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risingbricsam · 4 years

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Which Countries are Middle Powers - And Why are They Important to the Global Order? Part 2

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The growing geopolitical tensions in the international system, in particular between the United States and China and also with Russia, have led to a chorus of voices urging on middle powers to greater efforts in maintaining and even strengthening a rules-based order. Roland Paris in a major Chatham House Brief titled: “Can Middle Powers Save the Liberal World Order?” pointed at various urgent calls from international experts:

Gideon Rachman, a Financial Times columnist, has proposed a ‘middle-powers alliance’ to ‘preserve a world based around rules and rights, rather than power and force’. Two eminent American foreign-policy experts, Ivo Daalder and James Lindsay, have also called on US allies to ‘leverage their collective economic and military might to save the liberal world order’.

The urgency and calls for middle power action rose perceptively, of course, with ‘America First’ from the Trump Presidency and from the failure of the leading powers – the United States and China – to organize global governance efforts to tackle the global pandemic. Indeed the global pandemic has seemingly ‘lit a fire’ under experts and officials issuing a rising chorus of calls for greater middle power action in the face of leading power failure. An evident instance is a recent article from Foreign Affairs from our colleague Bruce Jones from Brookings titled:“Can middle powers lead the world out of the pandemic? Because the United States and China have shown that they can’t”.

In Part 1 of this Post series we attempted to identify which states experts were referring to when they issued the call for middle power action. We ended up with a variety of categories. There were the traditional states, Canada, Australia and maybe South Korea and Singapore. There were states that fell within the top 20 economic powers – way too many states but lots of familiar powers. And then there were all those states , identified by Jeffrey Robertson in his insightful article: “Middle-power definitions: confusion reigns supreme” in the Australian Journal of International Affairs (2017. 71(4): 355-370, with an interest in and “capacity (material resources, diplomatic influence, creativity, etc.)resources, diplomatic influence, creativity, etc.) to work proactively in concert with similar states to contribute to the development and strengthening of institutions for the governance of the global commons.” And in fact there seemed to be a bit of a marriage between middle powers and multilateralism in the newly created “Alliance for Multilateralism” created by the foreign ministers of France and Germany that umbrellaed at its creation some 40 states.

The linkage between middle powers, multilateralism and contemporary international policy progress has come to an enhanced focus during the ‘America First’ Trump years. Roland Paris described some of the critical efforts:

It was Canada that undertook the initial diplomacy that led to the forging of the International Criminal Court, and the concept of the ‘responsibility to protect’. It was Australia that led the effort—over initial American opposition—to create a Chemical Weapons Convention. More recently, Japan led the way in creating the TPP-11, to fill the vacuum left when the United States walked away from the Trans-Pacific Partnership.

But there were other actions that middle powers initiated, and chronicled by Bruce Jones in his FA apiece, “Can Middle Powers Lead the World Out of the Pandemic?” arising from the pandemic and with many of this actions directly related to the pandemic’s spread:

The UK took on the role of leading the Coronavirus Global Response Summit, to raise funds for vaccine development;

the UK, the Dutch and the Swedes took the lead in World Bank efforts to deploy more than $14 billion in surge financing to developing countries;

the UK, the largest donor to GAVI hosted a replenishment conference raising a further $8.8 billion in funding;

Sweden and Spain co-convened a virtual meeting of foreign ministers from every region to help coordinate vaccine production;

Australia helped to broker a critical outcome at the World Health Assembly, generating support for a proposal for an investigation into the sources of the pandemic; and

Norway and Switzerland together with the WHO took the lead in coordinating advanced treatment and vaccine trials (the WHO Solidarity program).

As Paris suggested over these middle power efforts, and more:

If these and other countries worked together in a concerted campaign, they might succeed in slowing the erosion of the current order, and perhaps even strengthen and modernize parts of it. It certainly seems worth trying. After all, if the world’s middle powers do not take on this task, who will?

The method for such action, he believes:

Form should follow function – Each coalition should begin with a small group of states that share a common assessment of the problem at hand and possess the means to do something about it. Once this core group devises a general plan of action, others should be encouraged to join the coalition, contribute to its efforts, and refine its goals. Participation in the coalition should depend on its subject matter and objectives.

The Several Forms of Multilateralism

But what form would these multilateral arrangements take? Now one form of multilateralism that was urged, deriving in part from the emergence of the G20 Leaders Summit in 2008, is the multilateralism built on a ‘shifting coalition of consensus’. This multilateral arrangement was, as you will see, was built on a G20 foundation and was keyed to US actions in this informal institutional setting. As I wrote in ‘Effective Multilateralism’*:

The G20 offered promise of what Stewart Patrick (2010, 358), and others suggested would be a ‘shifting coalition of consensus’[1]: “As the G20 matures and expands its agenda, it has the potential to shake up the geopolitical order, introducing greater flexibility into global diplomacy and transcending the stultifying bloc politics that have too often hamstrung cooperation in formal, treaty based institutions (including the United Nations).” Instead of blocs that emerged frequently in formal institutions and settings generated by structure and politics. Of the era, new ‘shifting coalitions of consensus’ could emerge in this post bipolar world and the coalitions could well vary depending on the issue in this new setting of global governance. The shifting coalitions of consensus were seen as particularly likely to support American efforts to promote collaboration and advance policy making at the global governance level. As Stewart Patrick (2010, 358-9) suggested: “The very size and diversity of the G20 – while not without drawbacks – may inject new dynamism into global governance by facilitating the formation of shifting coalitions of interest. As such, the G20 presents particular strategic advantages for the United States, which will likely remain the indispensable partner for most for most winning coalitions within the new steering group.” What wasn’t anticipated at the time – at the Unipolar Moment’ however – was an ‘America First’ policy that spurned multilateralism and operated largely by transactional and bilateral policy making. And of course, that is exactly what has impacted contemporary multilateralism and is reshaping the global order.

[1] For a further elaboration of the concept of ‘shifting coalitions of consensus’ see the video segment by Colin Bradford. 2013. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTRGmgPgW4U

The shifting coalitions of consensus was conceived to be a moveable arrangement of states furthering global governance effort but it seems built off of US multilateral actions. The concept though, it seems to me, has evolved. This is so not least because of the unilateralism of Trump foreign policy and its distaste for multilateralism. As a result ‘shifting coalitions of consensus’ may no longer envisage US leadership or even US involvement.

It is evident that this form of multilateralism builds off the informal leadership institutions, in this instance the G20. But what if that institutional arrangement is no longer salient to promoting multilateralism in the global order of today. This is the perspective that our colleague Bruce Jones takes with Jeffrey Feltman and Will Moreland in “Competitive Multilateralism: Adapting Institutions to Meet the New Geopolitical Environment”. Jones and his colleagues, take the position that the rise of geopolitics has altered the forms of multilateralism available:

As the world shifts into a period of renewed geopolitical competition, the multilateral order is straining to adapt. Both governments and the institutions that serve them recognize that circumstances are changing, and that multilateralism must change too — but so far, they have not agreed on a way forward.

And further they conclude:

Twenty-first century multilateralism must be fit to its strategic environment. Multilateralism defined by the post-Cold War hallmarks — a focus on utilizing existing, universal institutions to spur cooperation on shared challenges — is insufficient for a world where great-power competition has returned as a driving, structural force in global affairs. Multilateralism’s advocates must revive, and build on, lessons from the Cold War past in order to refurbish these tools for the current climate.

But Jones is not yet done. More recently he has argued, I presume beyond ‘competitive multilateralism’, there is yet another configuration: this ‘democratic multilateralism’. In a recent article with Adam Twardowski titled: “Bolstering democracies in a changing international order: The case for democratic multilateralism” the two argue:

The United States should adopt a strategy we call “democratic multilateralism” — seeking to advance coordination and cooperation among the democracies, but within the contours of the multilateral order. The U.S. — or another leading democracy — should establish a mechanism for tight coordination among the democratic states on both policy and funding for issues of technology, global health, and climate change. Going further, the U.S. could establish a “Partners Council on International Security,” which would operate in parallel to the U.N. Security Council and invite to this Partners Council its most important democratic allies and partners. These mechanisms would bolster multilateralism, not erode it, and they would keep open the necessary mechanisms for coordination with illiberal states on global issues.

