Operation Spider Crab - A CCRP novel by Tolkienfan

''This article is a wiki backup of the WIP book itself, also available on Scratch. For the as-yet-unwritten article about the book, see Operation Spider Crab.''

About
Everyone's doing it, so I decided to write a book set in CCRP world. This one's (sort of) historical (for now).

I'll add chapters to this project, and notify the studio when a new one is added.

I'd be interested to hear your theories as to what's going to happen on the Discussion page. I'll try not to actively thwart your ideas when I get around to the next chapter.

My chapters tend to be pretty long by Scratch story standards, so be warned.

For context on this, read https://ccrp.miraheze.org/wiki/Queen_Ptraci_II

Thanks to @BellatriX_Is_ME for starting the trend of writing books about the CCRP world. This is why I made the CCRP Writing studio (with wiki backup here) and the Fictional Writing page.

Notes:


 * Before the late 18th- early 19th century, the weird Cancionish naming convention about boys having girls' names and vice versa didn't exist.
 * I know I own neither of the countries involved, but even ignoring that New Canciona didn't even exist at the time this is set, I wrote Inutilia's history and used to own RCM and thus have a better idea than most of what its history is like.
 * If anyone's wondering, I am a writer (albeit a not terribly good one), but I don't usually post my work on Scratch because most of it's handwritten and I don't type stuff up unless it's a third draft (the second I do on my typewriter). This I just did straight into WordPad, though, because it's specifically for online release, and then copy-pasted into the project and later onto the Wiki backup. This means it's still the first draft, and will probably be drastically updated later.
 * I love 'Operation X' titles because even if you have only the haziest idea about what's going to happen in the story, you can call it pretty much whatever you like and it's still going to make sense even if the plot changes drastically. My last book was called 'Stuff Book Titles', which says a lot about my approach to naming things.
 * Finally, about spelling: I know a certain type of reader (no comments on how many of them happen to be in CCRP) become slightly annoyed at reading words like 'favorite' spelled with a 'u' that doesn't belong there. Well, I have to say it slightly gets on my nerves reading American spelling. I instinctively feel it's horribly wrong. OK, so you lot all learned to read and write in America, so that's how you spell. Fair enough. But meanwhile on this side of the Pacific I learned to read and write with more u's and fewer z's, so that's how I'm going to spell everything. Deal with it. End of rant.

Blurb / Preview / Whatever you want to call it
The year is 1718, and Inutilia and the RCM are still recovering from yet another blasted Silver War. Arturo Mariscos and Pete and Tracey Sake have successfully avoided the associated trauma by spending years guarding the quietest pass through the Inutilian-Cancionish Range, with nothing more than supply chains to worry about. But all this is about to change when they are unexpectedly landed in the middle of an Inutilian plot to seize power.

Chapter One
Arturo Mariscos happened to be the one on road patrol duty the day the extremely large and suspicious crate turned up.

The arrival of fresh supplies and weapons from Threepeaks, Humerland was normally the easiest part of the day to handle. A long train of mules would crest the hill, a miscellaneous assortment of boxes and bags would be handed over, money would change hands, the goods would be sent off with a fresh team of mules, and that would be that. The only even remotely stressful part of the whole business was the unavoidable packing tetris, complete with the endlessly amusing 'where the heck can I squeeze in this weird triangular box? It won't fit in anywhere' game.

But not today. The first thing in the line was an enormous wooden packing crate, strapped to a platform slung between four mules, easily large enough to hold a carriage. Edward, the leader of the supply train, stepped forward and mopped his brow.

"Won't be sorry to foist this thing onto you, mate," he said. "You wouldn't believe the trouble we had with it on the corners."

"What on Earth did we order that needs such a huge box?" exclaimed Arturo.

"And the hairpin bend just to the south of Herring Mountain," continued Edward. "You know the one where last year a mule slipped on packed ice and half the salt meat fell down the ravine?"

"Yes, I can imagine," said Arturo politely. "Happen to know what's in it?"

"-and there's that sort of ridge bit just where the Teppican Ranges do that, y'know, spiral thing? Even the ants have to go single file along there, in the end we had to put the accursed box on makeshift wheels and have people at either end to hold it steady-"

"All right! I get the picture! I don't want to know about all the trouble you had getting it here, I want to know why it's here in the first place!"

"You will want to know when you're in charge of getting it to Minas Tirith," said Edward. "Oh, I daresay you'll find out by yourself soon enough, but I'm sure you'd rather have advance warning." He turned back to the mules, where his assistants were already manhandling the enormous box. "You just about done there, lads? All right, let's be off! Cheerio!"

