“Haut-Commissaire de l’Assexmblée Merveilleuse , DD-Class ‘Lateral Thinker’ Condé De Miraval.”
“Present.”
“L’Argentier de l’Ascarcelle Mirifique de la Communauté, D-Class ‘Holistic Observer’ Vincent-Renault De Miraval.”
“Present.”
“Le Principal de l’Académie De Miraval, S-Class ‘Infinitesimal Etymologist’ Narcís de Miraval.”
“Absent. I, AA-Class ‘Eclectic Dirigist’ Gauston de Miraval, have been delegated by Principal Miraval to represent him today.”
“With three out of three, the quorum has been reached. I, the Executive Director of the Miraval Institute of Magic and Technology—S-Class ‘Genes Weaver’ Charlotte De Miraval—hereby declare the emergency session of the Board of Directors of the Miraval Commonwealth officially open.”
*Thud!*
A solemn sound rang out as her gavel hit the tungsten desk, marking the start of a difficult conversation to find a tougher solution for an even more challenging problem.
The four sat around a triangular desk in an almost-completely dark chamber—situated thousands of meters beneath the soil—where the only source of light was faint Magicbulbs beneath their tungsten thrones—barely enough to light their grim sights. At the base of the triangle sat three men in business suits, while at the vertex opposite them sat a woman in a white lab coat— a cold and mature gown that contrasted with the pinkish ribbon knotting her long hair into a ponytail.
All of them—despite working in entirely different fields—were cursed by the same crimson fluid flowing through their veins, assigned at birth with the duty of steering the arc that one day will lead the human species to met his creator, built plank by plank by their first and greatest seed of their lineage—SS-Class ‘Infinitesimal Etymologist’ Hero Alfredo De Miraval.
“First and the only point of today’s session…” Director Miraval began coldly as she pressed a button beneath the desk.
*Bzzzz—clack!*
Slowly, the tungsten surface split in two, each half retracting into the desk’s border and revealing, in its place, a basin filled with crystalline dust.
*Fssshhhhhh!*
Fans stirred the particles into a circular motion. Most of the blue grains, however, remained on the surface where they shimmered, forming a glowing expanse of azure, while a few gathered into countless tiny dunes above it—the shorter ones turned green, and the tallest took on shades of brown. When the whirr faded, a vast blue triangle dotted with emerald and amber hues became visible—a complete map of the Miraval Commonwealth and its countless islands stretching from Chaotia to Naturia.
”How do we survive the siege?” After another click, the sand stirred another time, erasing the lower section of the map—all the regions below the line established by the Coral Accords—and zooming in on the upper portion—the heart of the Miraval Family’s dominion.
So, what was the Miraval Commonwhelt? Unlike the name might suggest, it was neither a democracy nor even a federation, but an absolute monarchy ruled by a tyrant who abandoned his duties to drown in his own cravings while his subjects spent their entire lives breaking their backs to nourish his debauchery.
That being said, this factually correct definition hides some noteworthy idiosyncrasies. The most important being the fact that this tyrant is not a person but a collective of people called—the Miraval Institute of Magic of Technology.
The ’MIMT’ was Hero Alfredo De Miraval’s only true child, the heir he chose to nurture while neglecting his own blood and his Fiefdoom alike till the day he mysteriously disappeared. “I have no time to waste on your petty problems because there is a world waiting to be discovered back in my room,” the Holy Hero once explained while supervising a legal dispute between two islands, wasting hours of his precious time. “For all I care, the easiest solution would be to cut both your tongues—-if no one can complain about it, there is no problem in the first place. But, sadly, that softhearted of Roland would never forgive me. So, while I pretended to listen to your problems, I came up with a perfect solution.” The ’Infinitesimal Etymologist’ rose from his amber throne, jotted down something across the robes of his father-in-law, signed it, and calmly walked toward the exit. “From today on, as long as you provide me with the resources I require for my experiments, you’re free to do whatever the fuck you want—I’M OUT!”
That last order forged the Commonwealth—La Communauté in Auxerine. Neither a union nor a confederation, but a coordination of countless island communities bound together in their quest to feed the everlasting gluttony of their absent tyrant. But, at least, once the job was done, they were free to govern themselves as they pleased—for better, or for worse.
Nevertheless, as time passed and new tragedies struck the Commonwealth, it became clear to all the islands that collaboration had to extend beyond mere obligation. So, one by one, new supranational institutions were established, aiming to direct an orchestra of vastly different instruments without letting any note dominate the others.