Here then is a multilateral world situated, according to Jones and Twardowski, in the growing rivalry of US and China. They two reflect the development of informal multilateral arrangements but not separating from China through the traditional institutions:

Greater coordination among democracies is an obvious part of the answer. The less obvious part is how to arrange it — as a way of subverting the existing arrangements of the multilateral order, or to defend them? Orchestrating tighter coordination of the democracies within the existing mechanisms of the international order is both more likely to attract the needed coalition and can achieve the same goals at lower risk, while simultaneously leaving intact the framework needed for managing global public goods.

Tom Wright at Brookings identified this approach as well in his new piece titled, “Advancing multilateralism in a populist age”. He referred to it as “reinvigorating the free world”. Realistically, however these new arrangements are constructed, it seems to me, without China’s involvement. While the formal institutions maintain Chinese and Russian participation as well, presumably they are no longer ‘the heart’ of multilateral world of action. It appears to be a growing bifurcated global order. And one then needs to ask the question “is that a good thing?” If not, is it a necessary configuration? More on that later.

* “The Possibilities for ‘Effective Multilateralism’ in the Coming Global Order”. Research Memo. December 9, 2020.

Image Credit: Belfercenter.org

Which Countries are Middle Powers – And Why are They Important to the Global Order? Part 2 was originally published on Rising BRICSAM

#Canada #Global Order #Japan #Middle Powers #multilateralism #South Korea

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inexpensiveprogress · 5 years

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AIA Everyman Prints

Artists International Association was an exhibiting society founded in London in 1933, which held exhibitions and events to promote and support various left-of centre political causes. Having come out of the First World War and then seeing the global effect of the Great Depression in 1929 many of these artists wanted to promote a better world. Though the Spanish Civil War and the Second World War erupted it was important to have a society where artists could still publicly protest war in a subtle way.

Vanessa Bell - London Children in the Country, 1939

The principal founders of the A.I.A. were Misha Black, James Boswell, Clifford Rowe and Pearl Binder. The guiding ethos was to promote a radical response to political events in the world. A unity against Fascism, both home and abroad.

Its membership quickly grew throughout the 1930s and 1940s (930 members by 1945) so that in 1947 it was able to acquire permanent premises in Lisle Street. In the 50′s the political aims of the group were dropped after they broadcast support for an alliance between Britain and the Soviet Union. In 1953 it became an exhibiting society.

In the Second World War the A.I.A. started a series of prints but due to the economic climate of WW2 it wasn’t a vast success.

In 1942 it was reported to members that the scheme had run into production and retailing difficulties and with ultimately only about 5,000 prints sold, the royalities could not have been very remunerative. †

The print series ran from 1939 to 1942 and all the images in this post are taken from the series.

Helen Binyon - The Flower Show, 1939. - Everyman Prints AIA

James Boswell - Hunger marchers in Hyde Park, 1939 - Everyman Prints AIA

Helen Binyon - Summer Holiday, Walton-on-Naze, 1939. - Everyman Prints AIA

Lowes Dalbiac Luard - The Rescue, 1939 - Everyman Prints AIA

List of Artists International Association print series - 1939 to 1942

Mary Adshead - Sprint on Woodhouse Moor

S R Badmin - A British Common & Down for a Refill

Durac Barnett - Bread and Circuses

Vanessa Bell - London Children in the Country

Pearl Binder - Evacuation Scene, 1939

Helen Binyon - The Flower Show

Helen Binyon - Summer Holiday, Walton-on-Naze

Helen Binyon - The Gate

Stephen Bone - Village on coast

Arthur Boyce - Upheaval

James Boswell - Candidate for Glory

James Boswell - Gitte Business

James Boswell - Hunger Marchers in Hyde Park

Herbert Budd - September, 193 9

Robert Butler - The Station

David Caplan - Liverpool Station

Raymond Coxon - Evacuated Children at a Yorkshire Village

Moira Evans - August Bank Holiday

Moira Evans - November 11th, 193 9

Chris Fontaine - The Library

Kathleen Gardiner - Market Day

Phyllis Ginger - Chimps at the Zoo

Rowland Hilder - Landscape

James Holland - ‘Here They Come’

James Holland - Country Town the Militia

James Holland - News Reel

Henry Holzer - Barrage Balloon

Diana John - On the Beach

Diana John - Evacuees, Bradford-on-Avon

Helen Kapp - ‘My Marmaduke’

Helen Kapp - A Queen’s Hall Prom

Helen Kapp - English Rose

Helen Kapp - Black-out; Listening to Beethoven

L D Luard - The Rescue

Peter Barker Mill - The Threat

Mona Moore - Draught Players

Theodore Naish - Underground

Freda Nichols - Fun Fair

Russel Reeve - Barrage Balloons ascending over Hampstead

Geoffry Rhoades - Blackout

C H Rowe - Unemployment Assessment Board

Kenneth Rowntree - Wartime Hoardings

Maurice de Sausmarez - A Garden - God Wot

Edward Scroggie - Street Market

Beryl Sinclair - The Row

Elizabeth Spurr - Washing Day

Feliks Topolski - Drawing

William Townsend - W E A Meeting

Henry Trevick - The Fair

Kathleen Walker - The Mother’s Union in War Time

Carel Weight - Blockade

John Piper - The Font and Tortoise Stove: Britwell Salome

† Lynda Morris and Robert Radford - A.I.A. The Story of the Artists' International Association, 1999. p58

#AIA #Beryl Sinclair

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bradford-international-alliance · 1 year

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#corporate training #higher education #dba #study abroad

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bradford-international-alliances · 2 months

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responsable-pour-toujours · 7 years

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We have not touched the stars; nor are we forgiven

Blood flows out from the wound in her stomach, across the floor of the bridge.

This is not how she’d thought she’d go.

She can feel more blood rising in her throat and she coughs, gagging on the taste.

I didn’t think it would hurt this much.

She thinks of her parents, of Central. Selfishly, she wishes they were here. She’d like to say she doesn’t mind dying, but she does. She takes no small amount of umbrage at the situation in fact. There is the theory and the reality, and while she is well acquainted with the former, the latter is an entirely different matter.

She is dying alone, on the cold metal floor of an alien ship, with the knowledge that almost everyone she cares about has likely suffered a similar fate.

She would cry, for them and for herself, but it’s getting harder to breathe.

Not long now.

They have come so far. They have felled the Assassin, and the Hunter. They have decimated the blacksite, ransacked the forge, and returned victorious from a Chryssalid-strewn wasteland with an alien gateway in tow. They have reduced facilities to rubble, spared countless families untold heartache, and forged an impossible alliance.

It is not enough.

It will not be enough.

There is no rescue coming.

She doesn’t want to die. Not here, not now, not like this.

She watches, helpless, as the Warlock advances on the Commander. “You’ve lost, oh exalted one,” his voice drips with sarcasm. “Your reclamation and my ascension are at hand.”

She locks gazes with the woman for a moment, sees the fear reflected in her bright green eyes, but sees something else there, too, something she’d almost swear was defiance.

“I don’t think so.”

Time seems to slow.

The Commander raises the gun to her temple.

No, no, no, Sally thinks. Not like this, not like this.

The woman smirks up at the creature leering down at her, the thing who has destroyed XCOM, and with it, humanity’s best hope.

No, Sally corrects herself. Like this. Out on your own terms. Don’t let them take you again. You don’t deserve that.

She pulls the trigger.

Sally’s whole world goes white.

Her eyes fly open and she knows; there is something in her head, something that was not there before. She wants to scream, wants to cry. She will take death over this. She reaches for her gun. She will not be their toy, their plaything, will not ---

The thing in her head is grieving. Whatever it is, it makes no move to stop her.

She can cry now, tears rolling down her cheeks. She lets them fall freely as she reloads.

They have him, the thing says.

Bullshit, she retorts. I know your kind.

They have him, the thing insists. You have to do something.

She finishes reloading and cocks the gun, a quiet sob escaping her lips.

Images from a generally happy, if unconventional, adolescence flood her mind, campfires and driving lessons and the sweet spoils of victory, a crate of oranges. Magpie, Central’s voice echoes in her ear.

She thinks she is going to vomit.

She gives the thing a hearty shove, trying to keep it from her memories. Stay away from those.

Do something, the thing demands.

Give me one damn reason to trust you.

You are still holding the gun. It is still loaded.

You want help? Do better.

A new wave of memories, this time distinctly foreign from her own. Flashes from the first war, Central as she has only ever seen him in photographs, the base whole and intact; downing the first UFO, a fleeting hope; psionics, laser weaponry; aliens pouring into the base, sirens screaming; darkness, darkness like she’s never seen; torture like she’s never known, the oppressive feeling of death from being trapped within the suit; and Central again, Central as she knew him. Flashes of the last seven months, good and bad, win and lose, all culminating in the Commander, gun to her head. End of the line, friend, she says. Time to go.