Arturo glared at Edward's retreating back.

"Just like him," he muttered. "A lot of information I didn't want, and nothing at all about what I did."

The box loomed there, almost blocking the narrow pass. Midday sun sparkled on the rivets.

"Pete!" he yelled. "Get the crowbar. I'm finding out what was in this box if it kills me."

A head poked out of the window.

"You sure? Opening suspicious boxes is never a good idea."

Arturo glanced at the speaker, and groaned.

"Pete's gone on lunch break early, hasn't he?"

The girl at the window nodded. "It's not my fault. He says he gets this horrible hollow feeling if he goes without food for more than three hours. He says there's too little food in this place. He says if he wants to get anything worth eating at the kitchen he has to get there sooner rather than later."

"All I can say is I feel sorry for the miners," said Arturo.

The girl, whose name was Tracey Sake, nodded emphatically. Her father, Peter, was well known in the camp for being the only person for miles wider than he was tall.

"Let's have the crowbar, then."

Tracey fished around in the boxes of assorted debris that made up the building's storage system, and took up two-thirds of the available space. Arturo had time and again insisted that one day they should clear it up, and Pete had declared that it would not be this day; his daughter had remained neutral, being the only member of the trio who knew where everything was. The crowbar lived on the nail in the wall just below the shelf of rock samples and unanswered mail. She held it through the window.

"Mr. Mariscos?"

He was on the other side of the crate, arguing with Jose Vieria, leader of the Cancionan supply train.

"I'm on a tight schedule, boyo, and can't afford to sit around looking pretty while you splinter wood."

"Yes, but if we open the crate we can distribute the contents more easily..."

"And you think that happens in the twinkling of an eye, do ya? We leave in half an hour, and if we've forgotten anything important you're going to hear from the bosses down in Minas Trone, and you can wave goodbye to this nice easy spot up here-"

When it became apparent that neither man was going to shut up anytime soon, Tracey scrambled through the window and cautiously tapped at the crate.

It was hollow.

She experimentally stuck her hands under the box and tried lifting it, resulting in a handful of broken finernails. Well, no surprise there. Even by itself, the box would weigh more than she did. Rubbing her sore fingers, Tracey straightened up. As she did, she saw something sticking out of the side of the box.

She reached out, took it, read it, and then stepped around the side of the crate.

"Mr. Mariscos?" she said. "I think you need to see this."

Major Niccolo Espada walked towards General Langoster's office with extreme trepidation. The generalissimo had an infamously ballistic approach to bad news, and the last officer to deliver a war report had emerged with a pen sticking out of one earlobe.

He knocked on the door, very reluctantly.

"Enter."

Niccolo saluted nervously.

"What's gone wrong this time?" snapped General Langoster.

"Well, er," said Niccolo, "not to beat around the bush, as is were, I was told to inform you that, you see-"

"Get on with it. I don't have all day and neither do you."

"You know all those Inutilian refugees who keep sneaking over our border through Basza?"

"What, the ones I explicitly ordered you to keep out of the country? The ones that are supposed to be sent to refugee camps outside of our borders? The ones I distinctly recall you were in charge of dealing with, by my own order?"

Niccolo shuddered. This was worse than he'd thought. To tell the truth, he'd completely forgotten that he was the one in charge of the refugee problem. Nobody wanted that responsibility, mainly because if they had it those idiots who ran the newspapers would put their names in a great big heading saying something like 'Major Espada Issues Yet Another Inhumane Order About How Many Refugees Get Let In That Is In Direct Contravention To Human Rights Policies'. So everyone passed the job onto some subordinate as soon as they could get away with it, until General Langoster heard about it and reassigned it at random. But this time Niccolo had been so busy he'd completely forgotten to.

"With all due respect, sir, I don't suppose you've seen the situation up on the borders?" Of course he hadn't; the general rarely left the capital city, and if he did it wouldn't be to see some bunch of ragged people coming into the country. "There's thousands of people showing up. They have next to no possessions. They haven't had a decent meal for weeks. There's infants up there. They've lost family members through war. You can't just tell them to go home again."

"That's not my problem," said the general, predictably. "It's yours. Have you come to complain about the responsibility?"

"No," said Niccolo. "I've come to raise the possibility that the Inutilian royal family could be in there somewhere."

"What royal family? Inutilia hasn't had a royal family for centuries."

