I've mentioned that I'm calling this script Swamp Opera for lack of anything better. A more accurate way of saying that is that I'm subtitling it Swamp Opera for now. Because the full title would be something like The Nameless Empire: Swamp Opera. Or A Tale of the Empire: A Swamp Opera.
In case you can't tell, I'm not so good at naming things. But what I call the Empire is a world, a place, that I've been toying with for...years now, at this point. Building it up from the ground into something with a million different moving parts and motivations. A living, breathing world that can house a dozen stories, a thousands, just as easily as it could a single epic. As you might imagine, it's horribly complicated. And mutually contradictory, in parts, because I haven't managed to smooth out all the kinks. I can't decide, for example, if it's a lost continent, like Atlantis. Or a hidden world within a world like Burrough's or Skartaris. At the moment it's in a dimension tangential to our own, not quite separate but not quite a part at the same time. But the idea at the heart of it all is that it's a place that's connected to the world outside my window but different in some important aspects. Ways that let me use it to highlight certain issues and play with specific concepts that would be hard if I had to deal with the grand sweep of history, the limitations of geography, and what could legitimately happen within those constraints.
I could tell you all about the fictional history of my fictional world, or explain the dynamics from any number of perspectives at certain points along that timelines and, before the month is over, I probably will. But not today. Instead, I'm only to going to share what's important for understanding my current script, not to take in the grand tapestry itself. A primer, if you will, on the current events that set the stage for my story.
In that story, we're at a point which predates what will come to be known as the Empire – a nation so great and so powerful that it needs no other descriptor, like a great king who only writes his name on his tombs, confident that anyone who sees it will need nothing more. The pieces are there but only the merest hints of the greater destiny that awaits can be discerned. There's simply no one big enough, bold enough, and powerful enough to lay claim to such a grand title. Instead, the world is full of rival states and powers, fighting tooth and nail to gain control. Or security. Or simply continued existence. It's a wartorn, ravaged world, but one moving into a stage of recovery and rebuilding as the great, world spanning Gem Wars, the largest conflict since the Great Wars of generations past, are finally burning themselves out.
They were sparked by the collapse of Nuevetrusca, an ancient, established nationstate, leading to a power vaccuum, followed by a scramble by the remaining players on the world's stage to secure the valuable resources and territory left unguarded by that sudden implosion. The wars waged between rival powers and claimants to the throne were largely fought by proxy, with the larger powers with the most to loose trying to influence events from behind the scenes. Even still, the conflict soon spread to other parts of the globe as the ongoing fighting became an excuse to settle other scores and redraw all the maps (Something that had proven nearly impossible since with the development of the atomic weapons which had brought an end to the Great Wars years earlier.). And although no weapons of nuclear destruction were unleashed, mass destruction in other forms was rained down upon the world. The wars were fought with the latest and best technology, leading to horrific losses and heartwrenching tragedies. Whole communities, whole civilizations nestled on the islands and colonies they called home for centuries were destroyed, others were forever altered. Through invasions powered by ships and aircraft which could reach further and faster than ever before. By soldiers armed with rifles of deadly accuracy and overwhelming firepower. Massive bombs containing biological and chemical agents were unleashed, sometimes for conquest, sometimes merely to keep a prize out of an enemy's hands. And in the halls of power, the game of diplomacy and trade was played as territories and holdings changed hands with the stroke of a pen.
Even as the last fires of conflict are burning themselves out, the survivors are counting up the score. The costs were staggering. The worst affected areas were the lands formerly claimed by that great power which had fragmented into civil war and irrelevance with stunning speed. And the surrounding areas felt the pain as well. But for all the strife and dark clouds unleashed by the storming war, there were silver linings to be found. Fortunes to be made. New nations, new powers on the rise even as the old and formerly secure were fading away.
One of those new powers, known at this time as the MPC, or the Meishpaolan Prosperity Collective, was an unheralded collection of island colonies from the southern backwaters. One remarkable for a few reasons, not only for managing to survive against a literal sea of hostile and resentful neighbors but moreso for its progressive policies and modernized practices which had led to revolutionary prosperity for the small nation. On the backs of their agricultural reform and the resulting economic boom – known as the Meishpaolan Miracle – they'd manage to vault onto the world's stage. The Gem Wars were their first opportunity to show just what they were capable of against not just impoverished regional powers but the best minds and leaders of the whole world.
Although it's yet to become apparent, history will judge that they played their hand far better than the conservative track it's regarded at the moment. Because while the rest of the world were fighting to control the mineral wealth left exposed by the shifting political winds – especially the eponymous gemstones that gave the series of wars their popular name – the MPC concentrated on securing the sea routes from that resource rich region into the suddenly resurgent southern regions (Which had, until that time, been considered something like the 3rd world, hardly worth the bother.). They hadn't managed to gain much territory in Nuevetrusca proper, although they had a few key additions such as a crucial port and, also, assuming the burden of most of the contracts for the Novaroma, one of the world's premier militaries (At this point, at this time, most nationstates lack the resources to support their own standing armies and instead outsource the task to what amount to mercenary military cultures.) who had long spearheaded the Nuevatrucans' colonial efforts. Instead, they'd gained vast tracks of seemingly unimportant land in bordering regions. Land that goods and materials would soon be crisscrossing as the newfound industrial might of the relatively placid south, fueled by materials from the Novetrusca region would be put to work in rebuilding and reconstructing all that had been lost. Trade along lanes that the MPC would control and, ultimately, benefit from. The rest of the world doesn't realize it, but the MPC captured the ultimate prize of the war – economic control of the region – with hardly any of the effort expended by the other combatants.
