May 16^th, 1636, Off the west coast of the Far West Island Chain, 12:45 P.M.

A man in an all-black suit leaned on the railing of the MV Centaur’s bridge. His sleek-looking, gold-rimmed aviators and laid-back attitude would have immediately reminded any curious onlooker of a popular ‘top-secret’ agent from a famous Hollywood movie series. The only thing seemingly missing from the scene was another character with an equally conspicuous and stylish look, and a few cool-sounding lines of dialogue.

“Enjoying the view?”

A voice came in from behind, as another man leisurely walked up to right beside him, hands in his pocket. His greyed hair and chiselled face, along with his near-spotless white uniform alone were enough to suggest who he might be. Perched on his nose too, were a pair of shades, albeit much rounder.

“Would have looked just like in Goa if it wasn’t for all the mess, captain.”

“Hehe, being too hard on the navy boys now, aren’t you? It’s now everyday they get to go wild, y’know.” The captain chuckled.

 “Hmmmmm, know what? I can relate to that. Sitting on your ass and eating baati chokha all the time does get boring.” The man in the suit stretched his arms, feeling his muscles loosen up.

“Heh, you from Banaras boy?”

“Been there for work once. About as good as people say, though the mandir complex maybe too crowded for my taste. That Japanese monastery thing is nice though, I guess Rather empty and quiet.” The man in the suit replied.

“The mandirs are the real thing, boy. Kids today won’t understand, would they? With all the modernity and stuff.”

“I’ve seen kids prancing around in sarees and kurtas a lot these days. You might wanna think about that one.”

“And they’ll discard it two days later because some obese white kid on drugs said it isn’t trendy anymore.”

“Fair point.” The man simply shrugged.

A cool breeze brushed across their faces. Around them were more ships, anchored at a short distance away from the island’s littered beaches. Many of those were repurposed merchant vessels, acquired by the Indian government as support vessels far away from combat zones. Usually.

Forming a perimeter around the merchant vessels were a group of Indian Navy warships, ranging from the imposing Vishakhapatnam and Kolkata class destroyers to the smaller, nimbler Nilgiri class frigates, along with a dozen support and logistics vessels of the Indian Navy a bit further behind. All glittering brightly under the sun, sitting on the rather calm, blue waters.

A loud noise rose, followed by a loud chopping noise. The two looked as a CH47 Chinook flew in, coming from the island. Its light-blue and grey colour was hidden by the bright sunlight. Its slow pace spoke about how burdened it was with the weight it was carrying, sling-loaded beneath it.

“That’s a real big guy right there. Would be nice if they make a movie about it.” The man in black commented, pointing at the corpse of a large creature swaying under the helo. The fact that it hadn’t started swinging around wildly and brought down the tandem-rotor helicopter onto the shallow seabed was proof of the pilot’s exceptional skill level.

“Hmm, oh yeah, the Hollywood would make a movie about it. If they were here.”

“They could always get the folks in Mumbai to come up with something.”

The captain snorted.

“Bah! I ain’t watching that garbage anytime sooner. Movies these days don’t have the charm they used to have back in my times, ya know?”

“So that’s why I’ve been hearing Lata Mangeshkar on repeat all this morning.”

“Those good old songs never get old, no matter how many times I hear ‘em. Reminds me of the time in college. We used to sneak out of campus, me and my pals, and sometimes me and missus. Good old days.”

“Oh? How’s your wife doing captain?”

The captain leaned on the railing, gazing out towards the helicopter. Numerous workers were on the deck, their bright blue and green jackets and white helmets shining under the sun, guiding the Chinook pilot as he carefully lowered the massive cadaver in the large cargo bay beneath. Sling loading things under a helicopter was hard, and lowering something that large in the cargo bay of the converted ship, even harder.

“Eh, pretty lively as always. She’s the head of her society’s women’s association or something, so they were quite noisy about the whole ‘Vishwadwar operation’ thingy.”

The captain spoke, referring to the large-scale military intervention that led to where they were today. Operation Vishwadwar, as it was popularly called by a certain, hot-headed cabinet member, and then later parroted by the media ever since.

