A low hum filled his ears as Tsung woke up. Still under the hum there sang the distant ring of battle that echoed in his ears, and the panic gripped him.

With a start he shot up out of bed, eyes wide and face pale as he gripped at the edge of the cot. He froze the moment he sat up, gazing straight at the face of a plastered wall on the opposite side of the room. His chest heaved up and down with great swinging movements. His hands held the side of the cot tight and he felt himself shaking as he scanned the room.

It wasn't large, but neither was it small. Filling up the empty space made by having thrown the furniture to a chaotic pile in a distant corner a platoon's worth of cots and beds had been dragged in, all of which occupied by a still sleeping soldier. A sudden fear strangled him. Was he dead now and this was his ghost seeing the victims of battle as they lay in their final state? But a voice from alongside him brought down the cold fear that spun in his blood.

“About time you were up.” the low grump voice of Wi Hui spoke up. Tsung turned.

Sitting alongside his bed Hui leaned back in a chair, legs crossed and stretched out as a weakly lit cigarette hung in limp lips. He looked at Tsung with a bored placid face. The sunlight falling through the window behind him shone gold off his bald head. There was no better a confirming sight for Tsung to see than him. At least it proved he was alive still.

“I, uh...” Tsung started, confused. He felt as if he hadn't had a proper sleep, a dull soreness coursed through his body from head to toe and there was a dim tin ringing in his ears, “How long was I out?” he asked weakly.

“About twelve hours, maybe.” Hui noted, “You passed out in the field. For a second we all thought that you had been shot through the window.

“But of course, it seems like you just shut down.”

“I-...” Tsung started uncertainly, “I um... I don't know what happened. What happened?”

Hui shrugged indifferently, “Medic said you probably were just over-excited and stimulated or some crazy shit and you'd come back around.” he shifted in his seat as he looked around the room, “A lot better than the other fuckers here.” he pointed out in his dry voice. He looked over to the bed alongside Tsung where a crumbled body of a passed out soldier lay, the steady rise and fall of his chest was the only confirmation of his living despite the vast blood stain slowly trailing down the white linens covering him. His face looked badly burned.

“This sad fuck took a big gut shot. I got to sit hear and watch the surgeons try to close his belly wound.” Hui chimed, “I think he'll be going home.”

The thought didn't make Tsung feel any better and he felt his own stomach twist and growl. His face knotted as he keeled over and his hands went to his stomach. His palms touched bare skin as he turned to sit up out of bed.

“Hey comrade, have decency.” Hui shouted in dry protest, “You're naked, docs took all your clothes to check for wounds, nurses took your uniform to get clean. I've had the honor of seeing enough mangled penis today, I don't need to see yours.” he added in a much lower tone.

Tsung froze to realize he was right. With his legs half hanging off the edge of the bed he was about read to throw himself out. The sudden embarrassment was enough to freeze his stomach and he sat awkwardly half-off the edge of the bed. Blood rushed to his face as he pulled the blankets up closer around him. “T-thanks.” he stammered.

“Good show, thank you.” Hui cheered, flicking the ashes of his cigarette onto the dusty carpeted floor.

“Well, uh... I-...” Tsung stammered and staggered over his words as he pulled himself back on the bed. Pulling up the sheets in the sudden awareness of his unwarranted nudity, “When do I get out?”

“When the doctors get back to check on you.” Hui pointed out, “I dunno, I think they were expecting you to have lapsed into some insane coma. You weren't responding the entire time.”

“So I... I suppose it was bad then?”

“You were pretty deep in.”

“Oh... So where's everyone?”

“Well, our tank blew up and command wanted Song out in the field still so he jacked command from someone else and went out into the field. I imagine that guy is taking this moment to nap last I checked. And Tse Lin is doing what Lin does.”

“Were you both waiting for me to wake up?”

“Not the entire time.” laughed Hui, “But, sort of.” he admitted with a tinge of guilt, “There's not a thing of shit to do here in Tyumen for us so we've been trading spots. If Lin intends on keeping a schedule at all, it's about time for her to relieve me.”

“She's been here too?”

Hui nodded, “Or in her own way.” he said dismissively, “Uses this time to look at those picture-books of hers. She's a fucking geek like that.”

“Her, what?”

Hui rolled his eyes, “Those mystery comics.” he mumbled, “Shit, you forget that too? Detective Gong Shu and shit.”

“Oh...” Tsung mumbled, laying back against the dry plaster wall behind him. He felt loose grains and motes of plaster wall fall against his shoulders and back as his head rested on the wall. He still felt weak, and as things caught up a weightless sort of shake crawled over his body. He felt a uncomfortable sharpness in his world.

“How...” he started, “How did it go?”

“That fight?” Hui asked, Tsung nodded silently.

