How do you encapsulate it?
How do you make it bitesized and accessible?
In a nutshell, ten words or less.
That's sort of my job as a travel writer. I show you the places I've been, cut them up into discreet sections and serve them to you like a delectable, bite sized nugget of street food.
No such luck, in Markov.
Now I know what you're thinking. 'Tony, how the hell did you swing a trip to Markov, one of the most militarized, besieged, locked down
warzones in the entire cosmos?' And to you, my friend, I would point to the history books. Well, what's left of them, anyway.
Markov has been a fortress city run by space cadets for centuries, both before and after the eponymous Fall that ripped Cevanti apart at some point in the foggy past. The fact that it was second on Darkseid's menu after the fall of Governmorne didn't really change the city's core dynamic of hyper-vigilant defensive protocols. If the creeping body odor of the ninth arbiter had never cursed the skies, the valkyrie patrols would still keep the city's air space secure, the shield ligers would still be kept humming, and the omnipresent camera drones would still be snapping your mugshot every ten minutes.
But outside of the parading mech pilots and the intermittent artillery fire, Markov is a cultural melting pot the likes of which exists nowhere else. I mean, the fortress city is shaped like a giant bowl for crying out loud! When the collective refugees of the entire Cevanti populace fell back to their final refuge, they had no choice to blend into a giant amalgamation of raw, cultural gunge.
You don’t last here long if you don’t know how to make a bit of room for yourself.
Luckily, the perfect guide has offered to escort me around the city for the duration of my stay. Even if you don’t know a lot about her, you’ve probably heard about Palaxia in passing. She’s got her finger on every single pulse within the city, and has been navigating its factional circles since time immemorial.
I’m meeting her at a local hotspot, just two blocks from the Dulmare Spaceport: Vienno’s. As you walk into this modest, yet sprawling, cafeteria style diner, the constant sirens and whooshing of overhead speeder traffic is left behind in exchange for the urgent shouting of line cooks and a few different television sets broadcasting local news, sports, et cetera.
Palaxia: Make sure you grab your tray, Tony, that’s how they like us to do it here.
Tony: Sure, sure. Let’s see here…we have chunked tofu in cayenne sauce…cauliflower wings…ooh, I like the look of these stuffed mushrooms. Not a lot of meat, I’m noticing!
Palaxia: That’s right. Markov doesn’t have a lot of room for grazing or pastures, and trying to farm outside of the walls is a non-starter. Meat is a bit of a luxury here.
She gestures around at other assorted diners in the cafeteria, all happily chowing down on various vegetable delights.
Palaxia: For your average spacer or Union pilot, this is the perfect, quick, cheap lunch.
Tony: Good enough even for a gold dragon?
Palaxia: *laughs* Well, obviously I have my own favorite restaurants. But if you really want to see a perfect slice of real Markovian living, Vienno’s is the place to be.
For those of you who weren’t aware, Palaxia is well known to be an incredibly long-lived golden scaled dragon who serves as an advisor both to King Dulmare, and Baron Rex. Most of the time, however, she takes on the guise of a perfectly normal blonde woman…usually armed with a magical longsword. I will note, however, that her tray is loaded about twice as high as my own with the humble, yet expertly prepared, dockhand’s fare.
Tony: Mmm…yeah, this is what I needed after a five hour shuttle ride. So what about the King anyway? Do people even like the royal family?
Palaxia: Generally, I would say so. Claudius is certainly more popular with the younger generation, but the King has done an excellent job in keeping Markov unified and safe for a long, long time. He could easily make himself into a tyrant, but he knows when to step back and let the people be their own heroes.
Tony: You two are very close.
Palaxia: I’ve known him since he was a baby! It’s hard not to be sentimental, especially during existential crises like Darkseid. Having a specific enemy has really brought the city together.
Tony: A universal villain tends to do that, yeah. Who was the bad guy before the Unmaking?
Palaxia: Cytokine.
Tony: Who-hoa! Just gonna come out with a strong stance like that, huh?
Palaxia: You have to know how to smell bullshit to get ahead in this city. Cytokine may look clean and snazzy to the rest of the Crossroads, but Markovians know better.
I have no reason to doubt Palaxia about this, but at the same time, as we travel through the humming, electronic streets, Cytokine has shops and billboards set up every hundred feet, it seems. Even the titanic Syntech Corporation takes a backseat to Cytokine within Markov, and people certainly snap up their wide array of products.
