Summoning America

Author’s Note (Story and Patreon Updates):

155 is now out for all Tier 2 Patrons and higher! Tier 2 Patrons and higher will be able to read one chapter ahead!

Manifest Fantasy (Rewritten) Chapter 1 has a tentative debut on October 3, 2023. Expect a fully developed and reworked plot, fleshed out characters, a carefully crafted setting, and otherwise more professional writing than is present here in Summoning America. Manifest Fantasy chapters will be uploaded concurrently alongside Summoning America chapters (I will be working on both at the same time). As such, I will hereby be canceling the $150 donation milestone, replacing it with free Manifest Fantasy chapters.

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/drdoritosmd 

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December 24, 1640

Skeen’s Bar, Cartalpas

The afternoon sun cast a waning glow over Skeen’s Bar, an establishment tucked in the high streets of Cartalpas, not far from the shore. Renowned for its distinguished clientele and exotic magical amenities, the bar bustled with conversation. Wealthy merchants, politicians, and corporate representatives from various nations mingled, their voices a blend of haughty elven tones, rugged dwarven laughter, and a variety of accents from around the world.

At a polished wooden table, a trio of Mirishial elves – resplendent in tailored robes adorned with intricate designs – engaged in a lively debate. Their speech was elegant and precise, reflecting a confidence only centuries of dominance could breed.

“I assure you, my dear Tharald, the Gra Valkans shall never lay a single boot on our shores. Our defenses are impregnable,” the first, a tall elven CEO with silver hair, declared with a dismissive wave of his hand, a ring glittering with embedded enchantments.

A nearby Parpaldian diplomat, wearing a distinguished coat with an elaborately knotted cravat and a hint of modern design, chimed in, “Pardon my intrusion, but you’d do well to heed the lessons we learned from the Americans. Underestimation is a costly mistake.”

His words were met with a contemptuous scoff from a younger Mirishial, his voice dripping with disdain. “The lessons of Parpaldia hold no bearing on Mirishial might. We are above such folly.”

A disagreement began to brew, catching the attention of other patrons.

At the bar counter, an American consulate staff member watched in fascination as the dwarven bartender seamlessly blended his drink using water magic before chilling it with a flourish of his thick fingers. He turned to his Muan colleague, dressed in a vintage outfit complete with a well-tailored waistcoat, pocket watch, and a flat cap. “I heard there’s some sort of magical elixir in this Mirishial Moonbeam. Will I really be alright drinking this?”

The Muan glanced at the American’s drink, a clear and sparkling beverage created from lunar-imbued water and magical gin, garnished with a glowing silver leaf. He sipped on his gin and tonic, chuckling, “Ah, the famed Mirishial Moonbeam. An exquisite choice, my friend. I assure you, the effects are quite mild to non-magical beings like ourselves. It’s more of an aesthetic charm, really. Though I must say, I’ve seen some locals here grow quite… animated after a few too many.”

The American laughed, taking a tentative sip before letting out a satisfied sigh, the alcohol flowing down his throat with a cool, refreshing feeling – the complete opposite of taking a raw shot of Kirkland vodka. “Now that’s something else. It’s nothing like back home.”

The Muan’s face fell at the mention of home, and he set his glass down with a gentle clink. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back home. The Gra Valkans’ control over the Artticus Ocean has made it impossible for me to return. It’s an uneasy feeling, being so far from my family and unable to reach them.”

The American’s expression softened, and he placed a reassuring hand on the Muan’s shoulder. “The Navy’s on their way here. You’ll be home before you know it.”

The Muan’s eyes met the American’s, gratitude mixed with a lingering uncertainty. “I hope so, my friend. These are tumultuous times, and war has reached places we never thought it would. I can only pray that the situation changes soon.”

The American’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he shrugged it off, replying with confidence, “Don’t you worry. The Valkies won’t know what hit them.”

As their conversation wound down, the conversation at the Mirishial table took a more somber turn. The elven CEO who had earlier dismissed concerns now looked out the window, his eyes narrowing as he detected distant flashes of light.

The Parpaldian diplomat, sipping his wine, noticed Tharald’s concern. “I perceive your conviction wanes, sir. The approaching battle does indeed give one pause.”

The elf’s lips tightened, but he shook his head, “It is merely a temporary setback. Our fleet shall prevail.”

Across the room, the American consul glanced at a magical screen displaying a map of the city, complete with tiny animated ships and icons representing military units. Though the images were strange to him, the advancing red markers and evacuation warnings were all too clear.

Nearby, a group of dwarven industrialists from various nations engaged in heated discussion. They talked of war production and supply chains, their deep voices resonating with a blend of commerce and concern.

Skeen, the proprietor, caught snippets of conversation and began to notice a shift in the movement of his establishment. The bravado was fading, replaced by quiet apprehensions and glances toward the window. Only the American maintained his calm and confident composure – likely for good reason.

