Qrono Island
The Middle Waters
In some forgotten corner of the abbey, which was originally a storage closet that someone had neglected to replace the lock on and had now been requisitioned for another purpose entirely, one of the monks sat hunched over a writing desk, carefully etching out line after line of esoteric symbols. A pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose as he looked down at the paper, his eyes peering through the lenses as his hand slid, slowly but deliberately, from one end of the sheet to the other, each line of symbols taking shape with each pen stroke. This process continued for much longer than it needed to; certainly, it would have been much easier to have one of the younger monks transcribe what the elder monk was writing from dictation, but he made progress fast enough on his own, insofar as “fast” might constitute finishing before the sun went down when he started just after dawn broke.
With the final mark made, he blew a short, labored breath over the page to dry the ink—as if the ink had not yet had enough time to dry on its own—and folded the sheet into thirds, before stuffing it all into an envelope. Someone had at least had the good sense to deliver the envelope pre-addressed with a stamp already affixed, so all this elder monk needed to do was insert his letter and seal it, both tasks which were done infinitely faster than the actual writing of the letter. He rose from the desk and stepped out from his storage closet, casting a quick nod of greeting to one of the monks passing by in the hallway, as he embarked on the quest to find the mailbox.
Mailboxes were hard to come by in his day, and he was grateful to have one so close to him. His youth on the island of Skartok saw him and his countrymen face the many perils of poor postal services. Not since the Mailbox Plague of 1886, where the country’s many mailboxes were ravaged by a mysterious pox of unknown origin, had he had such easy access to a mailbox before coming to the abbey. It was a great honor for him, indeed, to be granted the privilege of representing the pious people of Skartok at such a punctual priory. He had served faithfully in his position since his arrival all those years ago, sending out daily correspondence to his close colleague in the capital city of precisely what time it was at any given moment. These were the important questions that the people of Skartok had entrusted him with, and, perhaps even more pressing, this was also his divine duty to whichever deity happened to be overseeing his work on each particular day.
He was halted in the corridor by a well-meaning one of the brothers, a fellow who he identified as Dave, even though that was not his name.
“Good evening, Brother Faris,” Dave said. “Would you like for me to drop that letter off in the mailbox?”
“Norbuto tugalash permutop,” Old Man Faris said. His diction was impeccable.
Dave nodded and smiled as he answered, “I understand. Would you prefer an escort, then? It is rather dangerous on the way to the mailbox.”
Faris knew this quite well, nodded, and gestured for Dave to walk with him. The path to the mailbox was indeed fraught with danger: not only was there a particular precarious rock in the middle of the path that no one bothered to move (and Faris hardly had the physical stamina to do so himself), there were also numerous birds that liked to fly overhead and did so, like clockwork, at the precise moment when Faris would walk under them. On a few occasions in his many years of service, the birds excreted their payloads onto him, much to his dismay as he realized that this was a sign from the divines that he had erred in some way. The third danger that he faced daily as he made the trek to the mailbox was much more mundane than the other two, but infinitely more dangerous.
Dave and Faris arrived at the front entrance of the abbey, a massive pair of double doors made of cast copper, much too heavy for Faris to hope to open on his own. Ever the gallant servant, Dave ably stepped forward and pushed the door open for Faris, holding it firm with all his might. Faris bowed his thanks as he stepped forward, before Dave left the door fall shut behind him. With this first obstacle passed, the two began their trek in earnest up the hill, which was more of a gentle incline, to the mailbox just up the path.
“Have you heard any news from Bahqat’s Crossing?” Dave asked as they walked.
Faris shook his head and said, “Yukuspak nop dungsheh fep nos yut gagabah humep iridononotup bor nok tu.” It was such an eloquent sentence that it brought a tear to Faris’s eye, which he wiped away quickly.
“I see,” Dave said. “He was quite a capable athlete; it is unfortunate to hear of his passing.” He cast his head about, glancing around and said, “Be mindful, Brother Faris. There is a large rock in the middle of the path.”
“Marshuno!” Faris exclaimed in triumph as he masterfully navigated around the rock with Dave’s help. “Malanay! Baloomi nor gurgutel, yut tuyo nortop frehzor.”
“I couldn’t have said it any better myself, Brother Faris,” Dave said, smiling in admiration of the old man’s skill not only on his feet but also with the sheer wit and charm that a man of his age was yet able to carry with him. “We’re coming into danger, now, so be on your guard, Brother Faris,” Dave continued. “There are birds here, you must take heed.”