Still, people seem to know that the tech magnate is very much exploiting the more-or-less captive workforce of the city. As we fly around in a giant, green, jet (shaped like a pterosaur) later that day, you can see the sprawling chemical and manufacturing complexes owned by Cytokine’s planet-side member companies. In a highly militarized fortress city, the corporation visibly takes up more than its share of space, when there isn’t much space to go around.
On the other hand, as I look out the other side of the flyer’s cockpit (flown by Palaxia’s hand, by the way), I can see distant flashes of artillery and beam-weapon fire in the hills, no more than ten miles outside the city walls. I’m betting that a lot of those weapons are produced by the very factories that were built on top of residential neighborhoods a few years ago. The military industrial complex is a machine that never sleeps in Markov, and everyone knows that too.
Well, how do you combat against that much emotional inertia and hopelessness after a long day of patrolling the city walls?
At night, Markov, literally, lights up. Residential towers, a hundred stories tall, light up with projected advertisements, LED light shows, and holographic traffic indicators for the constant swarm of air speeders that thread through the monolithic arcologies like a swarm of fireflies.
Palaxia is taking me to one of the more high-rolling casinos in a towering, crystalline tower along the northern end of Markov’s central royal district. Locals affectionately refer to the Crown Jewel Casino as ‘The Mirror’, since it tends to reflect giant beams of sunlight down hundreds of shadowed inner-city streets throughout most of the day.
The Crown Jewel is owned, incidentally, by Palaxia’s other very good friend, Baron Thelonious Rex. The leading member of the eponymous Guild is, notoriously, a bit of a recluse, but you can certainly feel his presence in the satin carpets, marble-trimmed wall frescoes, crystal clear fountains and exorbitant opulence dripping from every tiny detail in the building.
Even the toilets have golden flush-handles.
To my surprise, tuxedo-wearing aristocrats and jumpsuited Zoid pilots alike mingle on the main casino floor, sharing tables and slot machines, talking pleasantly while sharing freshly mixed drinks and vegetarian hors 'd'oeuvres. That’s not the floor Palaxia has us booked on, however, no. We’re going straight to the top.
As we sit down at a resplendent, hand carved obsidian table with mahogany bench seating – Palaxia dressed in a glittering black gown, and me in a pressed white suit and vest (generously provided by the Network, thank you) – my imposter syndrome has never screamed louder. I’ve had the privilege of eating at a lot of swanky establishments during my career, but this was easily the top.
We are treated to a relentless barrage of vintage wines, artisan breads, and dishes brimming with high-test caviar. Menu? Don’t be so gauche; up here you will take what you are served. This just so happens to be a damningly succulent duck confit, dressed in capers and a blanket of black truffle. Oh for a side dish? Perhaps a selection of deep-rock oysters, flown in fresh from Opealon this very day.
Dining with us tonight are a selection dignitaries and Guild officials from around the city, including the CFO of Cytokine; a Protoss woman named Teleris, whose witty banter and conversational points we cannot show you, because our cameras aren’t rigged to receive telepathy.
She was delightful though, just trust me.
During our desert of a cheesecake mousse, glazed with a reduction of goodberry and cabernet sauvignon, however, we are abruptly reminded that Markov is, in fact, a perpetual war zone. As a particularly vicious rumble sends ripples across our wine glasses, and the lights flicker, we are informed that a pack of Unmade akata are bodily hurling themselves at the western deflector array. Distant sirens sound off, flights of Valkyrie mech-jets scream to intercept the troublesome attackers, and in about half an hour, it’s as if the attack never happened.
So what’s up with the Unmade assaults on Markov anyway? We know that King Dulmare is doing a respectable job defending the city, but is anyone leading the assault?
To answer that question, Palaxia and I arrange to have a discussion with Colonel Roy Mustang the following day. We arrive at the Pilot’s Union second hangar garrison on the western side of the city; just a few blocks from the previous night’s attack. There’s a tension in the air of patient anxiety as we meet the Colonel at a small, open air commissary on the hangar campus.
Even as towering liger zoids and screaming sorties of varia-fighter mechs thunder around us, the Colonel seems relaxed as we take coffee beneath the shade of an aging willow tree, which overhangs a nearby artificial riverway. It’s raining today, so normally the city’s main deflector shield would be open to receive the much-needed water…but in light of last night’s attack, the shield remains up, and keeps the downpour off for now.
Tony: It's been shown that King Dulmare can hold a solid defense, but when I asked about who was leading the charge against the Unmade, all fingers pointed at you.
Does that feel accurate?
Col. Mustang: *chuckling* It can certainly feel that way at times. The truth is often murkier for situations of this scale. It would be impossible to organize something of this scale without a large force working in concert.
Tony: So do you get much help from the Kingdom or the Pilot's Union?
