are. Though our armies could doubtless dispatch the pathetic fortifications of the English without any outside intervention, it seems that this is a more fortuitous time than has been upon us in many years. While the resources of the English dogs are concerned with their other aggressors, the mighty armies of France may strike from the south and bring the English to ruin. General, what is the status of our forces along the northern border?"
Jacques pulled himself up straight in his chair. He had gone over troop positions and battle readiness reports for years, preparing for the day when he would take his father's place. Now he recited the locations and ranks of the French troops in Hannover, New Chartes, Dover, and all the other northern cities, reciting them from memory. Although they were positioned to repel any attack by the English, it was doubtful that the Infantry stationed there would be able to launch a major attack against the English. As he finished, Turgot broke in.
"My Queen, I must protest. A war against the English may seem fruitful now, but remember that against their shameful tactics, none are safe. They strike like lightning, coming in by railroad, pillaging the land, then disappearing quickly. Our troops cannot hope to repel every one of these assaults, and the damage the English will inflict far outweighs any potential gain."
Jacques, nettled that this little man would presume to usurp his prerogative as Military Advisor, retorted, "The English Cavalry is no match for the marines we could produce if we decided to go to war. Besides, with the huge corps of workers we have, it would be simple to repair any damage done by the English guerillas could do."
Joan forestalled any further debate. "I agree," she said. "We will immediatly begin the production of a marine strike force. They shall be stationed along the northern border. Soon the day will come when the English fear the French."
Jacques schooled his face, which wanted to break out in a wide grin in the pride of having his view borne out by the Queen, and looked at Turgot in time to see him hide a look of rage at being overruled. Jacques realized that he'd probably just made his first enemy in Paris.
The new advisor had much to think about during the rest of the meeting, which turned back to matters mundane. He needed to line up the largest cities to begin producing marines. He went over in his mind the southern region of the English empire, outlining routes of attack, artillery bombardment sites, and which cities to keep and which ones to raze. While in the middle of running a mental simulation of an advance up the western coast to Canterbury and then on to Oxford, he suddenly realized that the meeting was drawing to a close. Once again, all the advisors rose as Joan swept imperiously from the room. Jacques headed for the exit, still going over strategies in his head and eager to begin on plans to commence production of marines in the morning.

[civman2000]

can't wait for the big battle coming up...very good with jacques's (realistic!) thoughts and stuff

[Metaliturtle]

excellent plot and character development, please space your paragraphs out more though (eye strain OUCH )

[Keeper of Hell]

Part the Third

Jacques stood with his back to the dirty soldier, looking into the fire. He knew it was far too warm for a fire, but the dim, flickering, light playing across the walls of his private study matched his mood. Dark, but the fire of the honor of the Defarge family and the glory of France still burning within.

The young general had been listening to the dirty soldier talk for fifteen minutes already, but the part that he had narrated thus far was already known to Jacques. The frenzy of production following the Queen's announcement that a grand amry of marines would be commissioned for the defense of France in the troubled times that were upon the world... The restless, almost unbearable waiting of the weeks and months that followed, as one by one, 30 marine divisions made their way to the northern border... The legrathy and anger that followed as, for two more months, Turgot, the ratlike Foreign Advisor to Queen Joan, dragged his feet about securing confirmation from all the other civilizations that none would take offense if the French entered the conflict... And finally, the frantic four days immediately preceding the formal declaration of war during which updated suvellince photos were reveiwed, exact routes of attack outlined with field generals, and finally, the rush as Joan read aloud, on a nationally broadcast address, the triumphant proclamation that seemed to many seasoned military commanders around the world to be the final nail in the coffin of Queen Elizabeth of England. Then the marines went marching, off to Canterbury and Warwick, off to glorious battle with the foul English.

And then, three weeks later... But this memory was still too fresh, too painful. Jacques knew that the dishonor to his family and his country would be an injury that would sting for many years to come, but for now, he had to hear the story of the soldier. He pushed the thoughts crowding into his head away with a determined effort, then turned and sat back down at his desk. He nodded for the man to continue. And as he listened to the account, he felt himself slipping into the mind of this common man, as if he travelled with the army himself.