There were indeed birds here; Faris knew that well and took the appropriate precautions by shielding the crown of his shiny, bald head with his hand. Dave did so, too, though his head was nowhere near as shiny as Faris’s, even if his hair was cut in a respectable tonsure. Today, though, whichever deity was watching over them—Faris was convinced it was either Cthulu or Polatilus today—seemed pleased, as no birds felt it necessary to poop on them. Dave, for his part, was convinced that birds did not poop, and that these were, in fact, not birds, but rather drones sent to spy on the monastery by the agents of the Camelinati, a secret society that sought to take over the world and disguised themselves as camels to escape detection.
The sun had already set by the time they reached the mailbox, but it was a beautiful sight. With Dave’s help, Faris reached up the slot and slid the letter into the opening. As gravity pulled it down the chute, a satisfying thunk reverberated through the metal walls of the mailbox as it hit the ground. Faris beamed at this, for another day’s work done. Dave did, too, for he was excited that he had assisted one of the most respected in his daily tasks. Patience was truly a virtue for the timekeeping monks of Qrono Island.
The Tenningur
Arkjelstad, Yellow Star Republic
The seat of government of the very autocratic YSR, was also the historic headquarters of the dreaded state security organization of that very same hardline socialist nation. It was no accident that the RLO headquarters had become the center of government.
In 2014, The Republic Leyndarmal Öryggi (RLO) Director Gerta Hildgursdottir had pulled off the boldest coup probably in Teremaran history in eliminating the Politburo and taking over the YSR government, in the midst of a catastrophic war no less against half the region, with one weak ally on their side, Osatana. It was during that same coup that the Öldungarhring, the original seat of power in Arkjelstad, had been pummeled to dust by artillery, necessitating the move to the Tenningur.
Director General Hildgursdottir had made the history books with that one. She had ably led the nation, along with picking competent generals to lead the battered YSR military forces in retreat from Jumnia and Glisandia, still holding them together and forestalling a vengeful invasion of the Motherland with the threat of nuclear retaliation. These days, she was struggling just to stay afloat and in existence with all the threats, both internal and external that faced her and her tightly controlled regime that was almost entirely made up of former RLO department heads.
Currently, she was listening to the Directors and Commissars of her cabinet prattle on about all their failures over the last few weeks. A foreign band of mercenaries were running rampant around their countryside and had torched half of Steinbrudden. It wasn’t the first time Western mercenaries had wreaked havoc on the YSR countryside within the decade, and it was likely due to the same organization - The USG Security Corporation. It was maddening that this could happen yet again.
Gerta rubbed at her temples, then lightened up as they described the Glisandian cruise ship approaching their shores.
“What is your problem with that, you ninnies?! We invited them to dock at Wjol, did we not?”
Svarik Tummeisson, head of the Republic Leyndarmal Öryggi, and only second in power to Hildgursdottir, as well as a suspected former lover of Gerta, nodded. He was used to placating Gerta.
“Yes, Director General, but we have had, um...trouble...ascertaining whether the cruise ship is also equipped as an electronic spying ship under guise.”
“It...Does...Not...Matter, Svarik. The whole world is watching us. We cannot make a move on them, and we need to do everything to protect them from harm. I thought we agreed on that?”
“Yes, Comrade Director General. I just wanted to make clear that they were finally here, in our waters and that we should...ehm, keep our senses on guard, shall we say? Keep on alert, even if we don’t move on them.”
“I have made myself clear, I don’t want to hear about it further now unless the situation changes and the ship starts launching flying monkeys at us or something.”
“Yes, ma...Comrade Director General. There is one other…”
Gerta looked up, somewhat energized from her funk.
“Commissar Rolondsson, do you not need to make your flight soon?”
The Commissar of Sports, Culture & Entertainment stood up.
“Yes, Comrade Director General, you are correct. I need to leave now to get checked in for my flight to Ekaterine.”
“Ta!”
“Thank you for your support, Comrade Director General.” They were headed to the Olympics as part of the unified Teremaran delegation. It was a proud time, as always, and many of the veteran Yellowsian athletes were sure to bring back more gold medals.
She looked off, already bored with Rolondsson.
“Yes, yes...Make us proud. Next?”
“Qrono Island, Director General.”
“Huh?”
“The time monks…”
“Oh, yeah, what about them?”
“There are plots we have been clued into to take over time.”
“Take...over...time?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“So...you’re just going to stop there?! That’s the most f*cking ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
“You understand the unique nature of Qrono, Director General.”
“Are you going to lecture me on it, because so help me...I swear by Uncle Karl…!!”
“No ma,am, Director General! I would never presume to do that. We might be at a point where we can do something about such a plot. Actually improve our standing in Teremara.”
“That would be something. Svarik, by ‘do something’, you mean that the RLO can do something, because there’s really not been any change in our ability to project ourselves militarily since the War.”
Marshal Djomir Kuomjassen, Commander in Chief of the armed forces, finally got riled enough to speak.