Those with somewhat mediocre intellect had voiced their concerns, saying the ‘excessive use of force’ was unjustified, that the government could, and should have chosen a more peaceful option. However, intellect was one of the things the masses didn’t care about. What drew their attention were the photos and videos of the women ‘rescued’ from the ‘evil elves’, wrapped in blankets and being orderly led out of Indian Air Force Globemasters in long columns.

The operation was, as far as everyone involved was considered, a resounding success. For the government, a major PR success. Though much to the chagrin of the Prime Minister and the upper members of the government, the feminists and ‘social justice warriors’ once again had to be spared. After all, their ugly, hoarse and loathsome voice had proved beneficial for the government, giving them much-needed respite and turning public opinion into their favour.

For the military and the intelligence agencies, it was not any less profitable either. Casualties were minimal, with no personnel KIA, only a handful wounded. On top of that, the sizable number of surrendering and captured ‘dark elves’ meant they had a large treasure trove of intel about the new world.

The only people for whom the operation was a nuisance, were of course the people at the ground. Pilots, infantrymen, crews of armoured fighting vehicles deployed, these were the ones who had to do the dirty work on the ground. The ones risking their life and limb, the ones facing off against foes straight out of some delusional kid’s daydreams.

“You seem like you find it unpleasant, captain.”

“Not really, son. Missus may be a little noisy, but I don’t mind. You get used to it after years of staying together.”

The man in black shrugs. “I wouldn’t know captain. Being unmarried and all.”

“Why! You should really consider about settling down, kid. I don’t think you’d have any real trouble finding a good girl at all.”

The captain looks at the man, his face showing a slight hint of what one would assume to be incredulousness, albeit one that felt fake. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t his place to dictate someone else’s life, after all. Best he could do was give advice, advice which usually would enter the head from one ear and exit from the other.

“I appreciate the suggestion captain, but these days one barely gets enough time to grab a proper goodnight’s sleep. Spending time looking for a girl seems too much.”

“Can’t argue with that.” The captain replied nonchalantly.

Both continued watching in silence, as the large cadaver of the beast slowly and gently touched down on a large crate below. A powerful vortex of air from the rotors rushed past their skins and the fabric covering it, disturbing its state of tranquillity as it fluttered under the wind. More workers aided in the process, carefully working on the straps keeping the corpse in place. With the corpse almost in place and being detached from the helicopter, it was now in view for everyone to see. Especially the full extent of punishment inflicted upon it by the troops.

“Goddamn, that looks nasty.” The captain murmured, a frown appearing on his face. The man in the suit simply raised an eyebrow, showing very little concern, if any, for the gruesome scene in front of him.

The creature, very certainly a large, four-legged reptile, had a giant hole where presumably, its head had been. That part of the body stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the body, a slightly dark shade of red-pink against the creature’s drab coloured skin. It seemed all the blood had been drained from the corpse, most likely drained by the passage of time at the spot of its demise.

Apart from the missing head, everything seemed normal to the captain; assuming it could be called normal, that is. The creature had four limbs, supporting the weight of a heavy body covered by armour and spikes on the back. The armour was bulged out as a large armour carapace on top of the skin, so it was easy to spot. Protruding from the armour were several large, jagged spikes. Many seemed to have been chipped away and broken, shattered even. From the reports, it was clear the creature had a large frill shielding its neck.

The captain suddenly realized that the spikes had been hit by gunfire. It wasn’t evident initially, only a closer look could reveal countless holes carved by what could only be gunshots. A keen observer could even be rewarded with the glint of a flattened rifle-calibre round still stuck inside in the holes.

The creature plopped down lifelessly on the steel plate below, the taut strings holding it turning limp. Workers quickly got on to work, quickly unwrapping and removing the powerful cables in a quick yet precise manner. In a moment the cables were free again, dangling free from the helicopter. The vortex of wind surrounding the air below the rotors picked up in intensity as the pilot instructed the bird to gain altitude. So quiet, the captain thought. It was by no means, deathly silent, that was certain, but against the Mi-17s, it sounded much like a mosquito would to an old car’s engine.

“Seems like the Army guys got a bit too excited. The science folks back at home wouldn’t be too happy about them blowing the thing’s entire head off.” The man in the black suit nonchalantly commented.

“They did go up against some magic-shooting dinosaur. Bet they were just spooked and threw everything they had. That’s what I’d do too. No two ways about it, son.”