“I suppose it went OK.” Hui thought back, “We won, I guess. A big group of Russians from upriver I hear managed to retreat. But we stopped the unit we were hitting from retreating. No one's given me numbers, but I hear some several hundred got shot, a few more drowned in the river when our armor on the other side of the river capsized their boats. We mopped up and captured the rest. They're well on their way east now, for who the fuck knows what.”

Tsung nodded along. His head felt heavy. But the sudden pop of an opening door drew up his attention. He looked up to the far-side of the room. Tse Lin was on her way in.

“He's awake!” she declared as she walked over. She drummed a rolled up magazine against he knuckles as she strolled towards the two men. He look of relief was painted across her round face, “How was your nap?” she asked him.

“I-ahh...” he started to say. But his tongue swelled. The memory of once having caught her in the shower hit his head. He picked up his knees as it washed down to fill an awkward erection. “I-it was...” he tried to find words, looking away.

“He's been a bit out of it since he woke up.” Tsung cut in, “Stammering a lot. Give him a bit and our little greenhorn will be back together.

“Shit, green?” Lin laughed. She tapped upside the head with her book as emphasis, “Pretty sure he just bailed from his first burning tank, I think that validates him not being fresh meat now.”

“Lin, that was all of our first times bailing from burning armor.” Hui reminded with a cold voice.

“I wouldn't speak for Song.” Lin offered back, “So if our little shit's awake I suppose I'll go get the doctors then?”

Tsung wasn't looking up at either of them. He was looking ahead, trying to avoid contact. He was afraid they might notice the painful awkwardness not just in the back of his eyes, but painted in hot rosy pink across his face. He drummed his knees as the rest of him throbbed.

“Sure, whatever.” Hui invited. Lin nodded and turned back, heading for the door. As he foot falls faded as she headed for the door Hui leaned in, inviting Tsung's attention to Lin.

“You know,” he began, “Lin has a fine ass, don't you think.” Hui laughed.

Tsung's voice turned nervously in his throat as his eyes followed her butt out the door.



Rain pattered against the cold glass window. Standing looking out over the outer tenements and blocks of Moscow, Ullanhu watched as the gray rainfall came down in a curtain over the Third Rome. In the hazy dreariness across the expansive urban sprawl of the city the golden towers and onion spires of its many churches stood above the low-standing structures of central Moscow, older Moscow. In its dense network of tight narrow streets cars droned through, or men and women walked through the rain.

Somehow in all that was with the rest of Russia, its desolate abandonment and threat of violence (most notably that of the impending forces of China in the east) there was left an island of subtle sanity left in Moscow itself. Although armored cars and armed men patrolled the streets holding order, these were shut away from the mind; as Ullanhu had come to note.

The apartment in stood in formally belonged to Vasiliy's uncle, as he had been told. But he had left the city, left Russia all together some time ago. He had left with the rent paid, some several months in advance. According to the agent's parents he had been intending to stay, or looked as if he was. But when they arrived he had left, taking as much of his baggage with him. Vasiliy had spent the rest of the day looking for information on his uncle, where he had gone.

And that was several days ago.

Now the Siberian agent was gone on long irregular excursions into the city. Whether to search for information on his uncle to make sure he was alright or to determine their coming angle of attack was a mystery, even to the observant Chinese agent. But he had stopped trying to make sense of Vasiliy's motives and activities, so long as he brought details to him.

But there was another thing that bothered Ullanhu. Simply: the foreigness of being so far from home. He was in Europe now. Well inside its outer fringes by many accounts. And the city of Moscow looked every bit the part. Even so far away from the center, and muddled by the gray rainwater that washed the city from above he could stand and see the brightly colored mansions nestled in the distant central okrugs. The churches that dotted the landscape in proud triumph also brought the realization in. He wasn't in a secular land, he was a holy one. Where the measure of daily pride wasn't spent on pride of revolution or to liberation, but to salvation in God. And nothing more typified that than the ghostly marker of the crimson towers and banded onion-shaped spires of the distant Saint Basil Cathedral; or so he was told that's what the building was.

Below the window the Moscow River wound its slow steady course east, cutting its winding snake path through Moscow itself and being lost among the baroque apartments and narrow cobble streets of the older, ancient narrows of the capital.

There was a sound at the door, Ullanhu stood up. A twitch shot through his hand as he jumped to his side; searching for a gun. But turning he saw Vasiliy, and he eased.

“Where've you been this time?” he asked.

“Scouting.” Vasiliy declared openly, walking towards his Chinese partner. A smug smile on his face, “I think have plan.” he boasted.

“You do?” Ulanhu asked.

“Best as could think, but will need to more do.” he coughed feebly, “But I confirm there private subway terminal under Kremlin at least.” he admitted, turning aside to the kitchen table.

The meager apartment was sparse, and perhaps only three rooms: a bathroom, a sitting-room kitchen, and bedroom; Vasiliy and Ulanhu traded between the couch and bed in the next room. And as much as it was sparse it was small, no bigger than a matchbox for living, the two men had just enough room to maneuver about themselves as they sat down at the table.