The MPC knows it, though, and they've busied themselves consolidating their hold over their new holdings. Not only through harsh military occupation and the obligatory purges of any opposition to their rule but also through a program of investment and improvements, designed to bootstrap those territories and rapidly bring them into the fold of the MPC as full-fledged, contributing partners. A program also designed to spread the Meishpaolan culture, their imprint, to those disparate new lands, even as they reassured them that their traditions would be respected and welcomed (Provided, of course, they met certain benchmarks and guidelines provided by the central MPC bureaucracy.). Goods and cargo from the MPC were streaming to those new lands, containing the implements and components needed to build their infrastructure but also the latest songs and stories and luxury goods from the hothouses of Meishpaolan culture, ready to flood the new territories, grateful for the aid and a chance to get back on their feet with the MPC's point of view. A tactic which had worked well as the MPC had extended its grasp over the south. But now faced its greatest, and largest test yet because the MPC had never before tried to absorb so much territory at one time.
A massive governmental program was created, tapping the best and brightest from the so-called Core - the heart of the MPC, the earliest colonies to fall under its umbrella. Places full of wealthy, successful areas who'd long benefited from the MPC's policies and guidance. The cream of the crop would be skimmed and sent to the new territories. To oversee them, to guide them, to watch over them, as they were brought up-to-date and in-line with the MPCs practices. And promising civil servants and more took up the cause. Drawn by nationalism, by the call to duty and the chance to improve the world just as much, no doubt, as they were by the promise of lucrative bonuses and headstarts on their careers. Already, the Colonial Oversight program was paying dividends.
But not every move the MPC had made had proven so successful. As the story opens, there's a problem with one of their new lands. One acquired almost as an afterthought, as a late edition, to a complex and complicated deal between the great powers to realign ownership of several strategically important areas. To secure those key pieces of the puzzle, the MPC had agreed to assume the title to a small, unimportant island, called Chexio by the locals. It was far removed from any other place the MPC held, easily the most remote of any of its holdings but that had seemed unimportant at the time in an era of planes and ships that were swiftly shrinking the globe with their speed. But, by now, it had become apparent that not only was the island remote, the surrounding terrain was harsh and foreboding, nestled within a dense swamp with an unbroken treeline. It lacked even the simplest of facilities, including an airstrip, meaning it had to be supplied by sea, and the MPC's was ill-equiped with ships that could navigate the treacherous waters. Worse still, the region it was located in had been an area the Nuevetruscans had long sought to expand into only to be met with fierce resistance. The MPC's alliance with the Novarom who had, mere years before, been in charge of brutally repressing such rebellion meant the locals were angry and distrustful of their new governors. And their neighbors unlikely to extend any friendly hands. The colony was kept afloat thanks only to a large military garrison and frequent, large aid convoys of ships rented at an outrageous premium from the local ports. And now, the elusive and mysterious Swarvmach – the “ghosts on the wind” who'd led the guerilla fight against the Nuevetrusca – had begun to target those slow-moving cargo ships laden down with supplies.
The place was, in short, a lemon. A pit into which the MPC was pouring resources with no apparent hope of return. And the crafty negotiators who'd saddled the upstart MPC, renowned for their ability to turn even the most hopeless of lands into productive parts of their economic powerhouse, with a hopeless millstone crackled and congratulated themselves. If the MPC stayed, they faced a staggering blow to their all-important bottom line. But if they pulled out, then they would lose even more – their prestige and the foundation of the implicit agreement between the varied parts of their greater whole. If the MPC would let one colony fail, then they could let any of their components suffer for the greater good. And the spirit of co-operation and self-sacrifice that drove their success would become a thing of the past as the whole house of cards collapsed into petty bickering and selfish hording. That was the plan of the MPC's enemies, anyway. But the MPC is not about to give up so easily. The Oversight Program has worked wonders in the past and the leaders of the MPC are gambling that it can do so again. So, once more the call has gone out across the Core. Those eager to serve, those eager to find their wealth and power, those who want to see a far off land have been been asked. And a team of the best candidates, the very blossoming fruit of the MPC's long process of improvement has been assembled. Trained, prepared, for the task ahead. Soon, very soon, they'll be shipped off to distant Chexio. There to take control of the destiny of a poverty stricken, resource-bare land filled with resentment and danger. Because the MPC has given them the last chance to turn the place around.
That is where my story opens. And those are the characters it concerns itself with – that group of bright, talented, optimistic people being fed into the garbage disposal because of the great game of politics being waged by the leaders of nations. If you suspect that things don't turn out so well for them, you'd likely be right (Depending, of course, on how you define “well”.), as my plot has at least a few more twists and turns before it plays itself out. But that, of course, isn't the backstory at all so I'll leave it for another day.