The going had been bad. It was winter, and in England, and in Northern France, winter was a harsh season. Not quite cold enough to freeze, so that the snow on the ground turned into icy slush, pouring into your boots and stinging your face when you tripped and fell in it. The wind, however, more than made up for the relative warmth, whipping right through a man as if he marched in nothing at all. As the column marched north toward Warwick, heads bent low so that the snow whipping toward them would not bind them completely, many wondered just why they were out there. A grudge held by an ageless Queen, from a time when not a single one of them had even been born? They did not go for the love of their country, that day, when they set out. They went because they had to, and because they knew that if and when they captured Warwick, they would be able to sleep inside for a few days.

It was during that fifth hellish day that they were on the road that the English attacked, and that was no surprise in itself. What was surprising was the strength with which they were attacked. The men dug foxholes and leaped in, and thundering across the frozen tundra came the English cavalry.

It was only long afterwards that the number was known. Both detachments of the army were attacked by upwards of 35 divisions of cavalry each within a matter of a week after they split. Though the marines would have easily torn the riders apart if they had had time to lay a plan of attack, they were caught off guard and off balance. As men lay burrowed in their misreable holes, the cavalry came on, fast and deadly and true. The soldier narrating had been one of the last divisions to face the English in that battle, and the waiting was awful. From ahead, they dimly heard the crash of the rifles of the cavalry, the responding fire from the marines' handheld weapons, and occasionally, the rapid action of the miniguns deployed just behind the front line. The insanity of the situation had been with them since the battle started: 20th century weaponary deployed against horse and flintlock, and the marines were losing.

Then, after a while, there was a silence. The French knew not whether to cheer or despair. There was a tense waiting period, every man clutching the trigger, pointing the business end of their weapons towards the tree line, and waiting for something to happen. Finally, something did- an officer sent out one man, shaking in his boots as much from fear as from the cold, to go scout ahead and contact the division in front of them if possible. The man ran off, gun clasped in front of him like a talisman, then disappeared into the line of trees. They could still hear him, blundering his way through the forest, sometimes stopping to listen for any sign of the enemy. Then, there was a longer pause, and suddenly the pace of the man increased, as he came blundering his way through the trees twenty feet ahead, gasping for breath.
"The English a-" but that was as far as he got. A loud report rang out, and the man sprawled forward, clutching at an expanding patch of red on his upper chest.

For a stunned moment, there was again utter silence, as the French soldiers tried to take in what had happened in the space of less than a second. Suddenly, the sound of horses' hooves rang out in the stillness, loud and clear, and the English came crashing through the trees, firing into the holes as they came. They did not just come from the back, but from both the flanks too- the men had no time to consider that to get there, the cavalry must have gotten through the Seventh and Eleventh Divisions' lines. Now both French and English were too busy killing to think of anything other than the immediate problems of aiming, shooting, and reloading.

There was more than one division of cavalry- there were at least four. It was an utter miracle that the marines held out at all- but they did. Somehow, they did, not pausing as the guns became almost too hot to touch, not thinking as they closed the gaps of the ever shrinking perimeter left by men who were cut down by the bullets of the English in a shower of blood and sometimes bone. By the time the carnage was done, a bare fourth of the combat unit remained.

Field Marshall Antoinette, his command cut in half, ordered a retreat to the Army Command Post just inside French territory. As the tired, wounded, cold, ill-supplied, and dispirited marines reversed course and began the march home, leaving fields of dead French and English soldiers, their heads were down once again, but this time, it was more from shame than because of concern for the snow in their faces.







When the Warwick detachment arrived at the CP seven days later, they had already been attacked three more times and were now down to five divisions, all heavily wounded. They had, however, fared better than the Canterbury detachment: they had a bare two divisions left alive. They'd fared better in their original encounters, leaving the first battle with a full nine divisions, but pressing on to their target was an awful mistake. The well fortified English infantry inflicted heavy losses on them before the six remaining divisions were forced to retreat, and the battles on their way home took another four. In two weeks, the English had destroyed twenty-three French marine divisions.

Of course, Elizabeth was not content simply with humiliating the great army of France as they marched on England. Less than seven hours after the battered army rendezvoused at the CP, English cavalry divisions, well covered by defensive formations of infantry, arrived in northern France. They set to work at once, destroying railroads and mines, capturing workers and causing general chaos. The French had been prepared for this inevitable counterattack: the English loved to operate this way, striking quickly, like gnats, then flitting away before they could be caught in the open. What the French had not been prepared was what happened next.