There is an overwhelming grief, the kind of loss she knows all too well. Maman. Papa. Kelly. Central. She tosses the gun aside, and curls in on herself, sobs wracking her body. She finds herself unable to truly say if they are wholly her own, but somehow finds she doesn’t mind.

How long were you with her? She asks.

Before the tank.

Until the end?

Until the end.

Her cries echo in the empty shell of the bridge.

I’m supposed to be dead. What happened?

I did.

She buries her face against her blood-soaked knees. What?

I did.

Prove it.

Look up.

She does as she’s told, and, through her tears, she sees her hand glows with a bright blue light, unlike any psionic ability she’s ever seen.

Could you heal the others? She asks, after a moment.

Those not yet lost.

She pulls herself to her feet. Who are you, anyway? I am Asaru.

She manages to stabilize Thomas and Wallace, a few of the engineers, and Tygan. She finds Firebrand alive, and relatively uninjured, save for a small Elerium burn on her arm. She heals Novikova’s broken leg and Hagen’s crushed arm. They all look at her with a kind of fear in their eyes, a silent question she refuses to answer. The thing, Asaru, seems to respect the boundary she’s set, channeling its talent for psionics with her own, never again reaching into her memories. She finds Shen, curled behind a bench in Engineering, a clean entry and exit wound through her chest, ROV-R hovering sadly over her. She covers the Chief with a fire blanket, unwilling to leave her exposed.

She has never seen so much death, and that is before she steps out onto the ramp.

He’s not here, she says to the creature. She can feel bile rising in her stomach and her heart beginning to race.

I told you: they have him. Do you believe me now?

She wants to scream, open her mouth and give body to her rage, her loss. She wants to scream because it feels like the only rational response, the only sane retort to a world gone mad before her eyes. She wants to scream because, for once, there are no words, no syllables, that come to her, nothing that would give the feeling a life of its own, something to lighten the weight she bears.

She realizes that she now ranks among XCOM’s most senior operatives.

She leans over and vomits onto a small, blood stained patch of grass before returning to the bridge.

Asaru cries out at the sight of the Commander, blood pooled around her head.

We’re not gonna leave her like that, she finds herself reassuring the creature.

She pries another fire blanket from the base of the hologlobe, and uses it to cover the Commander. “See you on the other side, ma’am. Say hi to Maman et Papa for me. Tell them I love them.”

Where are they? Asaru asks.

Dead. For a long time.

I am sorry.

The response catches her off her guard. Thanks, she offers, after a moment. I … wasn’t expecting that.

Why not? Your loss was terrible. You humans are so fragile.

There is no condescension in its voice.

Yeah. She sighs audibly, trying to reboot the communications relay. We really are.

The relay blinks to life and she keys in the code.

What are you doing?

Betos’s face flickers across the screen. “Captain Royston. I was not expecting to see your face.”

Getting help.

“I’m so sorry,” she begins. “I wouldn’t have ---“ She feels tears welling behind her eyes. She has no idea what to say, where to begin. She is not Central, not the Commander. She is eighteen years old, and she is in over her head. “XCOM’s dead in the water. The Warlock downed us, breached the ship. Most of our people are gone. The Commander’s dead ---“

She feels Asaru wince.

“---and ADVENT has Bradford. The risk that poses to ---”

“Say no more. You have aided us, and we will return the favor.”

She has always liked Betos.

“Thank you.”

“My sincerest condolences, Captain. I will be in touch once we have located your Central Officer.”

She nods.

“Betos out.”

The feed cuts.

“I guess he’s Commander now,” she says to an empty room. “If we get him back.”

He will not like that, Asaru says.

That’s putting it lightly, she responds, keying in another code.

More help?

“Royston?” Volk asks. “The hell is going on? Why are you covered in blood?”

Warning friends, she answers.

“Warlock got us. Casualties were bad --- including the Commander. And,” she adds, feeling a new wave of nausea wash over her. “They nabbed Central.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. How could you people let that happen?”

“I’m sorry. Next time when I’m bleeding out on the floor, I’ll try to be a bit more vigilant.” She sighs. “I’m not here to play the blame game --- certainly not with the dead. I don’t know if something’s coming, or when, but I’d prep your people.”

“And what about John?”

“We take care of our own, Volk. Just make sure you do the same.”

Again, the line goes dead.

He is abrasive, Asaru offers.

He’s upset. We all are.

She sinks down below the viewscreen, letting the tears fall freely again.

What will you do with her? There’s a fear in the creature’s voice, almost childlike.

What d’you mean? She’s dead.

You cannot leave her here.

The realization dawns on her. You mean, where will we bury her?

Yes, where will she rest? The tall one will want to say goodbye.

She brings her knees up to her chest, and wraps her arms around them. In a sick sort of way, she almost wants to laugh. Central gets nabbed by ADVENT, and this is the creature’s concern: how will he say goodbye to the Commander?

It’s strangely innocent, and not at all what she expects.

Her heart twists in her chest. Maybe not the most important point, she admits to herself, but valid. Everyone knew what those two meant to each other.

Don’t worry, she tells the creature. He’ll get his chance.

She’s roused from her internal conversation by a warm hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” Wallace says.

“Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“Physically or …?”

“I think we all feel like shit on the mental front.”

He nods quietly. “Sally, I don’t know what’s going on, or how you did what you did, but … don’t push it too far. Everyone’s got a breaking point.”

She nods. “I make no guarantees.”

“That’s what scares me. We don’t need any more death.”

She reaches up, covering his hand with her own. “I’ll be fine.”

They settle on cold storage.

Gingerly, they lift the Commander’s lifeless form into a body bag, and place it, covered by a tattered XCOM banner, into the specimen locker.

Where will you put her? Asaru asks.

That’s Central’s call.

Why?

Spousal privilege.

Where will he put her?

Somewhere nice, I hope, she answers, shutting the storage locker door.

She slips on a pair of rubber gloves and mixes a concoction of bleach and hot water. She begins scrubbing the blood and viscera from the floor: first the Commander’s, and then her own.

Outside, some of the other survivors have begun to figure the logistics of gravedigging. Do they have enough room, enough time, enough energy to ensure a proper burial for each individual fallen friend? Or will they bury them in pairs, bondmates for eternity? Or will they be forced to concede defeat, cover them in dirt and leaves and rot and let the earth reclaim them?

She hopes not.

Why me? She asks the creature, wringing out the sponge and turning the water a deeper shade of maroon. You had to have known you wouldn’t get a warm reception.

It was not my choice. She asked me to.

Who?

Her.

In her surprise, she almost topples the bucket, a thin blue whisp of energy shooting out from her hand to steady it.

I am sorry --- but I did not think you wanted the additional work, Asaru explains.

She shakes her head, but couldn’t say at whom. I appreciate it.

Sally turns her attention back to scrubbing the floor. Why did she pick me?

I do not know.

You lived in her head.

You do not think she imposed rules of her own?

I guess I’d be surprised if she didn’t.

Every partnership has secrets. She carried plenty.

She stops scrubbing. And just what kinds of secrets are you carrying? She asks, feeling suspicion lick at her gut.

I did not betray XCOM. I did not betray her. She was my friend.

Friend?

Yes, she was my friend, and I will miss her.

Somehow, she believes him.

You should eat.

It is the fourth time the creature has said as much.

Not until we hear from the Skirmishers.

She has yet to change out of her bloodied clothing. She’s not sure why Asaru thinks eating is even on her radar.

Her hands ache from gripping the shovel, and her back is locking. She feels hollow, somehow both separate from her body and trapped in it.

Hey, she asks. You don’t know where Central is, do you?

I am as isolated as you are.

She turns her attention back to digging. They’ve settled on two to a grave.

Regardless, it is too great a number.

She is still digging, caked in blood and sweat and dirt, when word comes from the ship that there is a secure communication from Skirmisher HQ. She hauls herself up and out of the hole, and makes her way towards the bridge.

“Captain, we have located your Central Officer and have allies in place who are ready to help with the extraction, but we must move quickly.”

“Is he alright?”

“They have not … tampered with him.”

She nods. “Understood. What do you need from us to make it happen?”

“A familiar face. We are allies, but my kind is not known to him.”