He moved to the magical screen, the colors casting a mystical glow on his aging elven face. With a few precise gestures, he tuned it to the Mirishial News Network.

The room’s attention gradually shifted to the screen as Alana Forlen appeared. Conversations died down, glasses were set aside, and faces turned towards the eloquent elven lady gracing their presence. 

“Good evening, and welcome back to the Mirishial News Network,” Alana began, her voice steady. “We are bringing you live coverage of the ongoing aerial battle off the coast of Cartalpas Bay. The Gra Valkans, employing advanced monoplanes and aggressive tactics reminiscent of Earth’s World War Two era, are currently engaged with our air and naval forces.”

The screen shifted to colorized magical footage, showing the Gra Valkan monoplanes maneuvering in tight formations. Against them, the sleek, magical fighters of the Holy Mirishial Empire darted and danced, trailing streams of arcane energy.

The broadcast returned to Alana, standing by a map depicting the battlefront. “The Gra Valkans are attacking in waves, focusing on eliminating our anti-air defenses. The situation is tense, and our fleet is deploying a combination of magical and American weaponry to repel the assaults.”

Her voice was calm, but the intensity of her gaze spoke volumes. She turned to a military analyst, an officer from the naval command center. The analyst looked sharp, but had a faint line of worry creasing his brow.

“What we’re witnessing,” the analyst began, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before collecting himself, “is a well-organized defensive response by our fleet. The synergy between our supportive spellcasting, Ixion batteries, and the advanced American surface-to-air missiles has proven highly effective in neutralizing the Gra Valkans’ monoplanes. We have confirmed dozens of downed Gra Valkan aircraft, thanks to our joint efforts.”

He deftly tapped a series of points on the map, highlighting key defensive positions. His voice was strong, but his hands slightly trembled. “It’s important to recognize the bravery and expertise shown by our forces, both on land and in the sky.”

Alana’s eyes narrowed slightly as she caught the subtle signs of the analyst’s discomfort, but chose to press on, focusing on the positive spin he was putting on the situation. “And what would you say to those citizens who have not yet heeded the evacuation order along the shore?”

The analyst’s expression tightened, and he looked directly into the camera, choosing his words with great care. “While we appreciate the confidence that our fellow citizens have in our defenses, safety must be our top priority. The evacuation order is not a sign of weakness or lack of faith in our military capabilities. It is a measure of prudence, based on the best available intelligence. I strongly urge everyone in the affected areas to follow the directives and seek shelter in the designated evacuation centers.”

His voice was firm, but a hint of urgency slipped through, a silent plea to those holding out in misplaced pride or ignorance.

Alana nodded, a mixture of appreciation and concern in her eyes. “Thank you, Lieutenant. We will continue to keep our viewers updated on the situation. Please stay tuned for further announcements and follow the directives of the local authorities.”

As the broadcast cut to a different segment, the unspoken tension lingered, a cloud hanging over the polished words and carefully constructed narratives. The truth was there, veiled but visible to those who looked closely enough, a crack in the facade of control and confidence.

The broadcast cut from Alana’s face, returning to footage that provided a view of the ongoing battle. Commentators continued to discuss the situation, their words blending into the background as the camera panned across the seething chaos below.

And then, the image shifted, and there it was: the Pal Chimera.

Even on the screen, it was an imposing sight – a sleek, silverish flying battleship that bore the distinctive shape of a tri-pronged emblem encircled by a gleaming ring, akin to a celestial Mercedes-Benz logo. It soared gracefully through the skies, a symbol of the Holy Mirishial Empire’s might, and one of only a handful of such powerful superweapons in existence.

Patrons inside the bar stared at the broadcast, carrying mixed emotions – hope, excitement, doubt – as they watched the majestic form of the Pal Chimera glide toward the swirling maelstrom of the battle.

The American consul leaned closer to the screen, his fingers gripping the edge of the bar counter. “That must be the Pal Chimera,” he said, voice tinged with awe. “Looks like something out of a sci-fi movie, huh?”

His Muan colleague looked on, visibly tense. “That ship is a legend – the sole reason why the Holy Mirishial Empire maintained its spot at the top of the world. Surely it shall turn the tide?”

The American shrugged. “With that behemoth in the sky? The Valkies better hope their pilots have wings on their boots.”

Alana returned to the screen, her voice filled with a hint of awe. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Pal Chimera has entered the combat zone. It is the crown jewel of the Mirishial Armed Forces and a symbol of our nation’s enduring strength.”

The figure of the Pal Chimera filled the frame. Arcane symbols flickered around it as a formation of Alpha 3 and Alpha 4 fighters closed in to provide escort.

The elven CEO broke the silence. “Finally, a semblance of control. This should settle things.”

In that instant, the screen displayed a massive swarm of Gra Valkan aircraft breaking off into formation – a mix of Antares and Antares Kaiser fighters alongside Rigel torpedo bombers.