“Well, at least we now know this isn’t some Hollywood movie. I don’t wanna go about searching for some idiot with some ‘clandestine information’ that can kill the monster or something.”

Both men chuckled. Their chuckles melted away into the air, becoming one with the alien skies, fading in the alien scenery. More helicopters were in the air, ferrying the remains of the almost thousands of beasts to the ships. Despite how things looked like, all wasn’t good. In actual reality, lack of intel and knowledge on how the natives fought meant gunshots still reverberated in the air until almost 4 days after the operation officially ended. As such, cleanup was delayed and messy. It seemed cleaning the entirety of the island chain would take some time still. Thankfully, this was one of the last islands left to clean.

“It seems it’s time, captain.” The man in the suit spoke up, his eyes on his wrist, scanning the silver-coloured wristwatch. A classic-looking watch, suiting his overall attire. His eyes denied any kind of urgency, betraying instead a sense of calmness and relaxation.

“See you soon, captain.”

The captain replied in kind. “Yeah, see you soon. Recommend me some good places in Banaras once you’re done, son. I’m gonna need a long vacation after this.”

The man chuckled. “No guarantees, captain.”

 The unnamed man in black made his way down the deck, passing through the claustrophobic grey corridors lined with large, grey pipes. Crewmen often passed by, sometimes casting a glance at the peculiar presence roaming the ship. An attire like that was not very uncommon aboard a merchant ship such as the Centaur in normal times. But these weren’t normal times.

The man’s steps eventually brought him to a heavy-looking, grey-coloured door. On the door was a sign. “Authorized Personnel Only”, it said.

The man brought his hand to a digital console near the handle. Typing the password deftly, he pressed the ‘Confirm’ button. A few clicks and a beep, and the door began slowly swivelling around on its hinges. The man took a step inside.

“Back from your break already, Rajdoot?”

 A man dressed in white shirt and trousers approached him. The cup of coffee in his hand and the damp, sweat-stained, rolled-up sleeves of his shirt painted a picture of an ordinary corporate employee crunching through overtime.

“Just a little walk, sir. What about you? You look like you could use some fresh air yourself.”

The two shake hands as the other man shrugs.

“I’ll pass. Too much of a pain just for a little walk. We’ll be getting plenty of walking soon anyways.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

The two walked further inside the large room. Lined up on either side were rows of desks with computers and a large array of instruments. Officials and agents clad in regular office attire milled about, delivering files and folders, or hard at work at their respective workstations. Further ahead was a large whiteboard with a projector mounted on top. Facing it were many rows of folding chairs.

This room, along with the rooms on some of the other container ships acquired by the Indian Government, were mobile facilities operated by a joint collaboration between numerous government organizations and ministries, spearheaded by the country’s biggest intelligence unit, Research and Analysis Wing (RAW). It had been created for the sole purpose of monitoring and studying the new world and the novelties it harboured, and finding out how they could be exploited and utilized to their maximum potential. The whole operation was completely shrouded in secrecy, having been first conceived all the way since the first few weeks after the reality of the transfer set in.

Keeping such a large operation under the covers was no easy task. After all, as had been once said, the probability of a secret leaking out is directly proportional to the square of people involved. The great risks involved resulted in a tight security network of RAW and IB (Intelligence Bureau) agents working round the clock to protect its cover. That said, it wouldn’t be far-fetched to say it was probably born mostly out of paranoia. There was no one against whom they needed to be cautious, after all.

Walking further inside led to another smaller door. Entering the secured door, the two men found themselves in another room. Here, the ceiling seemed lower than before, and the air around was much quieter. Rows of computers and other digital electronics were also present here, and the walls were bathed in a bluish-white glow from their screens.

The thing that stood out the most however, was what was situated in the middle of the room. A rather sizable structure, made of dark-coloured, polished wood, the size of a large cupboard. The intricate designs and patterns on the wood were evidence of skilled craftsmanship. Despite this, the structure seemed rather plain and simple, owing to the fact that the artistic part probably only existed at around the edges of the sides. The structure had something resembling a rather stylized typewrite attached on a flat surface on it. Protruding from the top, near a polished wooden floral pattern carved on the upper side, was a tall metallic pole that looked grossly out of place. Another metal pipe, much stubbier, was on the same flat surface as the typewriter. Mounted on its top were a circular metal piece, one side of which seemed to be covered by a membrane.