“I’ll go. I’m not sure how I’ll get to you, but I’ll go.”

Is this wise? Asaru asks.

“Transmit your coordinates. We will arrange for a solution.”

This is not a discussion we’re having.

“Transmitting now. Should we be expecting a surprise? The crew’s still pretty badly shaken.”

Should you not remain here?

“We will send word before our arrival.”

No, I should not remain here. Not while he’s out there.

“Understood. ETA?”

“Two hours at most.”

“You and your people have our thanks.”

“We, too, have known loss, Captain. Betos out.”

The viewscreen fades to black.

You should take off those clothes.

Excuse me? She asks the creature.

They are covered in blood. You will alarm the tall one.

Gingerly, she lifts the soiled cloth, exposing a thin, white line where the slug tore through her. She traces a finger over it, not quite believing in her own existence.

I am sorry it was not cleaner. You did not have much time.

She lets the cloth drop, and instead threads a hand through the neck hole of her shirt, her fingers tracing over the skin once torn through by shrapnel. She’d gripped the picnic table til her knuckles had gone white while Central had removed the shards, cleaned, and patched the wound.

She scrubs at her eyes, chasing away a renewed wave of tears.

You must get ready. We do not have much time.

Maman raised her on a steady diet of stories, real, imaginary and somewhere in between. There are histories she could scribe for future generations, tall tales she could recite in her sleep, fairy tales she knows by heart.

So, yes, she believes in the magic of objects, in stacking the deck, in refusing to allow the wheel of fate to turn against you because you couldn’t be damned to find some wood to knock against.

She will apologize to him for breaking into his footlocker later.

She finds what she’s looking for quickly enough, two small aluminum tags embossed with lettering. Bradford, John A. 511-48-4360. O negative. Agnostic.

She relocks the container, sets the tags on her bunk, and grabs a change of clothes for the shower.

On any other day, she would take her time, let the water run over aching muscles while she took a few moments to get her head together. Instead, she scrubs down quickly, doing her best to expunge reminders of the day’s events from her skin and hair.

She dresses, and slips the tags from her bunk into her pocket, brushing her thumb back and forth over the embossing.

You do not think we will find him.

She pauses. Shhh, you’re not supposed to say it.

Say what?

That.

Why not? Saying it does not make it come to pass.

It’s … it’s a human thing.

Ah, the concept of jinxing it.

She lets out a short bark of pathetic laughter before she can stop herself. Yeah. That’s it. Don’t jinx it.

She bundles into her armor, and spends the remaining time before the Skirmishers’ arrival setting the bridge to rights as best she can.

She lingers at the door to the Commander’s Quarters, knowing that the kind thing to do would be to begin packing its contents away. She knows it is something Central will never do on his own, and not a task anyone else will be likely to undertake. If it is to be done, it falls to her.

She begins with the best of intentions, gathering glasses and plates to return to the mess. She folds clean laundry dumped on the sofa, separating the Commander’s clothes from his.

She takes one look at the piles folded, sorted, and separated and is on the ground sobbing before she can understand what’s come over her. She doesn’t remember the last time she cried like this, isn’t sure she ever has.

She knows so many people who are lost to her now. Her family. The Commander. Jane. Lily. Virtually every friend she’s ever made. Nearly the entire complement of the Avenger.

The loss is staggering.

It overtakes her, tearing sob after sob from her throat, til she can’t breathe, let alone think. She grips hard at the couch cushion, unable to muster any additional strength. She cannot feel the creature in her head, and she wonders, briefly, if it has left her.

I am here. I did not want to intrude.

She pushes herself up onto the couch, curling into one of the cushions. She draws in a few shuddering breaths, frantically scrubbing at her cheeks with gloved hands.

She remembers, then, when she’d last cried like this. She was little, then, just barely eleven. Maman had been gone a few weeks. They were staying in a haven somewhere inland from the Virginia coast, a frantic bet on a gentler early spring, and ADVENT had come to pay them a visit, descending from the sky in dropships that had always, perhaps erroneously, reminded her of coffins. The air had reeked of blood and death, with corpses littering the ground. She had hidden, pressed flat to the ground under the remains of a rotting front porch, cowering in the darkness until she’d heard him calling her name. She had wriggled out, brushing herself off, and wandered towards the sound, through the remains of the encampment.

When she’d finally found him, the sound that escaped from her was barely human. He’d held her while she’d howled into his coat, howled the way she couldn’t when Maman had been found dead, when Papa disappeared, when the ships shaped like coffins dropped death itself onto innocents, time and time again.

The realization that she may never see him again, that even their best attempts may be too late, that she may have to file him away on the list of those ADVENT has ripped from her life, is too much.

Her hand flies out, grabbing a pillow and bringing it to her face to muffle the scream she can no longer suppress.

She stays hunched in on herself for a few moments, trying to regain some semblance of her composure.

I did not think you wanted to alert the ship, Asaru explains.

Good call.

She cuts through the brush, away from the Avenger, refusing to look back.

“I’m coming back with him, or I’m not coming back,” she’d said to Tygan.

Two teams of Skirmishers are inbound, one to lead the rescue, and one to prop up XCOM’s battered remnants.

She offers a silent thanks to the Commander for the effort she’d put into cultivating the alliance between the two factions. She cannot imagine such a response from the Reapers or Templars, cannot imagine aid given so freely.

The first team disembarks, and she points them back towards what remains of her home.

A helmetless Stun Lancer extends a hand. She accepts, and is pulled onto the craft .

Inside, she finds another Lancer and a Captain, similarly free of their headgear.

They have suffered, Asaru says. They have known cruelty.

That’s why they’re helping us.

No, he insists. They are helping us because they believe it is the right thing to do.

“Captain Royston,” the Lancer who helped her aboard begins. “I am Emra Alatall. This,” she says gesturing to the other Lancer, “is Amon Vemo. And this,” she says, gesturing towards the Captain. “is Cadna Eim.”

“You have my thanks, and XCOM’s,” she says. “I know this is a huge risk to take.”

“Your people have suffered an immeasurable loss,” Eim offers. “The Skirmishers will carry her memory forward. ”

“I just hope we get a shot,” she says.

“XCOM will not fight alone,” Alatall reassures her. “Have you been briefed on the attack?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“We are planning a stealthy approach,” Vemo begins. “We have many allies stationed at the facility holding your comrade. They have made arrangements for a transfer of custody. We going in as the transport vehicle.”

She nods. “How can I help?”

“In our experience,” Eim says. “Those rescued from the imprisonment of the Elders are often disoriented. A known face facilitates a smoother extraction.”

“Keep him calm?”

“Precisely.”

“How am I getting in?” She asks after a moment’s contemplation. “I can’t just walk through the door.”

“But you can,” Alatall says. “Though it will not be glamorous.”

She eyes the manacles hanging from the Lancer’s belt. “Prisoner?”

“Prisoner. It is the simplest and the safest way to maneuver you into the cell block where he is being held.”

She nods. “Understood.”

She can hear the Speaker’s voice before they even land.

“The degenerate XCOM has once again mercilessly struck down another innocent life.”

She can feel the hives threatening to bloom across her stomach and along her arms.

“A friend of the Elders, a tireless supporter of the ADVENT administration, and a true believer in the promise of the new world.”

Bile rises in her gut.

“Yes, fellow citizens, today we mourn the loss of Elizabeth Regan.”

No screaming. Asaru says. You cannot scream now. There is nothing to muffle it. We are close to the tall one.

You’re positive? She asks.

Yes. We are close.

Alatall snaps the manacles around her wrists and Vemo helps her to the ground. Eim exits from the other side, leading their small procession through the gate and into the facility.

They walk some distance through dark, silent halls, eerie red light casting menacing shadows as they pass.

They stop in front of a door, and Eim places her palm against it.

She is wholly unprepared for the barrage of sound that assaults her ears as the door slides open. It Is the Speaker’s voice, entreating, demanding, berating, an endless loop of speeches, one no longer discernible from the next. She can’t remember the specifics of what constitutes torture, but she’s fairly certain this at least a close approximation.

Alatall removes the manacles from her wrists, and gestures for her to enter. “Our time grows short.”

He is curled on the floor, hands still cuffed.

She lowers herself to the ground next to him. “Central,” she says, gently shaking his arm. “Central, come on. Wake up.”

He stirs, and rises slowly. “Magpie? How did you …”

“I brought help. I’ll explain everything, but we’ve gotta go.”