As the main English strike force continued to ravage the lands of the north, seven divisions of cavalry made their way quickly south. Within two days, they were outside the poorly defended city of Bayonne. After hours of bloody fighting, the hooves of the horses of the last division of cavalry trampled over the fallen corpses of the last troops defending the city. The French record of invulnerability from foreign incursion was broken, and General Defarge was disgraced. Seven divisions of infantry were immediately dispatched and recpatured the city within two hours, but Jacques knew that nothing would ever be able to allay the shame he felt at failing his great country.







Now, nearly a month later, the wound to his honor still felt fresh and raw. He gave the soldier some money to get something fine to eat and sent him on his way. He himself did not leave all that night, nor the next. He sat pondering, reveiwing charts, maps, battle reports, and coming back, again and again, to something that the science report called a "tank". There was promise here, he could see it. But would these new weapons be enough to show the cowardly English once and for all that the French were the superior fighters and the rightful masters of the continent? Only time would tell.

[Rotten999]

Thanks for adding paragraph breaks...I suffered detached retinas reading the first parts.

I'm really enjoying the imagery/descriptions. Little things like that add so much, I think.

Looking forward to the next installment!

[Keeper of Hell]

Part Four

Lord Nelson, commander of the 73rd Royal Mounted Division, watched from a safe distance as a soldier came out of the mine, holding the fuse that ended in a dozen kegs of gunpowder down below the ground. The British campaign of looting and pillaging northern France was winding down, and all but his own division and four others had already been withdrawn to replace men lost in the brief skirmishes with the now decimated French marine corps. He'd seen no reason to withdraw the rest of the troops just yet, but then, it certainly wasn't wise to question orders from higher up. It seemed that every decision that the English military command had made this war was a good one. The main force of cavalry had been in position a full three weeks before the French forces began massing at the border, and no one seemed to know just how the information about the enemies' movements was so accurate and timely.

The soldier who had just emerged from the mine now came running up, waiting for the command to strike a match and blow the mine to hell. Nelson gave it with a nod, and then the spark was racing down the length of the fuse, disappearing into the mine a few moments later. Nelson allowed himself a small smile as he began counting the seconds- it was always the same, seventeen. Apparently his munitions officer was very exact in the length of his fuses.

When Nelson reached fourteen, there was an explosion. Before he even took in the fact that the mine was still standing, he'd already figured out that something was not right. He never did have time to do more than half turn about- if he had, he would have seen his men scattering and milling about in complete disorder, running from a large crater in the ground that had just appeared. He did not have time because at that very moment, Lord Nelson became little more than a crater himself, having never even seen the latest mine explode. The 1st French Armored Divsion had arrived, and they were making up for their countries' deficiencies in matters military in a big way.







Some three days later, Jacques Defarge sat in his briefing room listening to casualty reports and damage assessment and trying to figure out why he was still so troubled. The battle had been a huge success, with the French 1st through 4th Armored Divisions almost immediately crushing all resistance and allowing none of the English troops in French territory to remain alive. Suddenly, he put his finger on it- the troops in French territory were far too few. Less than a quarter of the number fielded by England at the height of the war, and these ones made up of the freshest recruits many had seen in a long time- the cavalry divisions that had fought against the marine divisions were the best of the best, battle-hardened warriors who killed many already. It was almost as if the English knew the tanks were coming.... but how?

He rejected the possibility of a spy in his department out of hand. The only men that knew of battle plans before they were executed were these four in the room with him- the best and most experienced military officers in all the land, and completely loyal to the Crown in every aspect of their lives. Although it sounded quite melodramatic, Jacques knew that any one of these men would give his life for his country without hesitation.

He supposed that they were probably much freer with information over at the Technologies Department, but even there, information that they had completed development of a weapon that would turn the tide against the English was no guarantee of a counterattack any time soon- as best the British knew, the French had no source of oil to construct their new machine. Only the top members of the Cabinet knew of the secret negotiations with the Iroquios for the "black gold" as some wryly termed it. Much more precious and useful than gold was this vital component. The Iroquios had been reluctant to part with it even though it left them with a steady supply of their own, but in the end, they had been won over by the extravagant promises of riches and rare luxuries that the French were able to offer.

But if not the science department, and if not his own military command, then what? And quite suddenly, it struck him. As soon as the briefing was over, he asked for an agent from the Military Police to be sent to his office at once. He finally knew what was going on.