A microphone. A vintage microphone, by its looks alone. He didn’t know the exact details. He wasn’t some vintage collector after all. His job did not allow the privilege of maintaining such a hobby, after all.  He just remembered seeing it in a vintage collector’s home once while he was out during work.

 “Any progress?” The man in black asked his superior, as the latter reached for a bundle of neatly stacked papers.

“Nope, still no progress. They’re still at it. Changed frequencies twice since this morning.”

‘Rajdoot’ made an exasperated face. “Imagine how easy life would be if the Pakis did this instead.”

“They did do us a favour by getting themselves whisked away, that’s already way more than what we could ask from them.”

The two sat down at a nearby desk, skimming over various files. Around them, agents and officers went about their business, absorbed in their work, studying the odd structure.

The odd structure in question was what had been identified as a mixture of a rather early form of radio communication station with a radio operated telegraph unit attached to it. It had been discovered during Operation Vishwadwar, when some of the Indian jawans clearing a compound had come across a suspiciously barricaded door leading to the building’s basement. Breaching the door, the found themselves locked into hand-to-hand combat with some really aggressive pointy-ears, or ‘Alphas’, a shorthand of their official designation. Only the quick actions of a jawan had saved their lives, for these pointy-ears turned out to be far more dangerous than the others.

Immediately clearing the room, the jawans had noticed something like a typewriter bolted to a desk. It had taken a while to register that in fact, it was more than just a typewriter. The whole compound was immediately marked as important, and a team of experts sent to examine and recover the artifact.

It need not be said just how little everything seemed to add up. A country with actual magic and fantasy creatures roaming its lands somehow was operating radios and telegraphs, while at the same time being completely unaware of things such as paper or gunpowder, or steam engines. Things that should have ideally come much before them.

There weren’t that many theories explaining as to why and how they got their hands on such equipment. Repeated interrogation revealed most had no idea of the concept of something called ‘electromagnetic radiation’, let alone complicated machinery such as radios, including the POWs from the recently captured island chain. Most people weren’t literate to begin with, and their unfamiliarity with mundane things like the number system, and the innocent confusion on their faces when told to write their names came off as amusing to many on the interrogating side.

The only probable conclusion anyone had managed to come to was that this device had been handed to these pointy-ears by a third party. Which third party handed them such equipment or why, it was unknown.

The other thing about the devices was what was inside them. From the outside, nothing looked out of the ordinary: just an antique looking radio communications unit with antique looking controls. However, a clear the look immediately revealed the oddities: the radio had too few controls, just enough to adjust the tuning and the volume. The telegraph wasn’t different either, with just the barebones basic typewriter and a handful of buttons.

The peculiarities only increased as one dove deeper underneath the surface. Some of the radio’s components looked similar; the coils of copper wire, the small vacuum tubes, they were all there. What caught everyone’s attention was a certain something hooked up to various wires: a large, glowing stone, slightly larger than a clenched human fist.

This particular object had caught the researcher’s attention, with various theories coming up to explain its purpose. The most widely accepted, and the most logical one, was that the stone served as a sort of battery powering the entire device. Thorough examination of the device’s circuitry had revealed the stone to be placed where the battery was supposed to be hooked, supporting this theory.

Everyone was in the dark in regards to the true nature of the stone. Initially, it was theorized to be a form of a nuclear battery. However, more such stones were discovered in the telegraph unit, further confusing the experts. Here, they made up majority of the machine’s internal structure, unlike the radio where they only served as a battery. Needless to say, the ‘nuclear battery’ theory was debunked.

Initially the discovery of the radio unit had given birth to the possibility of a radio network being operated by the natives using more of these machines. As such, the research group aboard the repurposed cargo ships had been brought to the newly conquered area. And they were right.

The natives did in fact operate a radio network, as revealed by God-knows-how-many hours of constant surveillance and intelligence gathering. Signals had been picked up coming from the east, picked up by the ships. The lack of encryption as seen on modern-day communications equipment meant that intel gathering was as easy as turning up the car’s radio and tuning in to the right channel. Literally.

