Chapter 2. The First Congress

The unfinished Capitol Building loomed majestic, encircled by the dust of deserts past. Its towering white facade dappled black with mesh tarpaulin alluded to a completion once again set back. The wrangling over nuance within the anticipated founding documents was made physical through the strange synthesis of ancient Constantinople and neo-classical Capital that now stretched across the horizon. The twin chambers already nicknamed with the English ‘Houses’ conjoined within a twisting web of mesh tarpaulin-wrapped scaffolding surrounding vast concrete risers. Several cranes loomed around the core, towering like vast insects, the tallest rising far into the cloud line. Materials swung gently into place as the centrepiece for The Capital began its inexorable ascent in anticipation of the inaugural session. The half-finished “Tower”, with its allusions to Babel, humbled even the most sceptical of audiences. 

The newly anointed Delegates had quickly succumbed to the intoxicating promise of joining long-standing allies and ancient foes within its gleaming chambers. Their arrival in anticipation of a long forgotten original deadline had only made more complicated the insurmountable task of finalising its founding documents. More astute notables discreetly remarked that in the end it was the allure of the building and not the power of reason that had finally won through. The all too human anticipation had proven too much for even the most entrenched of holdouts. The lure of the new chambers proved too much temptation for the itching voices, impatient and overdue. With the text agreed at least, a joint session, although long delayed, had finally been scheduled. 

Logistics, like words, became their own battleground. Modelled on the New World’s paradigm, the architecture itself presented the inaugural committee with its initial quandary. Whilst the Elder chamber was complete, its twin People’s chamber was still contending with teams of carpenters and painters racing to finish the task at hand. All said, the houses were operational, and compromise was reached in preference to a delay tempting an inevitable reopening of hard-fought compromises which had brought this moment to realisation. Perhaps the symbol was inadvertently apt, a momentary refrain from the austere ambition to reflect upon still too recent memories of displacement. So, beneath the sky, at The Capital’s feet, the pioneer members would in turn take their first oath, before each, some with scratched scrawl, others with a flourish, would mark their name in the document’s surround, at last binding their fates as one to its doctrine. And then, stretched toward a gleaming sky, the visage of the new capital embracing the promise of the new ‘We’. The cheers before a momentary relief as the newly anointed first-among-equals, he above all had found himself unexpectedly elevated within a troubled poll. For years Musa had played the councillor, engineer and in more recent times financier. An ever present, gentle force that had gathered the disparate refugees by unpicking the defiant lock of unity, to form a fledgling nation. Of course, none could argue his influence, the author of so many fine words, the inspiration for so much, yet every meaningful action and innovation had stubbornly remained the work of others. Yes, he Musa, seemed to have parts to play all over, his mastery was one of inspiration, or so it had at least seemed. But finally, when no leader could be selected without strife, his name was hesitantly suggested as the compromise to the deadlock, and to everyone’s surprise, no objections were raised. Indeed, to every leader’s surprise, who perhaps had secretly coveted their ‘special’ relationship with the one who merely called himself Musa, whether due to a favour owed or more often a few select words of inspiration that had arrived with serendipitous timing, it became evident that the gathered would-be leaders held the young man in the highest of regards. And so, in defiance of all expectations, one man became the unquestioned choice that left no quarter for dispute. The election, with its half-hearted opposition, was a landslide. It would, after all, be the same man who had at one time conceived of rebuilding something from the scraps of ruin that would now step forward to lead the would-be nation through what would no doubt prove a more peaceable next chapter. A fitting close to the turmoil of conflicts past. At last, and perhaps only for once, the unity of purpose had sampled a first taste of hope and was now ravenous for its fill.

The quiet figure with the slight signature stoop rose slowly toward the podium. The sweltering moment tempered by a sip of water. The fierce gaze surveyed its audience, eyes a well of sombre, projected nostalgia for what this moment might come to signify in the years from now. The joy tinged with anxiety. What if? What might? Security had been unprecedented; the Green Zone extended some four kilometres in every direction. The airspace blanketed with the latest airborne nanotech, courtesy of their ever-watchful sponsor. The dignitaries of the great nations had in the end failed to arrive or simply refused the invitation. The warnings of co-operation with the new ‘rogue’ entity forcing many to simply adopt a wait and see attitude. Moreover, it was perhaps the short notice following the unexpectedly conclusive results that had removed the necessity for a second round according to the newly adopted constitution. The ensuing breakneck schedule prior to the ceremony had only just afforded entry by the last disappointingly empty transport that had arrived mere minutes before the lockdown. 