He furrows his brow at her. “How do I know you’re---“

She draws a shaky breath. “I have seven perfectly white scars on my right shoulder from a friendly frag grenade that went off during an ADVENT retaliation somewhere in the middle of the place you said used to be Colorado. I was sixteen. I was too afraid to scream and I couldn’t down the liquor and you couldn’t decide if you were allowed to be relieved about that or not, so I gripped at the picnic table till my knuckles went white. And when you were done, you had to dig the splinters out of my hand by flashlight because they’d gone so deep.”

He reaches out a hand to cup her cheek. “You seem real enough.”

“I promise, I am, but we have to go.”

He nods, still dazed, and she works to help him to his feet, guiding him out from the cell into the quiet of the hall. Alatell replaces the manacles on her wrists, and their small procession, now larger by one reverses its course.

Thank you, Asaru says. She would be pleased.

She’s sprawled across Central’s chest in the infirmary, taking comfort in its steady rise and fall. Sleep tugs at the edges of her vision, but she resists, fearing what dreams may come.

What is this? Asaru asks.

You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.

This.

Exhaustion?

No, I understand exhaustion. There is something else here.

Grief?

No, I understand that all too well. This is like what she felt for him, but it is different.

Love?

Yes, maybe it is that. But it does not feel the same.

It’s … think of it as an umbrella term. There’s a lot of different kinds. They all feel different.

What is this one?

She sighs. This is not one of her brighter ideas. It’s … it’s easier if you go look yourself. Try not … try not to hit anything too painful.

She closes her eyes and grounds herself in the steady thump of his heart in her ear. The creature picks through carefully, doing its best to avoid the worst of her memories.

Oh, Asaru says. So, that is what it is.

Yeah, that’s what it is.

She’s awake before he is, trying to trick herself into feeling useful, feeling something other than the hollow emptiness or all obliterating grief. She putters around the Infirmary, straightening cabinets and shelving supplies. She cannot cry, not again. There is too much to do.

The Skirmishers have been invaluable help, digging graves, clearing debris, and helping to repair damaged systems. They have watched, and guarded, afforded XCOM’s survivors a few precious moments to attempt to process the horrors of the last thirty-six hours, already fading into a blur of pain and terror.

Does he know? She asks the creature.

He suspects, but he does not accept, Asaru responds. Please be gentle with him.

Her shoulders sag. Asaru, all the gentleness in the world isn’t going to help.

I know. But she would want you to try.

She wipes an errant tear from her eye. She is not ready to do this. She doubts she will ever be ready to do this.

Briefly, she considers fleeing, pawning the job off on Tygan. She still has time. God knows she’d be well within her rights. This isn’t supposed to be her job; there is a reason Infirmary duty does not make its way onto her rounds. She has never known what to say to the grieving; she knows all too well that words do little to lighten the crushing reality.

She’d spent her first few weeks with him in mute shock, unable to give voice to the words in her head. She’d wedged herself under his arm when she could, hoping he’d understand, hoping he’d know: I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me. I’m scared, and I can’t make the words come out. Please don’t leave me.

He’d let her come to it in her own time, accepting half-French, half-English missives scrawled on scraps of rotting paper; hadn’t made a show of it when she’d finally managed to eek out a few words; had been there to listen once she could muster more than that.

No, she thinks, closing her eyes. This is my job.

“Sally?” Central croaks, pushing himself up.

She crosses over to him, wrapping her arms around his chest, and burying her face into the crook of his neck. It takes him a moment to respond, but he does, pulling her close, and settling a hand over the old shrapnel wound. She can already feel the tears coming.

“Sally, where’s Re---“ She shakes her head, lump growing in her throat.

“Sal ---“

Again, she shakes her head. Her chest tightens. She can’t do this. She can’t tell him. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t.

“…Magpie?”

She lets out a sob into his shirt.

She’s never heard a heart break, a soul shatter, never felt the fire die in another human being before, but she has no other explanation for the sound he makes. She’s lucky he’s still on the cot, because she’s not sure she could support the weight of him otherwise.

She hugs him tighter, and feels his tears soak her shirt shoulder.

In three days, he has only spoken three words: Did she suffer?

Tygan splutters, unsure of how to respond.

“No,” Sally intervenes. “It was quick.”

Asaru offers more that she could add, words, and images, and emotions, but she knows Central, knows it would raise too many questions, knows it would not help.

She worries when he is in the bar. She worries more when he is not, the fear of discovering he’s found his own door and followed the Commander out gripping her. She moves through the ship expecting the worst, the disused spaces demanding close inspection, a steady reassurance that there are no surprises lurking therein. More often than not, that is where she finds him, flask empty and too far gone to think. When she can, she sits with him, refilling the flask from a container of water.

He doesn’t speak, but she understands: she is gone again and, this time, I can’t bring her back.

She cannot find him on the fourth night, and her mind jumps from possibility to possibility. She is so tired of washing away the blood of others.

He is alive, Asaru says, stirring. And still on board.

Could you be a little more specific?

He does not like to leave her alone.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Oh, Central, she thinks.

She knows him, knows what he is like when he’s fallen too deeply in despair. She makes her way to the Crew Quarters, finding her way into his footlocker once again. Again, she makes a silent promise to apologize at some point.

It would not be the time, Asaru offers, trying, in its own way, to reassure her.

She appreciates the gesture.

She is always taken by the weight of the peacoat, of its heft in her arms. It is a scrap of the old world, with beautiful wool and embossed buttons, a shield borne forth against the insidious creep of the new. It has always been different, a far cry from both the makeshift hodgepodge of the havens, and the streamlined sterility of the city centers. She buries her face against it.

You will not lose him.

She has come to accept that tears come from the smallest things now, from a kind word or a gentle comment. They come from almost glimpses and imagined voices, from wishes and would-have-beens. They come from memories of laughter, of happiness, of loss, of violence. It does not matter.

She is so tired.

She makes her way through the ship, down towards specimen storage. She pries open the locker door and finds him, just as Asaru described.

She steps in, shutting the door behind her, and drapes the coat over his shoulders. “You can’t stay here all night,” she says, softly. “You’ll freeze.”

He does not respond. “Betos’s people have a lead on the Warlock’s hideout. Wallace is going with them to confirm.”

She is met by silence.

Her breath hangs in the air, and she begins to shiver.

“Are you coming with us to take him out?”

Slowly, he turns to face her. His eyes are empty and bloodshot, sunken in, and ringed by dark circles. There is the tell tale swelling of a binge, of a man dedicated to chasing his own personal oblivion to the bottom of the bottle.

She doesn’t want to watch this. She wants to look away.

Instead, she lowers herself to the ground next to him, working her way under his arm like when she was a little girl. He neither helps nor hinders the endeavor, a living breathing ghost. She settles against his side, and can smell the booze on his breath.

Should we not --- Asaru begins.

No, this is where we’re needed. This is where we’re staying.

She rests her head against the crook of his neck.

After a few minutes, her teeth begin to chatter. “Come on,” she says, working her way to her feet. “You have to get up.”

He does not respond.

You will need ---

I know.

She bends down, trying to get a good grip around him, and begins the arduous process of dragging him to his feet. For all her strength, she still struggles, her progress more lateral than vertical.

Should you get ---

No one else needs to see this.

She fumbles with the handle for a moment, and nearly trips on the lip of the doorway. Never once does he make a move to help her; she doubts he is even capable.

She drags him away from the freezer, towards the wall on the far side of the room, and props him into a sitting position. She collapses onto the floor next to him, her muscles burning from the effort.

“Please don’t do this to me,” she says after a moment, “I know the temptation is there. XCOM still needs you. I still need you. Please don’t make me bury you both.”

He does not respond.

The confirmation comes through the next day: they have located the Warlock’s base of operations.

They shrug silently into their armor, absent the bravado that would normally accompany such an assault. She feels something rattle against her thigh plating and pulls out two small aluminum rectangles

“What’re you doing with my dog tags?” Central asks, confused.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I borrowed them. When we went to get you out.”

That is not much of an apology, but it is something, Asaru comments.

“Why?”

“Luck.”

“You’re a little late for that, Sally.” He insists, but there is no venom behind the words, only a sort of grim resignation.

Sally’s gaze flicks over to Wallace, and sees her concern mirrored in his eyes, but in neither Novikova’s nor Hagen’s. She knows better than to look to Thomas.

-- The wound on Hagen’s arm is bleeding more than it should. Sally dashes across the temple, dashing around fallen Priests and Berserkers, practically sliding into cover. Her eyes dart up in time to see Thomas and Central slice a chryssalid each clean in half.