What ‘Rajdoot’ found the most amusing, was seeing the natives do the same thing. Apparently, whoever gave them the radios decided fiddling with the tuning knob was a good idea to get away from any unwelcome visitors transmitting on that frequency. How effective it would be, was a different matter altogether of course.

“Sir!”

Suddenly, one of the operators rose from his seat, putting his large headset down on the table. “We got something, sir. They seem to be finally responding to us.”

The senior officer raised his eyebrows as he and ‘Rajdoot’ quickly made their way towards the agent’s desk. “Not very quick on the uptake, are they? Let’s hope they don’t get too excited.”

The operator handed the handset to ‘Rajdoot’. “Here, sir.”

“Thank you,” taking the headset, he adjusted the mic. “Let’s see what we got.”

“bzzzzz……. Indira One…… Indira One……bzzzz”

On the other end, he could hear a distorted voice speak. Indira One. The code they had been using to identify themselves ever since the attempts to contact the natives began. An odd name, he had once thought to himself.

“This is Indira One, we hear you, loud and clear. Do you copy?”

“bzzzzz……. We ignorant to whatever savagery you refer……..to when you say copy, Indira One…..bzzzzz…… and we prefer to keep it that way……….bzzzzzz”

So their hunch was correct, he thought. These people are indeed not very familiar with the concept of communicating over radios. In that case, he thought, it would be better to change his approach.

“I believe there is no need to get so wary of us. I am confident we can have a meaningful conversation as members of civilized society.”

Rajdoot changed his tone, now much more polite and much less technical-sounding. Similar to how he would communicate with VIPs and high-ranking persons, much like a diplomat.

“bzzzzz……… I have no choice but to applaud…bzzz….your ignorance. A pest of the lowlife races talking about civilized society, and to a dark elf nonetheless……..bzzzzzz”

Rajdoot inwardly sighed. He’s met these kinds of people often. People inflicted with a superiority complex born out of insecurity and anxiety. Obviously, it was quite an incorrect way to summarise these kinds of people, and certainly the people in front of him, probably, did not fit into that category. Probably. But it didn’t matter. His experience in the field had trained him to deal with these kinds enough.

“Lowlife races? Your idea seems intriguing. Tell me about what you consider as a ‘lowlife’. Enlighten this ‘ignorant pest’.”

A few chuckles reverberated in the rather quiet room as Rajdoot delivered his speech with a smirk. The expressions on the other side of the radio would be quite a sight, some thought for a moment.

“You…….bzzzz………you are the lowlife demons………bzzzzz………..responsible for the deaths of thousands of our proud brethren…….bzzzzz……...your foul methods are secret to none………bzzzz…..”

Demons? Is that what they are calling us now, he thought. Pushing this thought to the back of his head, he continued the conversation.

“Quite a colourful name you have bestowed us. Though, if the opinions of my fellow countrymen are considered, I am of the opinion they would find it rather pleasing.”

“bzzzz……… your fellow countrymen and your wretched ‘country’……… shall pay in blood for all the pain inflicted on the proud Feplarian elves……..” the voice on the other end spoke, the country part being spoken in a sarcastic tone. Despite the content of the message, the voice seemed relatively very calm.

“It seems your countrymen are not very keen on the idea of welcoming guests with open arms. Quite disappointing, for all we ask is an audience with your Queen. I am sure we can clear any unfortunate misunderstandings between us.”

For a while, there was silence on the other end. Rajdoot was almost beginning to wonder whether they decided to escape from the conversation, when the voice on the other side spoke up again.

“bzzzzzz……I cannot yet again, help but admire your audacity, demon……bzzz……to be brazen enough to openly demand an audience with the great Queen herself…….”

After a pause, the voice continued.

“……bzzzz…….getting carried by the sweet taste of victory brings nothing but ruin…….though I assume you would rather not take such a thing from what you consider livestock……and I pray it stays that way……bzzzzzz”

“That is very unbecoming of someone who claims to be a member of the ‘higher-born’ races. Much less a respected member of ‘Her Majesty’s Divine Messenger Corps’.”

Again, there was silence. This time, it felt heavier, and seemed to last forever. Though, to some extent, it was expected.