“It is fitting.” The words tore through the dry, dusty air. Another sip of water. A pause. “It is fitting that here, together  we are gathered as one people, with one purpose: to pronounce our republic with principles sanctified not by the blood we have shed, but instead by the embers of hope that remained within us all. The yearning, a steadfast resolve to do better and pave before us a legacy of peace, prosperity, freedom and above all, happiness for all...”

From her vantage point, the small girl could just about make out his figure. Inside, she heard the echo of his voice from the TV, her family huddled around, urging her to either join them or close the door to keep the cool in. She would do neither, the loudspeakers from the lectern were, even at this distance, near enough to be heard, if faintly. But the delay was what held her curiosity: the TV said it was live, but his voice seemed out of step. “Maybe it’s the distance dear, what difference does it make,” her mother had called out, “Cassie, just come and join us here, the view is much better, I want us all together.” Irrespective, she was undeterred, racing between sentences, attempting to time the delay, it’s five seconds no, more like eight, yes, seven or eight, she resolved, staring at the stopwatch on her small handset. She’d just discovered the lap function and was diligently recording the splits in the speech; and every time she found a key phrase that she could determine from the balcony, she’d hit the lap button before racing in to hear it repeated on TV and mark the time. Yes, definitely right, she was sure. 

The sun blazed relentlessly, high beyond the compound of the glistening apartment blocks that had become their new home just two months ago. And beyond the tailored, half complete gardens lay Independence Park, which had seemed to spring up from the desert as defiantly as the rest of the improbable capital complex, a network of seemingly random paths that gave outline to what would become the lawns and thicketed areas already under construction. At its heart, a meandering lake was promised atop the concrete basin which formed its centre. Beyond the park was the newly opened promenade and beyond it further still, the site of the inauguration. Her excitement could not be contained when it had become clear that their apartment, all sparkling and new, had a balcony. From its vantage point, the girl could survey the construction of the capital. The family had missed out on spectator tickets, the lottery had made it clear that there simply weren’t enough places for everyone, and in the end, given the security concerns, it was decided to prioritise those over the age of sixty, to whom the event had special meaning.

When Cassie raced back to ‘her’ balcony, to observe the delay one last time, she was transfixed by the sudden appearance of a growing shadow from the far horizon. Her eyes watered, squinting to make out if the shadow on the horizon was just a bird or something like that. Suddenly she felt her whole body sink into itself. The smudge that she had first noticed only seconds before seemed to have spread clear across the visible horizon, a vast dark shadow was streaming at incredible speed in a headlong race directly, it seemed, toward her.  Fearful of missing the view, her eyes locked, she shouted out to her mother. At first ignored, her increasingly hysterical scream finally arrested her mother’s attention from the television spectacle. Annoyed at the interruption, the doting parent hauled herself from prime position in front of the screen to investigate what all the noise was about. “What is it, you’re interrupting the big speech!”

“Look,” she said, “over there,” but by now she need not point; it was clear that something very large was heading very rapidly toward the capital. As her mother pulled the now terrified girl into her arms, she had time enough to see that they were not alone in spotting the interruption. Across the balconies of the other apartment blocks, people were pointing at the horizon, at first with a certain curiosity, perhaps hoping that the oddity was a harmless aerial display timed to coincide with the inauguration. However, its size and shape grew even as the inaugural words rolled accross the capital, seemingly oblivious to the dark cloud that spread as a stain across the vast limits of the far distance. Why are they ignoring it? 

“Someone needs to warn him,” she cried out, she screamed out to her mother, ~someone needs to… then suddenly from nowhere, it happened.”

The intense blast seemed at first to suck the air instantly and, along with it, swallow the screams right out of the mouths of the shocked witnesses. The horrified expressions lasted only moments, then an intense shock wave simultaneously shattered the countless panes of glass before raising their splinters into a ghastly, terrible flock of daggers. 