The first and most important of these organizations was L’ Assexmblée Merveilleuse, a decision-making political body made up of a single permanent member—by tradition, the eldest male of the Miraval Family. His duty was to temporarily appoint representatives from the islands directly affected by a given problem until a solution was found, and then, the Assembly reverted to its original number of representatives—one. It was a clever system to prevent the ossification of authority—desperately needed in such a demographically transforming area. Yet, should a crisis ever arise that endangered the whole Commonwealth, the Haut-Commissaire would be obliged to add, at least, one member from all the islands—3,737 in total—and consider each of their opinions before making a final decision.
The second major supranational body was a kind of piggy bank, a great communal lockbox filled little by little whenever an island had something to spare. When the coffers were full, L’Argentier—the Silver Man—decided which projects would be funded for the benefit of all. Usually, it was infrastructures to open new sea routes and ease maritime traffic, anti-piracy expeditions when the insects grew too bold and started to sting the merchants, or relief efforts after natural disasters—most often submarine eruptions that raised the water temperature by several hundred degrees, erasing entire islands on touch.
The third was the Miraval Academy, or rather, the vast network of educational facilities it oversaw throughout the Commonwealth. A system of public schools was established to provide at least a common thread in the education of children across numerous isolated communities—bad things happen when kids are out of the public eye.
The heads of these three organizations were regarded as the only true representatives of the Commonwealth’s inhabitants, entrusted with the grave duty of negotiating with the MIMT. But why were all three members of the Miraval Family, you may ask? Well, the Miraval Family is at the head of the ’MIMT’ because the blood of Hero Alfredo tended to produce highly talented Class D individuals—the very type the Institute desperately needs. However, let’s say that for some reason the Miraval Family began producing Class S instead of D, then they would become utterly worthless to the ’MIMT,’ instantly losing all their proprieties, their position, and their power within the Commonwealth.
In short, the Miravals do not control the Miraval Institute of Magic and Technology, but they were just the people who could leverage the most lucrative deals from that tyrant. And today, they were ready to find a solution before he decided that his own self-preservation was worth more than all the inhabitants of Chaotia.
“Ahem…” Haut-Commissaire Miraval tossed on the tungsten desk. “ on the tungsten dossier stamped with a large capital Z. “First of all, it’s time for us to admit the requiem of our sacred, yet rather naive, neutrality has begun. We have to fight, but I won’t accept that we become merely another cog in that machine either.” Condé was a big man, a human bear as hairy and as poor at suppressing his emotions as the animal. “Faith neither feeds nor cures the masses, and prosperity and peace are not the result of an ideology, or the other bullshits uttered by the politicians. All of them are the natural result of the advances in agriculture, medicine, and indistry—it’s always the technology that advances our species! Therefore, we can’t afford to waste such an opportunity to end the tyranny of philosophy and to purge meta delusions from our society—let science chart humanity’s future.” He slammed his massive palm down on the folder. “However, to achieve such a monumental feat, we will need a calamity no one but us can solve—an event so catastrophic that it will make the sheep willingly flock to our cause and accept the ’MIMT’s’ leadership. I propose, once again, to activate—Plan Z!”
*Psnrrrrrrrkkkkkkkk!*
Everyone else snorted. ”Dad, this is the 37th time in a row you’ve presented that,” Gus complained as he hastily took away his father’s plan.
”Yikes. I’ve been warning all of you for years, and what’s been the result of your mistrust? For the first time in history, our city has been violated because, like coawrds, you were afraid of some collateral damage.” Haut-Commissaire admonished, his stubbornness was as heavy as his body and as wide as his donkey ears.
“Yikes. I’ve been warning all of you for years, and what’s been the result of your mistrust? For the first time in history, our city has been violated because, like cowards, you were afraid of a little collateral damage,” the Haut-Commissaire admonished as his eyes were on the verge of being expelled from their sockets—his stubbornness clearly was as vast as his body and as wide as his donkey ears.
“Honey, I must agree with our son,” Charlotte admitted, her calm and icy expression was the complete opposite of her husband’s. “I know you’ve invested years of effort into your project, but even in the most favorable simulations, one hundred million Korinthians would die. Moreover, there’s a serious likelihood the virus could spread to Eastern Chaotia as well.” Her empathetic smile widened as her fingers intertwined. “So, let’s find a less invasive solution, shall we?” After two decades together, the Hc. Miraval perfectly understood the hidden meaning behind his wife’s far-too-friendly expression. Hence, he relented and passed the ball to his brother.
“I utterly disagree with Condé. The ’MIMT’ ought not to waste a Marino trying to drain the swamp called Holy Rolandish Empire. Our goal should be to end this conflict as quickly as possible so we can return to the status quo. In short—offense is the best defense,” Vincent-Renault declared, tossing on the tungsten desk a dossier stamped with a large letter H. “Offshore of Île-aux-Requins, a submarine loaded with various Antimagic Warheads is ready to fire at any given order. If the Board authorizes the strike, tomorrow at this hour, Korinth will be erased from all maps.” L’Argentier nearly salivated at the thought of the data his team would collect from the blast and the subsequent Radiation nightmare. “Let’s cut the snake’s head once and for all!”
