Map of Primeva

Author's Note

Welcome to Primeva! Depending on your complexion, you may or not enjoy your stay!

What you’re viewing is my very first full-length novel. In addition, it is my first multimedia treatment of a novel, which contains many images and videos related to the narrative you’re about to peruse. It is all my attempt to portray a world in cultural, economic, political, military, legal and diplomatic perspectives as seen through popular media, official bulletins, classified reports and even advertisements. In addition, there is a Readers Guide, which contains even more supplemental material—everything from a history book, government guides, personal IDs, textbooks, magazine articles and more.

A word of grateful thanks to SK, who kindly copy edited most of the work—through any errors are all mine. Thanks also to the fans and supporters who shared my curiosity in this beautiful, if dangerous, far off island nation. The world in question is Primeva and it was inspired by Velvet Glove, the creator of the original world. I found it so compelling, I asked the author for permission to migrate there for a while and add to their vision, to which they agreed. In doing so, I was inspired to design a simple game called Spoils of War, which in turn inspired a commitment to developing a sequel— SoW2. The original novelisation was initially begun in aid of supporting the game. This first release, in advance of the game release, will perhaps help others like me, fascinated with the prospect of residing in this nation of the mind.

Let me answer an inevitable question—is this work racist, and is the intent derogatory? No, on both charges, I plead. This imaginative exercise, to me, has never been interested in racial caricature, or designed to denigrate any individual or people. The characters are alternately brave, wise, merciful or cowardly, dull, or cruel in turn. Individual characters are as complicated or single-minded as humans are wont to be in real life, regardless of skin pigmentation. Nor is my interest in the ideological. What most intrigued me was the opportunity to gameplay a nation witnessing the onset of a return to slavery and societal wide exchange of power—with the meek becoming masters and the mighty reduced to enslavement. All the consequences of such a reversal of fortune are what captured my attention. I might have accomplished this in a pre-modern era or a fantasy or sci-fi one. Instead, I chose a recognizably modern one in Primeva.

With that non met culpa, I hope you enjoy your journey. Mind the local customs and obey the regulations—you should be fine. I’ve reserved a table at the Royal Nordlund and look

forward to toasting your arrival with a citranova.!

Welcome to Primeva!


on a beach somewhere, August 2019



A novel of peoples and their places reversed set in the near future


Ephesians 6:5-9

Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ;

Not with eyeservice, as menpleasers; but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart;
With good will doing service, as to the Lord, and not to men:

Knowing that whatsoever good thing any man doeth, the same shall he receive of the Lord, whether he be bond or free.

Ode to the Dominion -National Anthem of the Dominion of Primeva

This island, blessed in sun and palms
This people, strong and brave
This country, prosperous and bright
This nation, freedom graced.

 When waves bore our fair fathers here
The jungle mocked with scorn
When cleared of bush and thorn and vine
Our future was secured

Before us beckons hope and joy
If only we are strong
Our dear Dominion stands steadfast
A paradise for all!

Red Spear March – Anthem of the Primevan Liberation Front

Sharpen your knife, make ready your rifle Objectives are set, we travel at night fall

They brought us here, their tiresome rebels We forged as a people, jungle hardened like metal Their leaders are soft, their men so craven Their royals all spoiled, their pale women brazen

Sharpen your knife, make ready your rifle Objectives are set, we travel at night fall

The lion must roar, the lamb shall be meek The Primes are strong, while the Minions are weak A new order dawns, while another one sinks A red spear rises as a Minion girl weeps

Sharpen your knife, make ready your rifle Objectives are set, we travel at night fall

After confident victory, to the victor the spoils Claim our rightful reward for our blood soaked toils; We’ll take their wives, sisters, daughters and mothers, The lash and yoke for all of the others!

 Sharpen your knife, make ready your rifle Objectives are set, we travel at night fall



She was getting tired of being a non-conformist, especially tired of the smell of nonconformism. Freetown squatting was taking a toll on the middle-class art school dropout and she was seriously considering returning to Arhhaus and her parents.  It would have precipitated jeers amongst her fellow anarchists, though Emma knew damn well by now that they were mostly poseurs and as essentially as middle class as she was. 

Anarchism was getting boring in Freetown Christiania.  And dirty.  And smelly.

In fact, Emma Lindstrøm was starting to hate it.

But could really she go home?  She knew her parents would welcome her, but eventually, her teacher father and bookkeeper mother would begin to gently ask about her future.  The fact was that, as much as she loved the idea of being an artist, she just didn’t have it in her to be one—not a real one.  She’d always been enough of a realist to be honest with herself.  Boredom and discomfort here or dropout loser back in dull, dullÅrhus?

Money was the immediate issue.  She was broke, and unless she was going to rely on fellow hippy wannabes, who were as broke as she was, she was going to have to figure out a way to make a small score.  Some of the kids ran drugs. Emma wanted no part of that.  Casual work was hard to get when you showed up looking like you were squatting.  She knew she had one commodity always in demand, but that really ran against her middle-class upbringing.  She was a good looking girl—twenty, a decent figure and a pretty enough face, if you didn’t mind the slightly needle like nose and weak chin.