“How'd you come to find out?” asked Ulanhu.

“I do searching, asking.” said Vasiliy, “Where get, and who from. Found basement, in basement is door. Is also elevator. Think elevator where president office is. Also asked. Some men, if trust you tell you anything. And some men easy to trust win. Ask them, 'I hear stories of subway. Is true?'

“Some of these men, be there long. But not feel rewarded. Slip something to them. They tell. Answer is yes: it does exist.

“As told, is emergency evacuation line: when in threat by maybe Germans or English. In times of emergency, czar may give order to shut down Metro, take car out, and abandon the city. System connects to the Sokolnicheskaya Line – or how you say: red line.

“We can take tracks to north-east. But we fast need be. Soon as we get to last station we must escape from city, fast as wind. Fast as horses, my Mongolian friend.”

“I never really rode a horse before.” Ullanhu admitted.

“Oh...” Vasiliy mumbled, with some shame, “But you get picture, yeah?”

“I believe I do. But it sounds like you have a plan, so what's the hold up?”

“So, is problem: we need time to make escape. I need to figure out how to make time.

“I just need few days longer.” Vasiliy trailed off.



In the days following its capture, the town of Surgut had allowed itself to slip into the ethereal void of loosing importance. To the Russians: the town was lost, far beyond the city of Tyumen and too deep into the wilderness to save. And so far deep in the Siberian north, it was not worth the effort. It came that in control of Surgut that the Chinese could claim to dominate the territories. From the Ob north was communist wilderness. And across the distant Tobol into which the river flowed the unsettled wilderness, a backyard in which to out-maneuver any foe. These factors thus made: Surgut was well and good behind the front-lines, and out of the way of combat.

Riding aboard the improvised buggy as provided by the Siberian military, Quan Yun-qi watched disinterested as he passed through the city. Lapsing so far behind everything and put under his occupation a sleepy city. In the days following the autumn days of Republican Tyumen the tensity among the residents waned. Upon receiving the first supplies from the river, there was an almost uneasy certainty these occupants could put the city back to work.

“I'm bored.” the officer complained to his driver. The dull ache of not being on the front was nagging into Yun-qi and chewed his heart and every limb. Like a magnet his mind found itself drawn to the war that now crept slowly away from him. But unlike a magnet, it became only stronger as it marched away from him.

In his time he had entertained his thoughts corresponding with his wife, the nurse that had stitched him back together when he had been hacked with a machete in Mindanao; and now their child. But the periods between letters were drawn, dull, and listless. He had all the time to read and write: but horrifyingly none of it seemed to have life without something to write about.

“I know that feeling.” his driver remarked listlessly. He stared passively out across the empty road as he maneuvered the vehicle through the streets.

The Siberian regulars had arrived and took up their rolls, effectively being what the Chinese were. But here they were, stuck in a limbo.

“The town is nice and all, but I really wish we had orders.” Yun-qi continued to complain.

Surgut was a newer settlement than the cities he had yet to see in the far west. It lacked the same sort of pedigree shared between ancient metropolis' like Moscow or Beijing. Its avenues and roads were wide and open, accommodating for the traffic of the twentieth century. The echo of the puttering engine behind them puffed softly off the brazenly barren, and uninspired faces of apartments.

Every so often something older would be seen standing, some decadently painted home or office. Or some log cabin house, painted over in bright hues of blue. But these were few and far between with the cinder block construction that dominated river-side Surgut.

“I've heard rumors,” the driver said, making conversation, “I'm not sure if you've been told or not. But I hear that there is talk among the residents that we may have killed their own.”

“I was never told.” Yun-qi admitted, “When was this supposedly to have taken place?”

“Some time before we entered town proper. I have not heard details.” the driver said, “But they say some men, maybe fourteen men in all did not return from the fields. Some are believing one of us did it.”

“You say some, so who are the others not-us?” Yun-qi asked.

“I hear talk of a Mafiya. But I don't know who those are. But they sound like a triad. There are a couple organizations I guess that get brought up: the Phantoms of the Wood and the Horses of Perm.”

“They sound ridiculous.” spat Yun-qi, “So I suppose the Russians are superstitious then?”

“Which ever the case, comrade: they are frightened of something.”

“Yes well, let's not all jump at ghosts.” Yun-qi groaned, “Stop the car.” he ordered.

“Why so?”

“I want to take a walk.” the officer grumbled.

With a sputtering put the buggy came to a stop. The traffic deadened roads of Surgut provided no concern of causing an accident, or even traffic infractions. But even if this factored, on hearing of the Russian fears Yun-qi highly doubted any still-operating police would risk indicting the Chinese on such an offense.