A mere week later, he stood in the presence of the great Joan d'Arc, who looked somewhat irked at his request for an audience, which she had grumpily granted. She had been having quite a pleasant time interrogating English prisoners then ordering them put to death in rather gruesome manners. This, she thought, was the best part of winning wars.

"My Queen, I am very sorry to disturb you," said Jacques demurely, bowing deeply. "There is a matter which requires your immediate attention, a matter of great importance."

"Well, what is it?" demanded Joan, interested in spite of her irritation. "Don't beat about the bush."

"Of course not, my gracious monarch," he said deferentially. "First of all, we have caught an English spy in the city of Chartes."

"Excellent. I'm sure you'll have him sent to the palace immediately for questioning?" she said eagerly. Her supply of English soldiers was beginning to run low, and the prospect of a new prisoner to torture before having him publicly executed was a pleasing one.

"Yes, M'Lady- he is already on his way." Now he put on a look of puzzlement. "But there is one other matter that has me perplexed about this affair-"

"What is it?" Joan curtly cut her advisor off, now eager to get back to her fun.

"Well, my great Queen, the man we have apprehended is not high enough in any government bureau to be doing any independent information gathering. He cannot have been doing any more than simply passing information along to the foul English- where he got it is not known."

"Yes?" Joan saw the possibility of more prisoners coming out of this matter.

"Well, this troubled me, and so I took a great liberty- and I hope you will agree that it was justified, my gracious Queen. I have had a certain high-ranking government official tailed by a member of the Military Police, in hopes of finding some connection. And as it turned out, he did." Here Jacques handed Joan a bulky folder. "The man circled in red is the informant we have just caught. But the man speaking to him..."

The Queen opened the folder rather curiously, knowing that some intrigue was afoot. As soon as she saw the contents, her eyes widened- then an outraged look appeared on her face. She quickly rapped out her orders.






A few hours later, Jacques sat in a makeshift set of bleachers, hiding glee behind a somber expression as he watched a small corpse swing in the wind from a noose attached to a hastily constructed gallows. The pictures he'd given Joan sealed the fate of one Alexandre Turgot, annoying diplomat and English spy. His intution about one of his only enemies in all the land had been quite right, and the Military Police investigator who he'd assigned to follow the small man had struck pay dirt when he'd followed Turgot to Chartes and taken pictures of him talking and exchanging some parcels with the spy who had already been marked by the Counter Espionage Service.

Joan's rage had known no bounds, and she had wasted no time in having her former trusted advisor arrested, tried in the High Court with herself as presiding judge, and sentanced to hang. The final look on Turgot's face before the hood had chilled Jacques to the bone. He was looking straight at the general, but not with rage- with something closer to satisfaction, as if he had already taken revenge on the man who had sent him to his death.

[Keeper of Hell]

I seem to have written myself into a corner- I've got no idea exactly *how* the evil Turgot will go about taking his revenge on Jacques. Expect the next chapter in a couple days.

[Sovy Kurosei]

Hey, I like this

Anyways, maybe the son or daughter of Turgot will extract their revenge on Jacques?

[civman2000]

maybe there is no revenge...but there is another spy!

[Samuel Johnson]

Here's one way to go with this:

- The Brits learn the tech needed to make tanks
- A mysterious package arrives in the mail implicating Jacques in spying for the Brits
- Joan wants to flay him to death but his men are still too loyal so a la Gladiator/Ben Hur she puts him into a slave camp
- There he meets a sidekick and they break out jail together.
- Jacques redeems himself by taking out the tanks and the people appoint him king.
- Immortal Joan loses her memory and cuts off her hair and becomes a poseur punk who later becomes a mid-90s pop star.

[mingmyling]

I did Joan of Arc in a previous life...she was no virgin. What is it about french women anyway...always trying to be something they are not. While Joan was no dog....she liked the style.

[Keeper of Hell]

Part Five

Thanks to all for the suggestions, except possibly that very last post, which was rather confusing. Anyway, I already had an ending in mind, so Turgot's revenge can't really affect the flow of the story, just become a plot device to get me to the intended ending. Thus, it will be rather more bland than it should be, and I apologize in advance. And now, without further ado...


Jacques was silent and thoughtful on the way home, rather than exhilirated and excited about finally defeating Turgot, his one true enemy in France. He wondered what, if anything, Turgot had planned for him in the event of his death. Jacques decided he would be on his guard for the next few weeks.