“Uncle, I only have general knowledge of quantum magic,” Gus interjected. “But I vividly remember that for Antimagic Particles, space and time are merely suggestions. Hence, even if the bomb detonates at Korinth, there’s an infinitesimal chance the explosion could bounce back and destroy our city, or even go back in time and kill our ancestors.”
“That’s indeed a possibility, but an extremely unlikely one,” Vincent-Renault explained as he fixed his glasses, trying with all his strength to contain the wicked smile now forming at the corner of his mouth. What his newphie had just suggested was just too good to be true.
“But what guarantees that the missile will hit with absolute certainty? If we fail, it would give the Korinthians a once-in-a-lifetime casus belli that will allow them to feed their propaganda machine, escalating the war into a global conflict—a risk we can’t, right now, afford.” Charlotte’s objection ended the conversation. Then, all eyes turned to Hd. Miraval—it was his idea’s time to shine.
“My plan takes a lateral approach compared with your brute-force solution,” the ’Eclectic Dirigist’ began, tossing a dossier onto the triangular desk stamped with a large letter J. “The Korinthian fleet that seized Miraval Lake is obsolete. Remember those terrifying reconnaissance photos of new steel titans patrolling the Purpura Bay? None of those are besieging our city. Instead, what’s attacking us are the same old ships we fought eight years ago at Bloodmarch—Juggernaut included.” Gus pressed a button, and the desk’s surface rose back, covering the sand map so the man could crowd the triangular surface with aerial photos of each vessel, all featuring annotations and rough calculations, along with a color—green meant nothing to fear, while red denoted the serious threats.
Only the photo of the largest ship was signed in red, the titan that alone had put under the Korinthian yoke Miraval City.
“Mother Korinna was built more than two decades ago, the first Juggernaut ever produced, forged with more than 50,000 tons of steel—the proudest vessel to sail the Thirty-Seven Seas. Nowadays, however, she’s been outclassed in almost every respect by the modern Juggernauts and has no real chance in a direct engagement against any of our fleet–but we are not fighting on an ocean.” The ’Eclectic Dirigist’’ removed the remaining photos, leaving only the admiral’s ship on display. ”Recycling is one of the ethos of Western Chaostia, and in this case, it was sheer genius. Instead of demolishing their old glory or letting her die in a pointless fight, the Demmies repurposed Mother Korinna as a moving giant piece of artillery that—thanks to her embedded Antimagic Reactor—has hit our solar plexus, forcing us to kneel at her feet.” Hd. Miraval turned on a lighter, burning the photo. “That’s my strategy. If we can destroy Mother Korinna, the Korinthians will lack the firepower to sustain the siege and will be forced to withdraw—a complete victory.”
“It sounds as the perfect plan on paper,” Gus’s mommy tried to moderate the sarcasm in her tone. “But would you care to elaborate on the ‘destruction’ part? Do you think it’ll be as easy as when you broke my heart the day you dropped out of the Academy?”
“Infiltration.” Gauston kept his answer short to avoid that argument. “I’ll put one of my people aboard Mother Korinna to sabotage the Juggernaut from within.” Everyone except him snorted.
“Oh, let me guess, the Demmies will welcome him aboard with open arms and hand him a medal?” Gauston’s father snapped, then slapped the back of his son’s neck. “Do you really expect some retard to risk his life on a suicidal mission with no chance of success?”
Gauston swallowed the sting, calmed himself, and met his father’s eyes with a determination the Haut-Commissaire had never seen in his son before. “I know a clever student who helped me before. He’s bold enough to succeed and survive this through.”
“He may be clever, but how on earth will he get onto the ship when every Korinthian soldier’s DNA is stored and constantly checked by the Security Hydrosystem?” L’Argentier had met a lot of unhinged youngsters, but his nephew was now beating them all.
“He’s a Class F student—the bottom of our society. We can exploit how we treat Class Fs to create sympathy between him and the Korinthians. He will fake betrayal, begging them to join their revolution, and once he’s on board, my man will take care of everything.” Gus smirked, remembering the conversation with Jacques. However, nobody in the room knew the ’Javelinist,’ and that single letter F was enough to prompt hysterical laughter from his family.
“Sorry, but I’m not gambling the fate of two thousand years of our heritage on a Class F.” Charlotte cut him coldly. “It’s obvious none of us has a concrete plan. We ought to wait until the end of the week before making any rushed decision.”
*Thud!*
Her gavel hit the desk.
”The session is adjourned.”