Stretching, Quan Yun-qi looked up into the sky. The clear blue sky spanned unadulterated from north to south. And east and west. But turning to the west there was rising a black smudge, crawling and dispersing against the clear azure sheet. He froze, surprised and stunned. “Comrade, what is that?” his driver asked tensely as he too saw the thinning black column as it dragged against the open skies.

Like a tree bent by a harsh wind, the smoke plumed up from the ground, grinding and filing up as it followed something along the ground. Yun-qi had no answer, “We can't be...” he started, “It couldn't? Could it?”

He stepped hesitantly towards it. The column of acrid sooty exhaust was trailing fast and wild. It was like a silent phantom at first, until he heard the hard pounding of the engine, and the screams along the tracks. It was a train, and it was racing fast. Too fast to be safe. As its roar grew louder, and the smoke more ominous he heard the screams of whistles as officers in pursuit shouted aside the onlookers.

A pinching fearful curiosity sprang to his mind, and he turned down an alley, sprinting for the tracks.

His boots fell in pace with the roar of the engine of the iron horse as he chased it through the narrow wet alleys. Bounding through the clear streets passed onlooking residents and the tense soldiers as they looked between he and the train's raising tail.

Throwing aside trashcans Yun-qi spilled out atop the embankment between the city and the river-side port. The interlaced network of tracks running parallel courses through with the spindly steel-framed cranes hanging overhead. And with the roar of the train reaching a crescendo those on the dock looked towards it in awe, and turned to run.

Yun-qi did turn. And his heart which had been racing turned to stone before the chariot dressed in flame. Snapping violently along the tracks the train showed no sign of stopping, or even of slowing. The fire that lapped out of its windows leaving a trail of red-hot silk spewing coal-black smoke. At its head a burned man hung as a totem, strapped in chains. And the moments froze as it leaned on its wheels as it tore into the final turn, the billowing fury that engulfed it screamed as the steel screamed.

There was a moment where all froze, even the tongues of fire. The clouds stopped, gravity froze. Soldiers and civilian alike locked in a frozen moment, taken in by the picture of the locomotive as its shell tore open. The iron casing peeling back from twisting cracks that glowed with Hellfire. In the sudden wave that drummed from the locomotive's bowls Yun-Qi was thrown back as someone grabbed him by the shoulders. A hellish roar filled his ears as the back of his head cracked against bricks and the lights went out.



Low and resonating, the voice of Basil sang out from the bridge of the ferry. Slumberingly slow and deep as that of a bear the boatman sang aloud the Song of the Volga Boatman in a deep voice. With a low tempo so that every syllable was like that of a religious chant. In rose and crescendo with the break of every wave as the chugging fairy boat navigated the sand and rock-reinforced channels and banks of the Volga River. The trees that stood over the far banks of the Volga stood as spectators that trapped and echoed the man's off-key, too deep singing voice. The river echoed in his low baritone voice as they ship sailed along.

Jun sat on the deck, legs crossed as he looked out over the bow of the boat with the man's voice singing out from an open window in his cabin. He did not mind the singing so much. The trip had turned regular, boring. Along the course of the Volga they passed communities and towns that had become isolated come the fall of the Empire. Some looking better off than most, but all looked on the brink.

As they wound through the waters the river came to open wide, as it entering into a lake in its own right until the banks of the already wide river were more insurmountable than before. The dark blue waters underneath them shone in the bright afternoon sunlight and in the distance above the water's edge the span of a length bridge cut across the river where it narrowed again.

“We near!” Basil cheered loud, as he broke from his slow rendition of the Volga Boatman, and as the boat passed underneath the rusted red rail bridge that crossed the Volga river. Chugging low and slow under neath they passed under the steel girders and through the shade of the narrow bridge and kept moving.

The river was quick to break down here. Beyond the bridge turning into a network of islands in the middle of the river. Forming intertwined arms and knotted ribbons of water as the river continued on a drifting course towards the Caspian.

The song resumed, turning over from the first chorus as the ferry began to meet with the wooden or aluminum tubs of men fishing in the river. Paddling out of their way as the large ferry boat past they looked up with expressions of curiosity. Jun watched as they passed them from the cover of the railings and shadows of the deck.

Along the right bank of the river the shadowy tombstones of imperial factors showed through the boughs of trees. Between the green leaves the burned, blackened remains of Russian industry sat silent at the river side. The smoke that billowed from them long choked silent, held within the brick and the broken glass that shone erratically in the afternoon sunlight.

“Gift of the Turks!” Basil declared from the upper deck. Jun looked up as he came out of his hiding. The ferry boat captain leaned half out of an open window with one meaty arm resting in the frame.

Jun looked back down from him to the northern shelled face of Volgograd. “It was perhaps one of the most shocking things we all heard after the death of the czar.” he continued, “When the Turks swelled north out of the Caucus and swept into our cities. In disarray, our noble armies could not fight the Muslim foes. They came clear to Volgograd – our old Tsaritsyn – and took the Jewell of the Volga to their own.”