“Wallace,” she says, unhooking the medkit from her belt and spraying Hagen down. “What are your sight lines like to that sarcophagus? Think you can finish it?”

“It’s as clear a shot as I’m gonna get!”

“Take it.”

He fires and the massive block shatters, bursting into flame.

“Impossible!” The Warlock bellows, teleporting back into view atop the raised platform at the center of the room.

Hagen takes aim and fires, winging the bastard, but he teleports away before Novikova can take aim.

He reappears on the left most platform and she fires three times, the shots from her pistol wedging into the Warlock’s knee.

He disappears again, just out of strike range for Central’s blade.

“Ahhh, Bradford,” he intones. “I would have thought you would have already found a way to join your infidel Commander. Perhaps you may yet.”

A purple jet shoots from the monster’s hand, curling around Thomas. The Ranger raises his gun and takes aim at Central.

Do something! She shouts at the creature in her head.

Oh, I intend to, Asaru says, and energy flows through her veins, buzzing. The Null Lance flies forth from her hands, striking the Warlock in the chest before Thomas can fire.

He teleports for the last time, collapsing in front of his shattered power source.

“I hear their voices!” He proclaims, sinking to his knees. “They are … every … where.”

A purple flash overtakes his body, bathing the room for an instant in a blinding white light. All that remains on the platform is a stone corpse.

She stands, helping Hagen to her feet, as Central makes his way to the platform. Sally walks toward him as he unloads his gun and locks the safety into place. He swings hard, the side of the rifle connecting with a sharp smack against the corpse.

He steps back, and swings again.

All eyes are focused on him.

Cracks begin to form in the body, the material far more brittle than they had anticipated.

“Central,” she calls.

Another swing.

And another.

She stands before the platform and watches as pieces begin to fall from the remains.

“Central!”

More swings, each one harder than the last. The thing lies in pieces.

“Central!”

He brings his boot up, pulverizing the Warlock’s head into bits, then raises it again to crush the pieces.

“That’s it,” she says, vaulting the platform, and catching him by the arm. “That’s it. It’s over. We’re done.”

He considers her for a moment, then nods reluctantly.

“Let’s go home.”

They bury the Commander next to the shack Central had built almost two years ago, next to the place where he’d first gotten word that there was hope, that Raymond Shen and his daughter were placing everything they had on a downed alien vessel, a craft they were calling Avenger. It had seemed like a fairy tale then, even more so now.

The October chill sits heavy in their joints, and he builds a small fire in the nearby clearing to warm them while they work. When all is said and done, when they have offered her all that they are able, they take refuge around it.

“I’m not going back with you.” Central finally says.

He is what? Asaru squeaks.

“I’m sorry; what?”

“You heard me: I’m done fighting.”

“What’re you gonna do? You know what we’re up against.”

No.

“Not gonna be a problem much longer,“ he says, unscrewing the lid of the flask and taking a drink.

“We won’t make it without you.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he says, softly.

No.

“Central, who’s gonna hold us together?”

“Not much to hold together, Magpie.”

“What am I gonna tell the others?”

“Tygan already knows.”

Stop him.

“And he’s okay with it?”

“Doesn’t really matter if he is.”

“Who’s gonna fly the ship?”

“Don’t have enough people to crew it. You know that.”

Stop. Him.

“We’ll get more.”

“Shen figured out the autopilot.”

“Shen’s gone.”

“She left notes.”

“We need you! I need you!”

“Magpie, sweetheart,” he says, standing. “I’ve got nothing left to give.”

Stop him!

“Central, I---“

“Sal, I got you as far as I could.” He douses the fire. “It’s up to you now. You should go. They’ll be waiting for you.”

“I didn’t trip the ---“

“I did.”

He reaches out a hand, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing away the tear spilling down it. “I’ll see you on the other side.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, and walks off, back towards the shack.

Asaru, she says. I don’t think I can.

#there used to be superheroes. they all formed from tragedy. i've got the powers. i've got the tragedy. but i'm not much of a hero.#must have missed some key ingredient there. maybe a pithy saying?#xcom #fic

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brookstonalmanac · 3 years

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Events 12.21

AD 69 – The Roman Senate declares Vespasian emperor of Rome, the last in the Year of the Four Emperors. 1124 – Pope Honorius II is consecrated, having been elected after the controversial dethroning of Pope Celestine II. 1140 – Conrad III of Germany besieges Weinsberg. 1237 – The city of Ryazan is sacked by the Mongol army of Batu Khan. 1361 – The Battle of Linuesa is fought in the context of the Spanish Reconquista between the forces of the Emirate of Granada and the combined army of the Kingdom of Castile and of Jaén resulting in a Castilian victory. 1598 – Battle of Curalaba: The revolting Mapuche, led by cacique Pelentaru, inflict a major defeat on Spanish troops in southern Chile. 1620 – Plymouth Colony: William Bradford and the Mayflower Pilgrims land on what is now known as Plymouth Rock in Plymouth, Massachusetts. 1826 – American settlers in Nacogdoches, Mexican Texas, declare their independence, starting the Fredonian Rebellion. 1832 – Egyptian–Ottoman War: Egyptian forces decisively defeat Ottoman troops at the Battle of Konya. 1844 – The Rochdale Society of Equitable Pioneers commences business at its cooperative in Rochdale, England, starting the Cooperative movement. 1861 – Medal of Honor: Public Resolution 82, containing a provision for a Navy Medal of Valor, is signed into law by President Abraham Lincoln. 1872 – Challenger expedition: HMS Challenger, commanded by Captain George Nares, sails from Portsmouth, England. 1879 – World premiere of Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, Denmark. 1883 – The Royal Canadian Dragoons and The Royal Canadian Regiment, the first Permanent Force cavalry and infantry regiments of the Canadian Army, are formed. 1907 – The Chilean Army commits a massacre of at least 2,000 striking saltpeter miners in Iquique, Chile. 1910 – An underground explosion at the Hulton Bank Colliery No. 3 Pit in Over Hulton, Westhoughton, England, kills 344 miners. 1913 – Arthur Wynne's "word-cross", the first crossword puzzle, is published in the New York World. 1919 – American anarchist Emma Goldman is deported to Russia. 1923 – United Kingdom and Nepal formally sign an agreement of friendship, called the Nepal–Britain Treaty of 1923, which superseded the Treaty of Sugauli signed in 1816. 1936 – First flight of the Junkers Ju 88 multi-role combat aircraft. 1937 – Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, the world's first full-length animated feature, premieres at the Carthay Circle Theatre. 1941 – World War II: A Thai-Japanese Pact of Alliance is signed. 1946 – An 8.1 Mw earthquake and subsequent tsunami in Nankaidō, Japan, kills over 1,300 people and destroys over 38,000 homes. 1963 – "Bloody Christmas" begins in Cyprus, ultimately resulting in the displacement of 25,000–30,000 Turkish Cypriots and destruction of more than 100 villages. 1965 – International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination is adopted. 1967 – Louis Washkansky, the first man to undergo a human-to-human heart transplant, dies in Cape Town, South Africa, having lived for 18 days after the transplant. 1968 – Apollo program: Apollo 8 is launched from the Kennedy Space Center, placing its crew on a lunar trajectory for the first visit to another celestial body by humans. 1970 – First flight of F-14 multi-role combat aircraft. 1973 – The Geneva Conference on the Arab–Israeli conflict opens. 1979 – Lancaster House Agreement: An independence agreement for Rhodesia is signed in London by Lord Carrington, Sir Ian Gilmour, Robert Mugabe, Joshua Nkomo, Bishop Abel Muzorewa and S.C. Mundawarara. 1988 – A bomb explodes on board Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland, killing 270. This is to date the deadliest air disaster to occur on British soil. 1988 – The first flight of Antonov An-225 Mriya, the largest aircraft in the world. 1992 – A Dutch DC-10, flight Martinair MP 495, crashes at Faro Airport, killing 56. 1995 – The city of Bethlehem passes from Israeli to Palestinian control. 1999 – The Spanish Civil Guard intercepts a van loaded with 950 kg of explosives that ETA intended to use to blow up Torre Picasso in Madrid, Spain. 1999 – Cubana de Aviación Flight 1216 overshoots the runway at La Aurora International Airport, killing 18. 2004 – Iraq War: A suicide bomber kills 22 at the forward operating base next to the main U.S. military airfield at Mosul, Iraq, the single deadliest suicide attack on American soldiers. 2020 – A great conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn occurs, with the two planets separated in the sky by 0.1 degrees. This is the closest conjunction between the two planets since 1623.