His mind turned to other matters. With the new tanks, the tides of the French-English War had turned suddenly and irreversably. The French rolled into the southern English territory, and in the two weeks since the tanks had first been introduced, they'd already razed three English cities to the ground.

In the international community, things were also changing. The bloodthirsty Persians had wiped out the Zulu who shared their continent, isolating England in a state of war with the entire world. Unfortunately the Iroquois and Aztecs had been reluctant to press a land-based attack against the English, preferring to bombard the coastline to rubble. The Persians were already making signs of withdrawing from the war altogether now that they had united their own continent and the western nations had little to gain from a prolonged war with England. It was clear that it would soon be France versus England, a one on one duel to the finish.

Jacques felt that the loss of international support would make little or no difference to the overall war effort. The French advance would not be halted by any technology that the British possessed, and day by day the attacks from the enemy on the French tank formations became fewer and fewer as England used up the last reserves of cavalry that had been fortified in positions around the country. The war was going well, and nothing could change that. In two days, tanks would be pulling up to York, the most populus city in England, with approximately 2,200,000 people living in it.






As Jacques walked into his office the next morning, the fears of the sinister English spy's revenge had already been banished in the light of day. All that was on his mind was the advance against the English and the garrison at York. Espionage from England was hard to get since the French spy in London had been caught seven months before, so he had no idea what to expect.

He sat down at his desk and began to go over the latest reports from the front. Little or no resistance from the English as the tank formations sped towards York- all signs seemed to point to an easy journey. Jacques suspected that troops from across England has been called to York for one final stand against the French. He knew that even with the superior technolgoy that the French Army possessed, it would be a tough fight, and losses would be high. It might be necessary to retreat after York was captured to repair and replenish the tanks before the assault on London.

As he flipped idly through damage, casualty, and supply reports, a young man crouched in a window in the building just across the street. Jacques had no time to react as a grenade shattered his window with the force of the man's throw and exploded about six feet away from him.






The next thing he knew, he was waking up in a bed in the Paris General Hospital. The first thought in the incapacitated general's head was to curse himself for his stupid laxness in not posting a Military Police detail near his house and the Army HQ. A nurse entered the room and gave him an injection of something through the IV needle through his arm and he blacked out almost immediately.

When he woke again, he took a personal inventory. He was in a full body cast, and he appeared to be missing the lower portion of his right leg as well as most of his left hand. His face was horribly burned, he could tell, although it was hard to feel anything through the protective shield of the drugs that had been pumped into him throughout the three days he had been in the hospital. The injuries he had sustained were appalling, but he had no doubt that he'd be back on his feet in a few weeks.

As it turns out, it took three and a half months for Jacques to make a full recovery. During that time, many things were happening, and although the fallen general was kept up-to-date on the status of the war, he was given very little other information during his rehibilitation period.

Jacques had been right about York- the English had called up reservists from across the country and successfully halted the French advance. What remained of the army after the first battle- seven tank divisions, all heavily damaged- retreated to northern France for repair work while new tanks were being produced to replace the ones that had been destroyed in the battle. In the meantime, the war was essentially a stalemate. The Persians had already pulled out, followed soon by the Iroquois and the Aztecs, and the English did not have enough troops left to employ their usual hit-and-run tactics even if the French didn't have five tank divisions on constant border patrol watching for any major incursions.

Perhaps more important than his inability to command the armed forces during this troubled time was the fact that he couldn't attend the Queen's cabinet meetings. Normally, Jacques was the voice of the French tradition of honor at the meetings, but with him gone, Joan gave approval to several questionable research projects that the Science Department toted as the means to break the stalemate and end the war. Of these, most were unqualified failures, with one notable exception.






Pierre Layfayette paced up and down restlessly on the observation deck, about a mile away from the testing site. Layfayette was the head scientist involved in the Manhatten Project, as they were required to call the effort to develop nuclear weapons. The entire project had been kept under a complete veil of secrecy. The technicians, laborers, and scientists involved had bid farewell to their families over two montsh ago, the day after the fateful cabinet meeting in which Queen Joan D'arc authorized work on nuclear weapon development. The project was still far from completion, and this was the first test of the incredibly dangerous weapons so far.