The ferry boat continued to plod along, passing the concrete of industrial retaining walls. Empty desolation ruled the bank of the river in monotonous gray. A blemish on the gem that Basil so loudly praised.

Clearing the islands in the center of the river a new bridge spanning the river came into view. Crawling out from behind the spruce and the rocks of the river-side the great concrete bridge conquered the wide-river in two sweeping arches. The heavy cement construction giving air to an immortal integrity, conquered even from a distance by the daily traffic in and out of the city. At the wilderness side, the unconquerable vast hills and plains of southern Russia. And opposite the towers and empty pride of an imperial city.

They pulled up closer to the river's shore. As rocky and overgrown embankments gave way to a structured dock-side. Behind the low trees the baroque rises of Volgograd stretched out across the hills, dominated at the front towards the river by a pillared and regal old river terminal. Clear and empty, the shell of the building resembled that of a theme park after season. The abandoned kiosks and park benches that stood facing the water's edge empty of their life and importance. A few men, disheveled and filthy wandered about. They rose their heads to find the new boat came to bump against the tires strapped to the side of the pier.

“All ashore!” Basil cheered jovially with a smile. For once the middle-aged Russian looked happy, the happiest he had been in years, by Jun's measure.

With a hard clump Jun's boots hit the cement of the ferry pier. His body swayed as he again stood on solid ground and he stumbled several steps forward like the village drunk. Equilibrium shot, he staggered ahead for the shade of the terminal's concrete canopy. Among the unswept debris that piled in the corners of the open-air terminal building the chirping of songbirds echoed in the artificial cave. Frightened by his sudden arrival, a spooked dormouse broke out of its cover in the nest it had stole in the overhang above Jun's head. The sound of the rodent startled the agent, who reached for a sword that was not there.

His tension eased, and his heart-rate lowered as he realized what it was. Sighing, he walked over to a wall and leaned against it. Waiting for that familiar stability to return to his legs. He looked behind him to the ferry boat docked at the pier's edge. Basil leaned over the rails watching Jun.

“I wish you luck.” the man shouted from the boat.

“Same to you.” Jun answered, he looked back towards the city and the rows of townhouses all facing the river.

“I think I will stay here for some time.” Basil nodded confidently, “It's not Perm, so it is a change. Where will you be going?”

“Still anywhere but where I am.” replied the agent.

“Well if it is anywhere I can take you, then I will.” smiled the ferryman, “If you have the money to pay of course. I must still eat!”

Jun smiled, if dry and tense. “I'll keep it in mind.” he said, “I assume you don't know much about the town then?”

“No, unfortunately not. I am a stranger: much like you. But we will make it, I know that much! And by God's will, we shall endure. For what little hope is left in my fatherland it will be shared by us.”

God. Hope. Jun laughed, leaning off the wall, “As to you.” he said, as his last words to the ferryman.

Bambari, Ethiopian Equatoria

Dr. Sisi wore a lab coat covered in blood. It was the norm for his profession, though once he left the operating room the blood always started to feel like filth. He strolled comfortably through the halls of the Bambari Walinzi complex. Enclosed walkways connected the simple buildings together into one continuous structure, allowing for patients to be transported from one building to the next without ever going outside. Most of the buildings had the same clay tile floors, and open windows to let light in from the outside world.

This was an abandoned Belgian diamond mine that Hassan had claimed during the Civil War of 1974. Now it was the undocumented home of the Walinzi's Psychological Research unit; an operation centered around Dr. Sisi and his experiments. Though Dr. Sisi was a private citizen, his work for Hassan and the Walinzi allowed him plenty of extravagant privileges. The patients were his, and he was allowed to do whatever he wanted so long as he threw the occasional bone to his employers. He had built a career here. His achievements in neurology made him the toast of Vienna and Madrid. He was the new Freud; a master who connected the shadows of human psychology explored by Freud to physical properties in the brain. He 'laundered' his achievements of course - performing public experiments based on what he already knew from his considerably unethical Walinzi work to produce what seemed like miraculously concise results. And if that didn't pay well enough, he sold excess psychoactive drugs on the side.

Sisi stopped at the door to his office and peeled the blood-spattered gloves from his hands, tossing them in a canvas bin. Outside he could see white figures distorted by humidity. Those were some of his mindless patients. They moved like zombies, and mined for nothing at the bottom of the pit.

He went in his office and felt the vague-coolness supplied by the desk-fan he kept constantly running. His desk was neat and organized, with stacks of case-files placed alphabetically in bins, each according to its type. A single case-file remained open in the center of the desk under a porcelain phrenology bust. The rest of the room reflected the same organization - a cot with folded sheets, a rack graced with his best hats and coats, and a massive Persian rug that he personally vacuumed every morning. He took off his lab coat and folded it neatly on top of a filing cabinet, slipped on a velvet smoker's jacket, and sat down to write.