The dwarven bartender wiped his hands on a towel, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Hold onto your beards, gents. Looks like the Valkies are bringing in the cavalry.”

Another Mirishial military analyst came on screen, detailing the Pal Chimera’s combat capabilities – shields, gravity-defying flight, magic cannons, and magic beams. Yet, despite his reassurance, tension remained; everyone knew just how badly the EDI defenders were getting hammered.

Alana added, “We’ve just received information that the Gra Valkan fleet has launched a swarm of over 20 Rigel torpedo bombers, each armed with specialized munitions.”

A sudden hush enveloped the room as the footage switched back to a view of the skies. Now, new squadrons of Gra Valkan fighters entered the frame, with Mirishial fighters intercepting.

The Muan set down his glass, his hands trembling. “It’s an all-out assault. They’re going for it.”

The American consul nodded, his expression grim. “Looks like they’re trying to overwhelm the defenses all at once. Classic saturation tactic.”

As the bar’s patrons focused on the display, they saw the Exstinguia Lances of the Pal Chimera begin to glow first, charging up with an ominous, pulsing light. The elven CEO’s eyes narrowed; he understood the implication.

The Lances released their overflowing energy, sending awe-inspiring beams of bluish light across the sky. In their wake, Antares Kaisers and Rigel bombers were atomized, leaving nothing but dissipating clouds of particles. “Wow, those are like actual starship lasers,” the American consul noted, clearly impressed yet concerned.

With its long-range threat assessment and response complete, the Pal Chimera shifted focus. The Exquialis Cannons came to life, spewing intense bolts of energy. These mid-range weapons took out several more Rigels, disintegrating them in mid-flight. A handful more were shot down by supporting EDI fighters.

However, the Gra Valkan tactics against the Pal Chimera focused on swarm strategies. Despite the losses, a sizable force of Rigels reached their release points. Rockets rained down upon the Pal Chimera, challenging its defenses. The Atrates Cannons blazed, successfully targeting and bringing down numerous Antares that were baited in by the Alpha fighters, but they were incapable of intercepting the rockets.

As the projectiles hit, the Pal Chimera’s shields flickered visibly, their azure luminescence dimming. “Oh, heavens,” the CEO muttered, his ring shimmering in sympathetic response.

A piercing, almost ethereal noise filled the atmosphere outside the bar – the sound of the Pal Chimera’s shields straining under the assault. It sounded like a fork dragged across a plate, the unbearable screech of something unyielding being torn asunder, followed by the crystalline sound of shattering glass. With a flicker, the Pal Chimera’s shields died.

A collective gasp filled the bar. The Mirishial CEO’s face lost color; he looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Shields are down,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Unthinkable…”

On the broadcast, Alana visibly struggled to maintain her composure. “Ladies and gentlemen,” her voice quivered, “it… it appears the Pal Chimera’s shields have failed. The ship is now executing evasive maneuvers and appears to be retreating from the combat zone.”

The American squinted at the screen. “Did she say retreating?” Doubt tinged his voice. He had been cautiously optimistic, comparing the Pal Chimera’s capabilities to awe-inspiring starships of science fiction lore. Now, he was grappling with an unexpected turn.

Just as patrons began murmuring, speculation filling the air, the room quieted again. A new, distinct, rumbling sound permeated the atmosphere. It was growing louder, closer. Several patrons rushed to the windows and threw them open.

The sight that met their eyes was both incredible and terrifying. The majestic form of the Pal Chimera soared overhead, much lower than anyone had ever seen it – so low that its intricate details were visible. It trailed smoke, sinking as one of the glowing runes along its underside sputtered. Fire suppression systems aboard the vessel worked overtime, the fruits of their labor spilling toward the ground in a rain of foam. Toward the shore, the aerial battle continued to rage on as the Mirishial aircraft and Eimorian Wind Dragons covered its retreat.

“I can’t believe it,” the CEO said, staring at the behemoth of a ship.

The American remained silent, doubting the EDI’s ability to buy time for American reinforcements.

Alana’s subsequent report rang through the bar like a funeral toll. “It’s clear that the Gra Valkan forces have gained significant momentum. EDI forces are dwindling, and with the Pal Chimera in full retreat, the balance of this battle has tilted dangerously.”

A pall of unease settled over the room. No one else spoke; what could be said? The screen showed Gra Valkan fighters and bombers falling back to resupply, a new wave soon to take their place. The Pal Chimera, once a symbol of invincibility, retreated into the distance, its absence leaving an emptiness that no one knew how to fill. 

What now? The question hung in the air, unanswered. Then, as if responding to the unspoken question, the American’s phone buzzed – a muted, staccato rhythm that drew a few sidelong glances. His eyes flicked down, scanning the notification on the screen. A faint exhale escaped his lips as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. No words were needed; the slight lift of his shoulders spoke volumes.