Col. Mustang: "The Pilot's Union are focused beyond our city's borders. That's an intentional distinction between their jurisdiction and where I tend to operate.
While the Unmaking has required a bit more fieldwork than I've come to expect, it doesn't mean that those separations in tasking just disappear overnight.
Tony: Sure, sure. Markov, despite being unified against a common enemy, is still a factional city though. Does The Guild or the Union or anyone get to point at you and say 'that's our guy.'
Col. Mustang: I've received the occasional agent from the Guild or the Pilot's Union to supplement our forces when they have an interest in a mission's objective. Whether they operate directly with our team or not varies from mission to mission.
If they have plans that need Cytokine's support than my superiors may well put me and my team at their disposal in the same manner.
Tony: Cytokine huh? They've got a bit of a mixed reception around here. Do the people generally seem to...appreciate? You?
Col. Mustang: ...There's bound to be detractors to any military police force. I didn't take this job because I wanted to be popular, and I don't intend to let trivial things like name-calling distract me.
Tony: ...but they're not gonna turn their nose up at you either.
Col. Mustang: *chuckle* That doesn't tend to happen from the people, no.
Tony: What's your personal...sort of optimal outlook for Markov's future? Is there a day when the city doesn't need people like you anymore?
Col. Mustang: The City's needs will change with time. Right now, it needs strong defenses to keep itself alive, but that comes with its own costs. Once its future is more secure, I expect there to be a re-balancing of those needs.
Without the threat of the Unmade can we rely on the Pilot's Union to keep what's outside the barrier away from our city? Can we reach a point where we don't need a military force to maintain order within the city?
I would want the answer to those questions to be yes.
Tony: Do you think that's likely?
Col. Mustang: There's several reasons that goal is hard to achieve. Some of them are truths of our world, some of them are self-inflicted. I think some changes will be needed if it's going to be possible.
Sunset, and it's my final day on Cevanti.
Palaxia has signed me on to observe a traditional and highly important aspect of Markovian culture, hailing back to all of the days prior to The Fall. She and I stand on a small hillside, outside of the proper city limits of Markov but still within sight of the walls. As the sun begins to tip down over the scrub-encrusted prairie lands surrounding the city, a small squadron of Pilot's Union wranglers are in the process of, quite literally, wrestling a robotic dinosaur to the ground.
This is a wild Zoid -- a Gojulas-type, I am told -- a twenty meter tall apex predator in the shape of some theropod dinosaur, covered in one-inch armor plating and a startling array of heavy firepower.
I watch as the three Union pilots expertly dash and weave their smaller wolf-type zoids around the Gojulas in a coordinated ambush pattern, not unlike how a real wolf pack...or should I say...organic wolf pack might do with a larger prey animal. Using nanosteel lassos, they take turns getting ties around the theropod robot's legs and upper torso, before pulling the wild, metallic beast to the ground with a terrific thump.
Then, one lucky sonovabitch gets to dismount from his own mech and make a made dash straight at the fallen zoid's cockpit, where they force the hatch open and take manual control of the wild thing until it comes to heel.
As I watch this operatic spectacle unfold before me, I glance off at Markov in the near distance, glimmering with its holo-boards and giant deflector arrays. I still feel as though I've only scratched the tip of the iceberg on this behemoth of a city, trying to wrangle something larger than myself into something that can be controlled.
I'm not sure it's possible, though. Like the Colonel said, a lot of things will have to change before Markov sees peace and order that other cities in the Crossroads take for granted. At it's heart, it's still a wild, angry beast, carrying the collective trauma and grief of a dozen generations.
Is it even possible to get that kind of thing under control? Or do you just let the jazz play itself?
Markov-Style Buffalo Wings
Ingredients:
1 head of cauliflower, cut into large florets
1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 1/2 c. milk
1 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 c. hot sauce (such as Franks)
4 tbsp. melted butter
Ranch dressing, for serving
Celery sticks, for serving (optional)
Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 450° and line two large baking sheets with parchment paper. Spray parchment paper with nonstick cooking spray.
2. Make batter: In a medium bowl, whisk flour, milk, and garlic powder until combined. Season with salt and pepper and whisk until the batter is smooth.
3. Dredge cauliflower in batter until evenly coated. Shake off excess batter and transfer to prepared baking sheets. Bake until the cauliflower is crispy and golden around edges, about 20 to 25 minutes.
4. Meanwhile make buffalo sauce. In a large bowl, whisk together hot sauce and melted butter. Toss baked cauliflower “wings” in sauce before serving.
5. Serve with ranch dressing and celery sticks, if desired.