"The brutish sort of leader will always secretly wish that each and every man under his
command were an Automaton. This is true for all in this circumstance, whether they are world leaders,
the owners of extensive plantations, or fathers. Perhaps, with the perfection of machinery,
this will become a reality, though who can say what will happen to the peasant once he has become outmoded.
For now, however, the only method which can bring about the creation of mindless drones is psychiatry.
The question of whether or not this will be possible isn't a question at all; in science,
if it is foreseeable, there is certainly a way to achieve it. The true question is whether or
not it will happen, or if our species will in every nation uphold the ethical standards of our science..."

He dipped his pen in a crystal inkwell and continued.

"But this is not my question to resolve. What I am curious about is not whether or not such
an act would be acceptable, but rather what methods might be used to affect it."

There was a knock. Sisi looked up from his work and stared at the door as if he were judging it for allowing itself to be knocked upon. "May I inquire who it is?" Sisi asked, just loud enough to be heard on the other side.

"Mossadeq. Ras Hassan sent me."

Sisi took a deep breath. He did not like being babysitted, but he could't say no. Hassan was his patron, and for all intents and purposes, Mossadeq was his boss.

"The door is unlocked." Sisi said. He placed his pen back in its well and began to reread his work to, if nothing else, look busy. The door opened and Mossadeq entered.

Commander Mossadeq was one of the many Hassan-made men in the African government. He had been a military radio attendant during the Yohannes years, where he stumbled upon a career-making discovery that Dr. Sisi barely understood. Something had happened in the Sahara back in '71, and whatever it was had left the door open for young Mossadeq to vault up the ranks. Now barely forty, he was in charge of the entire Walinzi.

Mossadeq was of Arab origin - a Tuareg perhaps, or a Bedouin, though Sisi did not quite understand their differences. He wore black fatigues and had a square face topped with greasy black hair. Under his arm, he held a long, thin square package.

"This came up the hill with me." he explained, leaning it against a filing cabinet.

"Ah yes." Sisi jumped out of his chair with delight and began to unwrap the package. "I hope this parcel didn't convoluted your journey."

"I rode with it in the back of a truck." Mossadeq chuckled. "I miss real transportation."

"I believe it was your office that chose to restrict methods of conveyance to this specific locale." Sisi answered uncaringly. Now that the paper wrapping had been ripped away, he was holding a painting in his arms.

"What is that?" Mossadeq asked.

"Butcher Shop of the Anziques" Sisi answered with a satisfied sigh. He looked over it with all the gloating pride of a dedicated materialist. It was an old wood-cut print, depicting a nearly naked man quartering human bodies in a jungle hut. "This is apt, is it not? Our European brethren once looked at us Africans like this."

"It's vile." Mossadeq said disapproving.

"Precisely." Sisi exulted. "It is the symbol of an ancient sort of Africa, perhaps once that never was. But it is apt because I have chose as my profession the betterment of our species through these exact methods. Of course..." he walked across the room and hung it carefully in the place he had chosen. "Of course, I have never partaken in the consumption of human flesh..."

"I am relieved." Mossadeq interrupted. Sisi payed him no mind and continued to ramble.

"But my methods are surgical, and the craft of the surgeon is to make sense out of the practice of the butcher. I flay, peel, inject..."

"That is fine." Mossadeq interrupted again. "But I was sent here for other reasons. How is security here?"

"Security is your affair." Sisi answered coldly. "No patients have escaped if that is what you imply. And there are no implications that snooping eyes of the Hispanic persuasion ever haunt our gates."

"So nobody comes, and nobody leaves?"

Sisi smiled. "Well, you most certainly arrived. Do you want me to detain you, commander?"

"I heard a story in the village." Mossadeq said, ignoring Sisi's jibe. "They say that the government is here to build an army of from the ghosts of their ancestors. Why would they think ghosts?"

Sisi shrugged. "Sometimes my students hunt hogs in the forest. Perhaps lab-coats are too otherwordly for the simple people of Equatoria?"

Mossadeq nodded. "Do you ever worry about what might happen if the Spanish discover your work, Doctor? I am sure you understand the implications."

"My good name would be wrenched through the mud I am sure." Sisi replied. "But I cannot be paranoid about such things."

"It is my job to be paranoid." Mossadeq replied. "I want a plan in place to make this entire complex and all of the... experimentation here disappear in a moments notice."

"Do what you did in Ta'if if you must." Sisi waved his hands. "There is a pit there, it can be done before tea. Just wait until you have to."

"If it can be done, I will order it done." Mossadeq said stubbornly, ignoring Sisi's facetiousness.

"Then it is most assuredly resolved." Sisi smiled. "Now tell me, how is your war?"

"I am in the Congo for more than you, Doctor. I have came to inspect our defenses. Hassan is retreating in Ethiopia..."

"Disappointing." Sisi interjected.