“Ahem, well, Director General, that’s not entirely true...We have been able to multiply our military power through our membership in the ISVC, participating in joint operations around the globe and…”
“Shut the f*ck up, Marshal.”
She was tired of hearing about how integral they were to the ISVC. It didn’t help them here in Teremara, where the ISVC were hesitant to operate, nor did it help with them acting independently to prove they still maintained strength, even within their own borders. Marauding Western mercenaries had proven the contrary to that, as mentioned earlier in the meeting.
“Yes, Director General.”
“What do you propose, Svarik?”
Tummeisson shrugged.
“Well, aside from cyber operations, the best chance we have is to actually send a team to try to stop the...er, time bandits.”
“Time bandits? That seems familiar.” Orvar Gudthorsson, the Foreign Affairs Commissar mused.
“We don’t yet know who they are, if I’m understanding correctly, so how would we even know when and where to stop them?”
“Well, the where part is easy. Qrono Island.”
Marshal Kuomjassen coughed.
“Do you realize what would happen if we were to send a paramilitary group to operate anywhere near that so-called sacred Island?! We would be universally condemned. It would be the Northern Tavlyrian War all over again, but everyone who didn’t join the Coalition against us last time would be in on this one.”
Gerta sighed.
“Much as I detest the Marshal, personally, and think he is a putrid, weak excuse of a man; also rumored to be very unfortunately endowed; and besides that, a further waste of my precious time in the professional sense on most days...I have to agree with him on this one.”
Kuomjassen twiddled his thumbs, glancing down at the table, as he processed the not so backhanded un-compliment from the Director General, aware that he had still earned some sort of point with her backing his agreement, but uneasy how to feel about it.
Svarik frowned, glowering at the Marshal, then back stonily to the Director General.
“Let me think further on how to approach this one and get back to you, Comrade Director General.”
She waved her hand.
“Good. I think I’m done hearing you clowns for today, anyway. Are we done?”
Both the Financial Commissar and Interior Commissar looked eager to reply, but she didn’t give them a chance to do so.
“Yeah, we’re done. I need lunch and a shag. Dismissed.”
Qrono Island
The Middle Waters
“It’s a silly place, don’t you think?” Karl asked, while observing the island through a set of military-grade binoculars.
From behind him, hands firmly gripping two spokes of the wheel, stood his partner Dominick. He leaned effortlessly against the helm controls, neck craned backwards out the wheelhouse door towards the island.
“When EKTV hired us to produce a special on this island… well… I didn’t realize they were serious.”
Dominick shrugged, slowly easing open the throttle to keep an even distance between them and the island. While the monks were never violent, and oftentimes friendly, even the most altruistic of individuals doubtfully appreciated snoopers.
“Kind of reminds of that one movie, don’t you think?” Karl began again, squirting to find activity of any kind. “What was it? Colby Cobra and the Ten Commandments? No… that isn’t right…”
“Probably Muenster Snake and the Ark of the Covenant…” Dominick replied with a smirk in the corners of his mouth and dismissive shake of the head.
“No… that ain’t it either. It’s the one with the flesh-eating gopher! And the relic explosive thingy-majig…”
Dominick smirked harder, not wanting to spoil his partner’s suffering.
“Ah!! It ain’t important anyways. I see movement up on shore. Looks like a couple of them monk guys are doing some kind of ritual… Can you bring us in closer?”
Without a word, the small boat’s engine spun back up. The vessel quickly swung around and made headway towards the island.
“Get us close…” Karl asked, “but not too close. We’re just a couple of tourists, yeah? Remember… no funny business. These guys could toss us straight out of time-space if they so wanted to.”
“You do realize that a black hole can’t even rip apart space-time, right? I’m pretty sure these feeble old monks aren’t also the strongest force to ever exist in the universe,” Dominick replied over the din of the engines. “We have nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah yeah sure… just get us close and get the camera ready…”
The boat slowed to an idle roughly 300 yards from the shore. Close enough to make out the figures, but far enough out to where it was unlikely their true intentions would be discovered.
Dominick had anchored the ship, and in record time, had deployed both a tripod and camera onto the deck facing rear towards the island. Karl stood, ever as ready, perched along the rail. He absentmindedly fumbled with a lapel microphone up front and the receiver unit clipped to his back.
“Take… take one. Test. Test? Test! Take one…. Take two… check one two check?”
Dominick motioned with his hand horizontally across his neck.
“Nothing? Nothing??!! Did we come all this way just for our equipment to fail?”
His partner crossed his arms and shook his head, frowning
“Camera’s dead too. It’s weird… batteries are all showing empty. I swear they were charged this morning.”
“Something weird is going on all right…” Karl muttered, looking at his phone. Dead battery. No reception, and a strange screen pulsing. His phone clock flickered abruptly. “Whoa… hang on… I thought I just saw the clock go backwards?”