The computer in the public library connected her to scores of ‘opportunities,’ but all were outside her boundaries.  She wasn’t prepared to escort and she was a wreck on the dance floor so stripping seemed like an invitation to disaster. 

One ad caught her eye.

TEL (45) 40-38-62-91

Could she pose nude?  It seemed within her boundaries.  Could she do this?

A thousand kroners an hour?  No sex? Hell, yeah!


The next morning, she knocked on the photo studio door. It was located in a down scale commercial district, but so were lots of businesses in Copenhagen.

“Come in!”  He sounded Polish—maybe Baltic—but looked normal enough.  Inside, there was group chatter and she was relieved they wouldn’t be alone.

The tall photographer, a thin, bloodless balding blonde man in his late forties, nodded.  “Emma Lindstrøm?”

“That’s me!” she acknowledged.

He nodded, pleased. “You’ll do nicely!  Come on in!  Meet the rest of the crew!”

The studio was large, airy.  Several white Europeans waved, as did a clutch of Africans, all dressed in army fatigues and carrying AK-47s!  She began to back out, and the photographer chuckled. 

“Tope—your prop!”

One of the uniformed Africans tossed his rifle over, which was handed to Emma.

“Just a prop—an Airsoft.”

She handed the plastic airgun back.  “Sorry!  Freaked me out for a second!”

They discussed the job.  It seemed like a piece of cake.  It was commissioned for a magazine that specialized in “edgeporn”, whatever that was.  She was to pose as an office worker that was going to be raped by the soldiers.

“But not really,“ he assured her.  “The raw stuff will be shopped later.  It is the look and some acting that we really need—not, the, you know, real deal.  We’ll be here the whole time,” he promised, indicating himself and a normal woman who looked to be the photoshoot make-up artist.

Emma looked around. An office set sat in the back, with a desk, file cabinets, and the like.  Several secretarial outfits hung from hangers on a rolling rack.

“How long?”

He nodded.  “A full day.  We start now, and you’ll walk out of here with eight thousand in your pockets.  No funny stuff, and it is for a magazine published overseas.  If the boys get out of line—”

An African ‘soldier’ smiled and held a plastic pistol to his head, smiling clownishly.

“You can scream, and the shift from the machine shop next door will rescue you in minutes. OK?”

She shrugged.  “Why not?”

It was a long day.  It was tough to maintain the illusion of fear and terror they wanted too—but she gave it her best.  As soon as she realized they were all doing this for money, she became less self-aware of her increasing lack of wardrobe too.

The photographer was in her ears all day long—quite the taskmaster and a professional, she soon realized.

“He’s going to rape you—let’s see some fear in those baby blues!”

“Tear her blouse open now!”

“Hold your hand up to her face.  Ingrid- can you do a hard slap on Emma’s right cheek?”

“Bend over the desk, Emma. Tope, grab her hair!”

Towards the end of the day, they broke out the menthol strips to induce crying and she felt herself become a mushy mess which translated well in the snapped frames. Finally, the photographer called a wrap.  She was wrung like a rag after being groped and virtually raped all day long. It was odd— for all the implied violence, she’d never once felt in any physical danger.  The African rape squad was all actually quite solicitous when a camera wasn’t pointed at them.

She counted the cash out.  “Eight thousand!  Wow—thanks!”

“Thank you!  For an amateur, you did great.”

“Thanks.  But this is a one-off. I’ve decided to enroll in school.”

“Back to art school?” She’d shared her backstory over the course of the day with the shoot crew.  That’s how comfortable she’d felt around them.

“Nope. I’m thinking of nursing now,” she admitted. It beat the squat, and the money would let her set herself up to pursue her new dream.  The more she had considered it, the comfier a choice it felt.

“Good for you!  Thank care of yourself Emma!”

She winked. “Always have, always will. Hey, just for the record, what’s the name of this magazine anyway? Seems kind of fucked up subject matter, to be honest,” she said, now that the money was tucked deep in her jeans pocket.

He didn’t argue.  “A job’s a job, dude!  Anyway,  don’t worry—it is kind of a custom published thing. It will only ever be distributed in Asia. Unless you’re planning on relocating, no one will ever connect you to any of this,” he promised truthfully.

“Yeah, but the name?” she pressed.

He thought for a minute.  “Winks? No—it’s Minx!  Minx magazine.”

Emma shrugged. “Whatever!” she replied, satisfied if bored. It didn’t sound familiar at all.

As she packed her few bags back in the squat, Emma Lindstrøm never knew she had just helped set off a revolution a half a world away, one that would change the lives of millions forever.  And of all the great and bit players in the great game about to commence, she was the only white girl to enjoy a happy ending.  For the rest, dark storm clouds gathered!