#Events

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trbl-will-find-me · 7 years

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We have not touched the stars; nor are we forgiven (1/3)

It all goes to shit.

TW: suicide, character death, blood, grief

AN: I cannot stress enough that this is upsetting. It is, without a doubt, the darkest material I’ve ever written. If you’re on the XCOM discord, and have heard me mention the Bad Ending AU, this is it.

Non-canon for EEAE, but set in the same timeline.

Blood flows out from the wound in her stomach, across the floor of the bridge.

This is not how she’d thought she’d go.

She can feel more blood rising in her throat and she coughs, gagging on the taste.

I didn’t think it would hurt this much.

She is dying alone, on the cold metal floor of an alien ship, with the knowledge that almost everyone she cares about has likely suffered a similar fate.

She would cry, for them and for herself, but it’s getting harder to breathe.

Not long now.

It is not enough.

It will not be enough.

There is no rescue coming.

She doesn’t want to die. Not here, not now, not like this.

She watches, helpless, as the Warlock advances on the Commander. “You’ve lost, oh exalted one,” his voice drips with sarcasm. “Your reclamation and my ascension are at hand.”

She locks gazes with the woman for a moment, sees the fear reflected in her bright green eyes, but sees something else there, too, something she’d almost swear was defiance.

“I don’t think so.”

Time seems to slow.

The Commander raises the gun to her temple.

No, no, no, Sally thinks. Not like this, not like this.

The woman smirks up at the creature leering down at her, the thing who has destroyed XCOM, and with it, humanity’s best hope.

No, Sally corrects herself. Like this. Out on your own terms. Don’t let them take you again. You don’t deserve that.

She pulls the trigger.

Sally’s whole world goes white.

The thing in her head is grieving. Whatever it is, it makes no move to stop her.

She can cry now, tears rolling down her cheeks. She lets them fall freely as she reloads.

They have him, the thing says.

Bullshit, she retorts. I know your kind.

They have him, the thing insists. You have to do something.

She finishes reloading and cocks the gun, a quiet sob escaping her lips.

She thinks she is going to vomit.

She gives the thing a hearty shove, trying to keep it from her memories. Stay away from those.

Do something, the thing demands.

Give me one damn reason to trust you.

You are still holding the gun. It is still loaded.

You want help? Do better.

How long were you with her? She asks.

After her capture, but before the tank.

Until the end?

Until the end.

Her cries echo in the empty shell of the bridge.

I’m supposed to be dead. What happened?

I did.

She buries her face against her blood-soaked knees. What?

I did.

Prove it.

Look up.

She does as she’s told, and, through her tears, she sees her hand glows with a bright blue light, unlike any psionic ability she’s ever seen.

Could you heal the others? She asks, after a moment.

Those not yet lost.

She pulls herself to her feet. Who are you, anyway? I am Asaru.

She has never seen so much death, and that is before she steps out onto the ramp.

He’s not here, she says to the creature. She can feel bile rising in her stomach and her heart beginning to race.

I told you: they have him. Do you believe me now?

Instead, she leans over and vomits onto a small, blood stained patch of grass before returning to the bridge.

Asaru cries out at the sight of the Commander, blood pooled around her head.

We’re not gonna leave her like that, she finds herself reassuring the creature.

She pries another fire blanket from the base of the hologlobe, and uses it to cover the Commander. “See you on the other side, ma’am. Say hi to Maman et Papa for me. Tell them I love them.”

Where are they? Asaru asks.

Dead. For a long time.

I am sorry.

The response catches her off her guard. Thanks, she offers, after a moment. I … wasn’t expecting that.

Why not? Your loss was terrible. You humans are so fragile.

There is no condescension in its voice.

Yeah. She sighs audibly, trying to reboot the communications relay. We really are.

The relay blinks to life and she keys in the code.

What are you doing?

Betos’s face flickers across the screen. “Captain Royston. I was not expecting to see your face.”

Getting help.

She feels Asaru wince.

“---and ADVENT has Bradford. The risk that poses to ---”

“Say no more. You have aided us, and we will return the favor.”

She has always liked Betos.

“Thank you.”

“My sincerest condolences, Captain. I will be in touch once we have located your Central Officer.”

She nods.

“Betos out.”

The feed cuts.

“I guess he’s Commander now,” she says to an empty room. “If we get him back.”

He will not like that, Asaru says.

That’s putting it lightly, she responds, keying in another code.

More help?

“Royston?” Volk asks. “The hell is going on? Why are you covered in blood?”

Warning friends, she answers.

“Warlock got us. Casualties were bad --- including the Commander. And,” she adds, feeling a new wave of nausea wash over her. “They nabbed Central.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. How could you people let that happen?”

“And what about John?”

“We take care of our own, Volk. Just make sure you do the same.”

Again, the line goes dead.

He is abrasive, Asaru offers.

He’s upset. We all are.

She sinks down below the viewscreen, letting the tears fall freely again.

What will you do with her? There’s a fear in the creature’s voice, almost childlike.

What d’you mean? She’s dead.

You cannot leave her here.

The realization dawns on her. You mean, where will we bury her?

Yes, where will she rest? The tall one will want to say goodbye.

It’s strangely innocent, and not at all what she expects.

Her heart twists in her chest. Maybe not the most important point, she admits to herself, but valid. Everyone knew what those two meant to each other.

Don’t worry, she tells the creature. He’ll get his chance.

She’s roused from her internal conversation by a warm hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” Wallace says.

“Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“Physically or …?”

“I think we all feel like shit on the mental front.”

He nods quietly. “Sally, I don’t know what’s going on, or how you did what you did, but … don’t push it too far. Everyone’s got a breaking point.”

She nods. “I make no guarantees.”

“That’s what scares me. We don’t need any more death.”

She reaches up, covering his hand with her own. “I’ll be fine.”

They settle on cold storage.

Gingerly, they lift the Commander’s lifeless form into a body bag, and place it, covered by a tattered XCOM banner, into the specimen locker.

Where will you put her? Asaru asks.

That’s Central’s call.

Why?

Spousal privilege.

Where will he put her?

Somewhere nice, I hope, she answers, shutting the storage locker door.

She slips on a pair of rubber gloves and mixes a concoction of bleach and hot water. She begins scrubbing the blood and viscera from the floor: first the Commander’s, and then her own.

Outside, some of the other survivors have begun to figure the logistics of gravedigging. Do they have enough room. Enough time, enough energy to ensure a proper burial for each individual fallen friend? Or will they bury them in pairs, bondmates for eternity? Or will they be forced to concede defeat, cover them in dirt and leaves and rot and let the earth reclaim them?

She hopes not.

Why me? She asks the creature, wringing out the sponge and turning the water a deeper shade of maroon. You had to have known you wouldn’t get a warm reception.

It was not my choice. She asked me to.

Who?

Her.

In her surprise, she almost topples the bucket, a thin blue wisp of energy shooting out from her hand to steady it.

I am sorry --- but I did not think you wanted the additional work, Asaru explains.

She shakes her head, but couldn’t say at whom. I appreciate it.

Sally turns her attention back to scrubbing the floor. Why did she pick me?

I do not know.

You lived in her head.

You do not think she imposed rules of her own?

I guess I’d be surprised if she didn’t.

Every partnership has secrets. She carried plenty.

She stops scrubbing. And just what kinds of secrets are you carrying? She asks, feeling suspicion lick at her gut.

I did not betray XCOM. I did not betray her. She was my friend.

Friend?

Yes, she was my friend, and I will miss her.

Somehow, she believes him.

#xcom #fic #bad end au #please heed the warnings #more fluff coming later today

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risingbricsam · 4 years

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Which Countries are Middle Powers - And Why are They Important to the Global Order? Part 1

I had a debate very recently with my China-West Dialogue (CWD) colleague, Colin Bradford. In a memo we were working on for CWD, he described the two major trade agreements, CPTPP and RCEP. He then added:

These two trade agreements show that middle powers are able to take multilateral actions on their own that make an impact.(*)

But which countries do we see achieving that? And behind that, why have analysts and policy makers become significantly more interested these middle powers in the Trump era recently past?