"Yes, they have, sir. Nobody's been on the throne, but there seems to be reliable evidence that the last king's descendants are somewhere in the northwest of Mediterrae, biding their time. And now, with Inutilia in a prolonged state of unrest, would be the time for them to take the throne again."

He ducked in advance, always a good idea around General Langoster. It paid off. The inkwell that would have hit him smashed against the doorframe instead.

"EVERYONE KNEW THIS WAS A POSSIBILITY AND NOBODY TOLD ME?!"

Niccolo backed away, but slowly so as not to draw attention. "I'm sure my colleague Captain Pez prepared some documents on the subject for you some time ago-"

"Never got 'em," snapped the general. "That's the problem with you lot. No organisation! I'm left to somehow rule this bunch of incompetents who can't even see to it that I get the right paperwork!"

The major glanced at General Langoster's desk, which was a towering mass of papers that was spilling onto the floor, but made no comment.

"I shall instruct the captain to be more careful about the delivery of paperwork in future," he said instead. "Now, what are we supposed to do about the royal family?"

"Sort it out," grumbled the general. "The problem falls under your area of responsibility. But I will be expecting daily reports, and I want to actually see them. You may go."

Niccolo nodded, and almost ran out of the room.

He couldn't help wondering if the general knew exactly what was at stake here. Inutilia had been under the reign of Patricians since 1465, and although most of them had been competant rulers, none had been so sufficiently to gain military advantage in the Silver Wars. Whereas most of the monarchs had been frighteningly good at warfare.

Everyone, except possibly the Inutilians, knew that the royal family was still lurking about, and this new girl who was the heir looked like she'd be a chip off the old nearly-three-centuries-old block. If she was crowned, Inutilia would soon become a force to be reckoned with. And worse: her first stop on her way to the throne would, in all likelihood, be the RCM. Oh, it'd seem like she'd go straight to Dimidium Apis and actually become acknowledged as queen first, but a sensible ruler would employ a slap-up army and defeat an enemy country first. That way she'd gain a lot of support from her future subjects before even setting foot in the kingdom, and gain a reputation for being a mighty warlord that would make it easier to see off the Patrician.

The ideal enemy country to attack would be the RCM.

The future queen would have no problem finding soldiers. You couldn't move on the northern borders for refugees, most of whom had personal grudges against RCM for either shutting them out or starting the war in the first place. And Inutilia wasn't the only country involved in the war to have been weakened by 40 years of sustained fighting.

If the girl got into the country, they were in trouble.

Nobody was quite sure how the Sake family had been absorbed into the camp; they just had.

Pete Sake was a Valanian miner, or had been back in the day where he'd been thin enough to fit down a mineshaft. That had changed when he'd met Maria, a Cancionan maid at the same farm his parents worked on. She'd earned an astonishing amount of money for a woman, and after marrying her, Pete hadn't felt the need to go down a mineshaft again for years.

However, unemployment soon set in, and the Sake couple had moved back to Canciona with their ten-year-old daughter. They'd run into trouble on the border near the mining camp; the latest Silver War had been going for three decades, and orders to keep out anyone who could possibly be Inutilian still stood. But Arturo (who'd been in the camp since late childhood) had allowed them to stay simply because Maria was the only person present who could cook anything edible to someone who wasn't just about collapsing from hunger. Nine years later nothing had changed. Maria ruled as queen and tyrant over the miners' kitchen, Pete helped Arturo out on road patrol, and Tracey ran odd jobs wherever they were needed.

Currently she was urgently pushing through the crowds of miners in the kitchen. Occasionally she used her long black plaits to clear the way; someone who'd been clobbered in the face by one of them once was someone prepared to move anywhere to avoid subsequently being clobbered by the other one.

Maria was standing roughly in the centre of the kitchen hall, ladling stew into tin plates. She looked up as her daughter bore down on her.

"What do you know about this?" Tracey demanded, flourishing the piece of paper she'd scavenged.

She watched her mother's expression carefully. It was a carefully arranged picture of confusion. But Tracey was observant, and hadn't missed the flash of guilt that had appeared just for a moment.

"What is it?" asked Maria.

"You know perfectly well what it is," said Tracey. "It has your name right at the top. Is there something you haven't been telling me?"

Maria snatched the paper, read through it, and stuffed it into her apron pocket.

"No time to explain now," she mumbled. "I've got dinner to serve, I hope you realise."

"Excuses, excuses," said Tracey. "All right. But I'm coming back here in half an hour, and the explanation had better be an extremely good one."

Chapter Two
Currently being written. Release scheduled for Tuesday morning, AEST.