Cassie’s mother instinctively smothered her child, using her body to shield the frightened seraph from whatever was happening, her primal instinct to above all protect her child. Instantly, she felt the searing pain as the splinters tore through the pretty fabric of her new dress that had been specially sewn for this day, the shower of glass peeled at her skin before lodging deep inside a withering torso. 

A mother’s last breath of strength dedicated to save her child. The girl, no longer able to bear the suffocating hold from the now limp weight of her mother’s embrace, emerged desperately to witness the unfolding nightmare that had become their new reality. The heat from the blast had scorched clean across the newly planted grasses and plants, stripping the leaves from the trees, reducing their branches to ash. From the dizzying height of the apartment building, it was as if she was floating over the cloud of dust as it raced through the newly constructed boulevard, a tornado of powdered debris that simultaneously choked and swept up anything or anyone misfortunate enough to meet its relentless path. As the dust subsided, the dark shadow that had seemed only moments earlier to be formless and distant had announced its arrival. The shadow came into sharp relief, its distorted visage casting off what was perhaps some form of camouflage to reveal its rightful form. An armada had descended upon the capital, an enormous and terrible gathering of mechanised death, rotors whirring, thousands upon thousands of angular shaped fuselages suspended beneath booming engines sprayed before them a terrible waterfall. Before the opening blast barely had a moment to receive its shocked appreciation, from across the shadowy haze of dust kicked up by the countless rotor blades that dragged their terrible cargo ever closer, there came the next terrible instalment: volleys of gunfire spread across the horizon to clear a path. The deluge of bullets blazed a terrible rain across the partly finished capital, reducing its gleaming outline almost instantly to a shattered and potholed remain. And then came the real fury. 

Each dot of the dark approach appeared merged into a single blur by the heat and smoke before its arrival placed its shape within sharp relief. A mechanised swarm, made up of innumerable flying craft with their hatches delicately displaced in formation as if obeying the meter of a dark concerto. Each note deployed within a chord of incendiary, from deep within the underbellies, supplanted now by an emergence of thousands of lit points assembled within a furious swarm, their collective roar, an approaching harmonic crescendo. A naïve onlooker might easily have mistaken the array as celebratory firecrackers, were it not for the sirens and chaos, the grotesque cavalcade of buildings stripped naked of their glass sheathe, as the wall of projectiles drew closer before stopping shortly ahead of the perimeter that signified the outer wall of the capital, slowing precipitously mid-flight in unison to await the signal, a pack of dogs obediently awaiting their master’s command. A sigh of relief, was this to be a reprieve? Bewilderment peppered the faces of the crowd; Musa, now lost within the throng of his retinue, sent careening to the floor before being carried like a bag of meat by unseen hands down and through the crowd, below stairs and then deep and far away, glimpsing only fragments of daylight as he wrestled in futile resistance. “Sir,” the voice commanded, “we’re getting you to the secure location, just remain calm…” Above and ahead, the sound confirming there would be no reprise for his arrogant underestimation.

As the little girl stared transfixed at the dancing projectiles, she imagined their frozen motion seemingly defying gravity, she wondered if this was all real? But with confirmation received, the projectiles accelerated once more. The looming ocean of obsidian missiles now subdivided into countless individual tributaries, each one a target, each awaiting that slow thud as hard, metallic uranium tips buried deep their furious explosives. A crescendo of fireballs visible from the far apartment balcony pressed throughout the capital, reducing its newly minted structures to ruin, the noise arriving within wave after wave, each signalling the systematic levelling of the capital’s structures. And then a horrible creak arose from deep within the main building, as it surrendered itself to the overwhelming shock from the encircling explosions. Last to fall was the great dome, which until now had seemed to have been spared the mutilation. The gleaming sigil shattered from one moment to the next, into a billion fragments, propelled far above, before raining down as minute particles. The response of an international community grown weary of the upstart republic’s brazen defiance. The carnage, an apt expression of overwhelming force, a warning to any other nation flirting with dissent. On some matters there could be no compromise, no accommodation, and no room for acceptance. But the girl knew nothing of the geopolitics, she was unaware of the context, or the international accords breached. No, to this small girl and to the scores of others who emerged bewildered within the remanent debris, hope itself had been extinguished. 

Edited by Kathy Pelich

© Daniel Zeff 2023 All Rights Reserved