Counting the Middle Powers

The debate begins with the ‘Who’. Though Colin and I were generally agreed on the content of the article, we went around in circles over which countries we could, and should, identify as middle powers. Now, I was more than ready to forgive Colin his vague characterization of middle powers and then broad inclusion of the same – after all he is an economist – but soon thereafter I stumbled over a rather recent article by Bruce Jones, also of Brookings. and a well known international relations analyst. The article found in FA and titled, “Can Middle Powers Lead the World Out of the Pandemic? Because the United States and China Have Shown They Can’t” tackled the question of the current middle power membership. Given the subject matter of the article, Bruce was called upon to identify in some manner, the states that captured the current set of middle powers:

The concept of “middle powers” is imprecise and somewhat inchoate, but it generally refers to countries that are among the top 20 or so economies in the world, lack large-scale military power (or choose not to play a leading role in defense), and are energetic in diplomatic or multilateral affairs. These countries were seeking to fill part of the international leadership void even before the crisis, particularly when it came to buttressing the rickety multilateral system.

So, there we were. I had no difficulty acknowledging that the term was “imprecise and inchoate” but as for the rest of the features identified by Bruce, well, not so sure. Increasingly, I came to suspect that this was likely to be one of those classic international relations definitions – unclear and contested.

As it turns out, however, I had encountered rather recently the issue of middle powers. In fact I was working on a research piece: “Effective Multilateralism”**. In that examination I traced through the IR concept of multilateralism but additionally I encountered the question of middle powers. In the article I raised middle powers this way:

What actors can be active participants in multilateralism and in particular what do analysts’ mean when they reference, as they often do, ‘middle powers’ in multilateralism?

My answer was tellingly imprecise. I started with the reality that there is no commonly identified definition of middle powers, or a generally accepted set of those actors, at least in IR. I started, in fact, rather more historically:

Robert Keohane (1969, 269) decades ago reviewing several books on ‘small powers’ pointed to these powers and their interest in multilateralism: “middle power is a state whose leaders consider that it cannot act alone effectively but may be able to have a systematic impact in a small group or through an international institution.”[1]

[1] Robert Keohane quotes here Robert L. Rothstein. Alliances and Small Powers. New York and London: Columbia University Press, I968.

I then added:

Unfortunately, suggesting that multilateralism is built on middle powers raises more questions than the term might otherwise resolve. The category creates confusion. Which are middle powers? Which are the middle powers in contemporary multilateralism and the emerging global order? Korea maybe is and there are frequent references to the same. Traditionally identified so-called middle powers such as Canada or Australia might also qualify as middle powers, possibly? But then what of Japan, France, the UK, Germany or Turkey? And what about the large emerging market states such as Indonesia, Brazil and India? All have been identified at one time or another as middle powers in various examinations of contemporary multilateralism.

It seemed that I had at least metaphorically ‘thrown up my hands’. My conclusion:

This terminology is, unfortunately, in the end not particularly helpful. It seems that middle power is just about anything that is not a leading or is not using the traditional notion, a great power. Nevertheless, the impact of ‘small group’ action of a set of actors seems to identify what analysts are looking at, at least in contemporary global governance in the contemporary global order. And, it would appear that these actors need not include the great or leading powers.

But the failure to identify the agreed set of actors that are generally accepted today as middle powers did not extinguish my interest, and the interest of many of my colleagues in focussing on these powers and what actions they might be taking in the current global order. And, as I said above, I will come back to that key issue – why middle powers are considered important, possibly critical to the emerging global order in Part 2 of this Post.

However, identifying middle powers more precisely, probably to my detriment, continued to nag at me. So, I turned to some additional colleagues to try and nail down the set of actors that all, or nearly all, would agree were accepted as middle powers.

Looking at the Trail of Middle Power Definitions

Fortunately, I have as a close colleague, iAndrew Cooper from Waterloo University and the Balsillie School there. Andrew had long involved himself in the debate – who are the middle powers. So I turned to him to identify for me what he believed was the ‘definitive’ definition of middle powers. And, he returned the following definition from one of the better known volumes that he was involved in with co-authors Richard Higgott, Kim Nossal. 1993. Relocating Middle Powers” Australia and Canada in a Changing World Order. Vancouver: University British Columbia Press. And the definition provided at page 24:

A middle power “…emphasizes entrepreneurial flair and technical competence in the pursuit of diplomatic activities. Not only is this diplomacy devoted to building consensus and cooperation on issue-specific agendas, it is invariably differentiated and has an important temporal element as well.”

Two things emerge from this definition. First the volume focuses on what can I think be identified as the ‘traditional middle powers” – Australia and Canada. And the authors hint at the fact there are different sources for identifying middle powers. This multiple approach was confirmed in probably what is likely the most in depth examination of middle powers – this the article by Jeffrey Robertson “Middle-power definitions: confusion reigns supreme” in the Australian Journal of International Affairs (2017. 71(4): 355-370. Robertson indicated (p. 365) that these two governments sought to create a special international role for themselves:

In the post-World War I and post-World War II periods, Australian and Canadian policymakers sought to distinguish their countries from other states on the basis of the function they played in the maintenance of peace and security. Accordingly, they used functional definitions to describe middle powers.

This description, according to Robertson, evolved in later periods including during the Cold War and then Post Cold War. relying first on ‘functional’ definitions, then ‘capacity’ definitions and in the end ‘behavioral’ definitions. As Robertson suggested, the differing characterizations were all done:

to allow Australian and Canadian policymakers to distinguish themselves from a growing number of emerging states with claims on the international system.

Robertson revealed, in other words, that there are multiple ways to identify middle powers – functional, capacity and behavioral. Choose a different approach – ‘Voila’ a different set of actors. As Robertson argued:

All middle-power definitions suffer from clearly identifiable weaknesses and thus have never been fully accepted in the conceptual scheme of political science and international relations. This has both increased debate on the subject and at the same time challenged the capacity of educators to teach the subject successfully. These identifiable weaknesses have been substantially covered in previous studies. (p. 362)

If you used the ‘traditional’ approach well, you’d conclude that Canada, Australia and possibly South Korea would be middle powers. Maybe also Singapore. If you used capacity and identified the top 20 powers (by nominal GDP at current US dollar exchange rates as of 2019) – excluding the ‘great powers’, or what I think is increasingly identified as the leading powers you’d get in order: Japan, Germany, India, UK, France, Italy, Brazil, Canada, Russia, South Korea, Australia, Spain, Mexico, Indonesia, Netherlands, Saudi Arabia, Turkey and Switzerland, Quite a collection and hardly all identifiable as middle powers.

Quite recently a new designation was proposed. As I described it in Effective Multilateralism, this organization was constructed by the current French foreign minister, Jean-Yves Le Drian along with his compatriot, the German foreign minister Heiko Maas. As described :

In 2019 these foreign ministers launched a new ‘Alliance for Multilateralism’ tied to the UN. The leaders and the participants are not referred to as middle powers, but the host and co-host countries and the participants are all designated as ‘goodwill powers’. That designation emphasizes the collective action purpose of this contemporary multilateralism. There no reference to ‘middle powers’, or power generally which as we’ve just pointed out is rather misleading. Thus, ‘goodwill powers’ may be a useful term.

Well I am not sure that ‘goodwill powers’ brings us any more clarity or closure to the middle power definition but it does strike me that the members identified as participating in the Alliance overlap with what many would accept as middle powers.

In the end Robertson (p. 366) ignores the history and concludes. this approach as the better way to capture middle powers in the current global order :

In the context of middle-power definitions, a pragmatic approach discourages the question ‘What really is a middle power?’ and, rather, focuses on how we ought to use the term in the context of a specific field or subfield. One possible definition for a middle power may thus be as follows: in the context of global governance in the 2010s, a middle power ought to be considered as a state with an interest in and capacity (material(367)resources, diplomatic influence, creativity, etc.) to work proactively in concert with similar states to contribute to the development and strengthening of institutions for the governance of the global commons.

While an agreed definition seems beyond our reach, it is evident that the various definitions and the groups proposed seem to be linked to various multilateral initiatives that have arisen in the global order. And to that I will turn in Part 2.

* Colin Bradford. 2020. “A New US Strategic Approach to China and to Global Diplomacy”. CWD Memo. January 2020.

** “The Possibilities for ‘Effective Multilateralism’ in the Coming Global Order”. Research Memo. December 9, 2020.

Image Credit: en.wikipedia.org

Which Countries are Middle Powers – And Why are They Important to the Global Order? Part 1 was originally published on Rising BRICSAM

#Global Order #Middle Powers #multilateralism

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