Layfayette strained his eyes to see if he could spot the telltale cloud of dust that would billow around the returning caravan of cars carrying people who had been performing last minute checks and readying everything for the test. So far, there was nothing. Perhaps some problem? He flicked on his radio to call in and ask what was going on just as two things happened suddenly. First, he spotted the telltale clouds of dust that signalled the return of the on-site workers. He hardly had time to notice the car was coming much faster than was reasonable when something else caught his attention: a blinding flash, so bright he had to avert his eyes. When he looked back up, a huge cloud was already expanding into the sky.

Layfayette stood there, his radio making meaningless static in his hand, ignoring the people coming from all over the observation site, his mind reeling in shock and horror, unable to comprehend what had just happened. There had been seventy-six workers out at the test site, and he knew that none of them could have possibly escaped.

Later, when investigators examined the wreckage of the test site, the destruction was too much for any conclusion about the reason the bomb had exploded prematurely. Several theories were advanced, but the one that most bought into was English sabatoge. Of course, the public got very little information about the explosion- all the media learned was that there was an accident while testing a new source of power in a remote military installation in southern France. The families of the men killed in the explosion were not informed until three years later.






Jacques heard about the explosion on the news, but because the networks had little information to report, it was not a big story. Jacques could make very little of it, but he suspected that the explosion was much more serious than anyone was letting on. He would make sure to find out about it as soon as he was released from the hospital.

Three weeks later, he was, with a prosthetic leg and artificial fingers and a face that had undergone extensive reconstructive plastic surgery. The chief military advisor to the Queen was not required to look like a model, but he did have to be presentable for such occasions as military honors presentations and other important ceremonies. The Crown spared no expense in bringing Jacques as far back to where he had been before the bombing as possible.

As soon as he got out and was driven to Military HQ, he assembled his top generals, including the interim military advisor, for a briefing to bring him up to date. The war was going much as it had, with production continuing on tanks. Soon another assault on York would be attempted, but there doubts as to whether it would succeed. And Jacques finally found out exactly what was going on with the technology department, and was informed of the real nature of the explosion at the nuclear test site.

After hearing about the possible use of nuclear weapons, Jacques headed straight for the palace to find Queen Joan d'Arc, who he hadn't seen since the execution of Turgot. She was pleased to see him up and about.

"General Defarge! I am most pleased to see you on your feet again. God has seen it fit to restore your body."

"God and the doctors at the hospital, my Queen. I thank you very much for providing for my medical expenses."

"Not at all, my trusted advisor. You have earned every cent of the money we spent."

"My Lady, I will be blunt. I have just heard from my generals that the Science Department has been testing nuclear weapons. I believe that not only dangerous, but also anhorrent. A nation such as our own does not need to resort to such tactics to win wars."

Joan's face lost much of its congeniality. "Are you questioning the judgement of your Queen and the God who guides her, General?" she asked, the question obviously having only one answer.

"No, my monarch. I simply feel that this cannot be in the best interests of France or the world. I should think that the testing accident alone is evidence enough of the hazard of testing abominations such as these."

"Your concern is noted, general." Joan clearly had no intention of to the voice of restraint in this matter. "This is perhaps the only way we have of showing the world that France shall be the dominant nation, the only way we can force the barbaric countries of the world to submit to our rule and the will of Our Lord. I will not give up such a weapon for the misguided notions of honor from a military officer who perhaps has forgotten his place in the government of our country."

Restraining himself from doing anything rash at the insult, Jacques bowed deeply. "I beg my Queen's forgiveness for any displeasure I may have caused," he said formally. "Please accept my sincere apologies, gracious monarch."

Joan's face remained hard and cold. "See that you do not presume to tell your Queen what constitutes honor and safety again, General Defarge. You are dismissed."

Jacques withdrew, seething with rage at being overruled and horror that Joan would actually be considering using a device that would kill hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians. Fortunately, the project would not be completed for at least two more months. Perhaps there was still time to convince his Queen what madness the course she had chosen was.






In the weeks ahead, it seemed as if Jacques had indeed changed the Queen's mind. Although she insisted on proceeding with the Manhatten Project, she now said that France's stockpile of nuclear weapons would only be used in the event of a nuclear attack by another country, which Jacques found encouraging. In the meantime, there were preparations to be made for the attack on York, as now the tank divisions were fully replenished and had enough reinforcements to crush all resistance in York. Or so it was thought.