"Yes. But there has been little action on our western border."

"Just raiding and pilfering by the tribes." Sisi nodded. "I knew all of this though."

Mossadeq looked at the good Doctor suspiciously. "Yes. Well, I cannot tell you more. I am here for another reason. Hassan wants to see how his project is turning out."

"Right." Sisi answered. He had an inkling at why Mossadeq had traveled to the west. There were armies here sitting on the borders of the Spanish Empire, and they were not moving. Hassan would not abide an inactive front. "Of course. Let me show you."

--

Sisi gathered a handful of students and they walked with Mossadeq down the switchbacks that led into the mine. One of the students, a young Ethiopian wearing a gabi wrapped around his suit, held a frilled parasol above Sisi's head. The Doctor watched Mossadeq's face twist uncertainly as he studied the drone-like miners down below.

"You appear uncertain, Commander."

Mossadeq frowned. "The mine is spent. Why do you have men working it? And why are we going down here?"

"This is my experimentation. Or rather, this is the experimentation that enthuses Ras Hassan."

"Does mining have an effect on their psychology?"

"Perhaps." Sisi shrugged. "But that is not pertinent here. The human brain is a machine which, at birth, is designed by evolutionary processes to thrive and reproduce. Of course, these commands become entwined in the vagaries of nature and social interaction, and so the human brain is also designed to compensate. And that is what I have done here."

"You have trained them is what you are saying?"

"Precisely." Sisi replied with a singular enthusiasm. "Or near enough to precise. They are more than just trained. In training, you are affecting the outer crust of the soul. It is all muscle memory and enforced routine. What I have done here is something else. Those men and women you see down in this pit, they are not trained to mine. They yearn for it. Only once they place a shovel in the ground do they feel like completed human beings. Think of it like sex..."

"You've trained them to sexually lust for mining?" Mossadeq butted in. Sisi could tell that the commander had become suddenly quite uncomfortable.

"Well, no. Sex is a neural command placed in our possession by Darwinian processes. We lust for for reproduction because father time and mother necessity made our species to do so."

"And you have made these people to lust for digging, just not sexually?"

"I can assure you commander." Sisi grinned. "These particular patients will not use their shovels for anything other than uncovering the earth. The purpose of your visit, I assume, is to answer Hassan's question. Can your government use this? The answer is yes. And, fortuitously, I have made strides with the specific case that Hassan wishes to complete."

"The Walinzi?" Mossadeq asked. "Could we make our move before Addis Ababa falls?"

"I fear not, Commander Mossadeq. But I assure you that it will be finished in time to be useful."

Mossadeq looked at the men around them. "And them? Who knows?"

"The main experiment?" Sisi responded. "Only I. Only I."

--

Mossadeq left Sisi to his thoughts. The Doctor's mind was on politics now, which was not an area that he liked to consider unless he had too. Still, Mossadeq was not completely incorrect. Poking his nose into things he couldn't pretend to understand... well, that was his job, he was the director of the Walinzi. But in voicing his concerns, he had planted a seed of doubt. Dr. Sisi had been a smuggler for many years; he was used to slipping in and out of places without causing any long-lasting trouble for himself, but this time was different. He was beholden to an Empire and a General who's futures were no longer assured, and he had no way of escaping without completing his task. It was only then that he would be a free agent again. He wondered if the science he had bought with this awkward alliance was worth it.

He delicately dipped his pen in the crystalline inkwell and waited a moment. He imagined the distance between Bambari and the Spanish Empire. The border was far away, but he could not say how far it was, and he wondered how quickly the enemy could advance. In thinking about it, he realized how little he understood when it came to military matters. They would face resistance from the Ethiopian military, but how long would that take them? And then there was occupation, and logistics...

Sisi could only know so much. If he was going to complete his work, he had to keep his mind focused on the Scientific. He put pen to paper.


It occurs to me, in discussing the minutiae of my work, that every man
who exercises some sort of power considers themselves layman psychologists.
The easiest miscalculation for a powerful man to make is to assume that the
management and manipulation of so many human beings can be quantified, and
in so doing they damn themselves to perpetual delusion. Think of the lengths
the physicists of the orient had to make in order to propel their equipment
into space. One incorrect calculation or misunderstanding and their rocket
apparatus would have exploded into a fine dust. It is easy for the physical
scientist to see his failure because their work is so simple - it functions
or it does not. But for a social scientist, our practice is foggy and peculiar,
and for a leader who mistakes himself for a practicing social engineer, these
peculiarities ruin their carefully laid plans. Humanity is infinitely more complex
than a rocket, and when a leader presumes to understand the intricacies of the entire
species, there is rarely a grandiose explosion to punctuate his error.

This, of course, kills the relevance of the rigid philosophy. Oh woe to the
Comrade Chairman, or to El Primer Ministro. Everything they believe
must be wrong, because they assume they can describe their respective societies
with a single lonely one word. There are no Communes, There are no Democracies.
Only facsimiles of these things exist.