“bzzzz……how did you learn that name, you vile abomination? That name is reserved…bzzzz….for the ears of a respected few………” the voice spoke. Rajdoot noticed something, and smiled. The other party’s composure was breaking now. The voice seemed noticeable louder, and it was hard to miss the excitement and rage laced within the words. The conversation was now getting under his control.

“bzzzz……. Tell me, it was your demonic magic, was it not……bzzz”

Another bout of silence. Rajdoot had no idea what the demonic magic in question was or why. He had read reports of the natives and their hysteric testimonies, comprising mostly of incomprehensible garble about something about ‘flying demons’, so he had a strong hunch that the demonic magic part probably referred to aircraft.

“bzzzz……let me state this very clearly, you foul demons, heretics who tarnish the name of our proud Elven Gods….bzzzz……no matter how many skulls you crack open to read our secret arts….bzzz…..no matter how many of our Divine Artifacts you get you your wretched claws on……bzzzz……the proud elves will stand proud, now and forever. And someday….bzzz……we shall step back on the Islands, and avenge every dark elf that lost his life to your foul means……bzzzz”

Rajdoot stayed silent for a moment, his expression always as neutral as it had been, betraying not a hint of emotion whatsoever. Whatever he was thinking, certainly no one could guess. Regardless of whichever side of the radio comms they might be.

After a while, he adjusted a mic, then began speaking again. This time however, his voice seemed different.

“I would advise against going down that road, gentlemen. Let us stick to the path of peace and civility. Certainly, you would not deny that it is something every civilized nation should strive towards, no?”

Rajdoot’s voice would have seemed unnerving to many except those in the rooms, used to such kinds of conversations throughout their long careers. His words sounded polite on the surface, yet there was a certain coldness intertwined among those words that had the ability to send a chill down any man’s spine. It was agents with seemingly-uncanny abilities like these that had been behind most of RAW’s successes.

Rajdoot wasn’t himself angry or anything, contrary to how it seemed. In reality, he was really amused with the prospect of the natives spreading rumours about the Indians using ‘demonic magic’ to read minds. He just decided to apply a little extra force to steer the conversation in a desirable direction, nothing else.

“bzzzz……..your meaningless drivel about striving towards peace.....bzzzzz……tell me demon, what do you wish to achieve with this………bzzzz………hopeless endeavour? If you are as civilized as you to claim to be……bzzz….then you should understand that peace is but an excuse spewed by the weak, lower races………bzzzz…….”

“Ohh? Enlighten me, respected gentlemen. How do we ‘wretched demons’ earn the right to have an audience with your esteemed matriarch?”

Rajdoot fired another question, still maintaining the icy tone of his words under the veil of civility. Inwardly though, he was sighing. He had a strong inkling as to what the response would be. Only a fool would not be able to guess from the flow of the conversation up until now.

“bzzzz……..Your audacity knows no bounds….bzzzz…… try as you may, there is no way you can ever get an audience with Her Highness….bzzzz…….blessed be her name. If you were to surrender the entirety of your country and your filthy race, maybe the Queen may shower you with the well of her …….bzzzz……. infinite kindness and spare you a glance…….bzzzz…….because the only audience you shall receive……..bzzzz……..is on the battlefield, with death……..bzzzz…….”

 “I would advise, gentlemen, to take utmost caution. You are perhaps not aware of the true consequences of where this may lead to. But I warn you, gentlemen,” Rajdoot leaned in, fully getting into character now, “I would refrain from talking about armed conflict so openly if I were you.”

“bzzzz……very well, then this conversation is over…..bzzz……..in a few days Her Highness shall bring down the true wrath of the elves….bzzzz…..the world shall bear witness to the true might of the Holy Elves destined to rule the world……bzzzz……”

The voice cut off. Rajdoot waited for a few moments. Yet nothing came from the other side. Other operators motioned to him, shaking their heads. The transmission had been ended from the other side.

Exasperated, he turned around to his senior, who had been hearing to the entire conversation through another headset, his hand still holding on to the cup of now cold coffee. His face bore a smile, as if he had discovered something interesting.

With a sigh, agent ‘Rajdoot’ spoke. “Well, there you have it. Quite an interesting bunch, I have to say though.”