The Second Battle of York was a resounding loss for the French. Although the technology gap remained large, the English had also had nearly a full year to make more defense, and it was enough to once again force the French tanks to retreat. Jacques was furious. They'd lost nearly two dozen divisions, and only had about ten left. York began to seem as if it were completely impregnable.

The first cabinet meeting after the defeat was a hard one. Joan spent the entire time berating Jacques about the loss of the many tanks and the failure to capture the city. But when the new foreign advisor brought up the subject of a peace agreement, she rejected it violently. The Queen was in no mood to compromise with her sworn enemies.

Two days later, Jacques was in his office, now located deep within the Military HQ building and guarded by three members of the Military Police. He was still assessing casualties and the setback they'd suffered in terms of equipment and how long it would before another assault on York was at all feasible. The phone on his desk rang, and he heard the excited voice of one of his closest aides.

"General, sir, turn on the news quickly!"

Full of misgivings, Jacques quickly hung up and turned on the television set in his office. For almost fifteen full minutes he just sat at his desk, watching the news reports and seeing the footage replay again and again. York had been attacked with a tactical nuclear device- it was estimated that nearly one and a half million people had died. No country had yet claimed responsibility for the attack, but suddenly the news program cut to the Palace of Paris where Queen Joan d'Arc was preparing to make a speech.

"My loyal citizens, today is a day of victory for France. We have overcome the evil English and have struck at the heart of their territory, at their greatest city. Last night, the Lord God came to me in a dream. He rebuked me strongly for allowing his favored country to go astray, and explained to me that I must force the English infidels to quickly surrender. The Lord showed me that the only way to ensure victory was to attack the English where they are most strong, paving the way for our mighty armies to finally take that hated city and put it under French control. Glory to our kingdom, and glory to God!"

Jacques had known from the moment he'd turned the television on that Joan had ordered the attack, but this was far beyond him. Not only was this monster unrepentant, she was proud of her horrible act. He burst out of his office and ordered that his car be made ready to take him to the Palace at once.

Jacques stepped out and quickly entered the Throne Room, where he found Joan consulting with several asdvisors from the Science Department, who were explaining the long-term effects of the nuclear attack on York. Suddenly, a messenger stepped in and handed Joan a sheet of paper. The Queen's face turned red with rage. She saw Jacques and beckoned to him.

"This, my trusted general, is a declaration of war from the insolent Persians!" Joan seemed about to have an apolexy. "General, ready my armies for battle. Our transports will depart for Persia in three days."

"My lady, I must speak. The attack that you have perpatrated on the English was a dishonorable and horrific act. I cannot serve under a Queen with so little regard for human life, even that of citizens under her enemy's jurisdiction."

Joan's face had become even more red, if that was possible, during her advisor's short speech. "Do you question the judgement of your monarch? Think carefully before you speak."

"I do, my Queen. This attack had no justification and I cannot condone it."

"You go against the will of God in so doing. His Hand is on me and our nation."

"I believed so, my monarch, but after today, I believe that God has most assuredly turned his face from our kingdom. The Lord could not possibly favor a country that perpetrated an act of such wanton destruction."

Joan spoke softly now, but each word seemed all the more deadly. "General, you are disdraught, and perhaps do not realize what you are saying. Leave me now to reflect on what you have said. If you see reason, come to me quickly, apologize for this disrespect and insubordination and I will forgive you this transgression. If not, you will be known for a traitor and will be executed without delay."

Jacques stalked from the throne room without a word and went straight back to Military HQ. He grabbed charts containing detailed information on the placement of French nuclear devices and their technical schematics and walked out of his office. He returned to his car and quickly drove to the military airport. The general walked past guards, all of whom stood stiffly at attention as he passed by and climbed into a small helicopter. A few minutes later, he was in the air and speeding east, towards Persia.







Jacques speeded across the sea, trying to keep all thoughts out of his mind. He knew that he would never see his home country again, and that in Persia, he would be treated with contempt, as all foreigners were. However, he could not serve a kingdom that allowed such a madwoman to rule over it.

The turmoil in his head and the deafening noise of the rotors were enough to occupy his senses. He didn't spot the French fighters coming within weapons range until the first missile soared past the chopper, and by that time, it was too late. The second missile was directly on target, and the flaming helicopter plummeted into the ocean.

[Metaliturtle]

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