(The following segment is a collaboration between @Vilageidiotx and I)

July 10th, 1980

Action tiem

Addis Ababa stopped as a river of red cut a meandering course through the city. A line of Chinese soldiers paraded from the south, lacking all indications of subtly. In full bombastic pride, the rigidly locked boots of the Chinese column parted the city's traffic as they sewn through the streets. For a moment, the city stopped to look at the foreigners brashly declaring their presence in not just number: but in color and sound.

For the Chinese, it was as if it were another march towards their African counterparts on the island of Pemba; a visit to the Ethiopian base down the road to conduct training exercises with the lost and disorganized misfits of the Ethiopian military. But the driving emotion that pushed Dezhi Cao to march briskly at his column's head, with his sandy-brown field cap drawn down over his brow, was not pride, or some peacock maneuver to declare his authority and a sense of superiority. It was simply that he knew nothing else.

He was an officer who long paraded himself through mediocrity and mediocre promotions. And it would be the parades that showed he could drag himself from the trench of gutless following and to assert himself. Whether or not the subtlety mattered was beyond him. He would announce himself clear to the Emperor's palace. The turned bewildered faces of the gawking Ethiopians were a minor matter on his mind. He put it instead on the Emperor.

Keeping their pace at his side trailed his staff. Sen Zhou, not drowned in the same desperation to prove herself as Cao, trailed behind much more aware of the people she assumed they were here to protect. How much were they going to be alienated by this? Was this really the sort of thing the Africans needed to see? By the empty look on Chen Wu's face, Zhou imagined the IB agent tied to Cao was at as much a loss as she was. But being IB, it was not hard to imagine the agent would have preferred a manner of subtlety. Now how many would know the Chinese were here?

Though as much as Zhou would have gone an announced presence, an armed military parade through the streets of Addis Ababa all the same felt inappropriate. Music and all. But she had to swallow that bit of doubt and the sudden lack of confidence it bore in her commanding officer.

The procession cut through the heart of the city and began to climb the streets of Addis Ababa's northern edge. Ascending upwards, they came to the street of the imperial residence. With brisk orders, Cao ordered the men to take positions along the side-walks, much like a general assembling his retinue before a liege-lord to present his intentions and the resources which he bore to conquer or assist. The demeanor should have been lost on even Africa, but Cao was in a different mind-set. The men re-grouped, holding red and orange banners with the scrolling writing of Chinese calligraphy in golden stitches. It wasn't deep in meaning, but a re-adoption of romantic imagery for heralding the units in parade. There was even a banner portrait of Hou Sai Tang, whose quiet features and short pointed beard glowed still and dead in the African noon sun, his face lacked the fine and deep lines that had cursed him with his age.

A wall of stone crowned in serrated iron poles separated Addis Ababa from the palatial grounds, itself a lake of emerald greens with the palace at its center. The complex stood adorning the center of the plush yard with a long flagstone walkway, like that from a villa in Western Europe. Groves of trees stood scattered in the yard, while individual trees lined the road and shaded the assembling soldiers from the sun. At the gates, the palace guard stood gawking. They, much like the Chinese parade, looked like something from an older era, with their white uniforms and pith helmets.

“Dezhi Cao, here to see emperor Yaqob Yohannes.” Cao proclaimed to a burly figure who took center position behind the ornamental iron gates of the palace. He leaned to the side on an ivory peg-leg. In his cold hard exterior Sen Zhou recognized on him a look of a soldier, well tested and experienced.

“I suppose so.” he answered, “Come on in, but you leave your army behind.” he invited coldly.

Cao gave a stiff bow before stepping inside. Zhou and Wu lingered outside the gate, though the look of impatience on the guard's face indicated he expected them both to follow. Hesitantly, they stepped through the gate and raced after Cao.

"Should we expect anything?" Sen Zhou asked Wu in a hushed voice. She turned to look behind them, the red flags of their regiment fluttered in the afternoon breeze just beyond the wall. But more stunningly was the guard from the gate, who despite his missing leg kept his pace with them.

"Nothing." Wu answered simply, folding his arms around behind his back. He looked over his shoulder to Zhou and with a bitter look elaborated, "Cao will announce we're here to help, per our orders. Yaqob will give him orders, and we'll be out and I can have some tea."

"Thrilling." Zhou commentated.

As they caught up with their commander they slowed their pace. Together the trio stepped up onto the veranda of the Ethiopia palatial estate. Columned walls marched in either direction as they found the shade of the entryway and made their way to the door. An anxious pitted feeling filled Zhou's gut. It was one thing to charge into gun-fire, but a wriggling nervousness sedated her confidence to approach such an otherworldly extravagant mansion as Yaqob's.

"Yaqob will be waiting in the scroll room." the guard said as he climbed up the steps. His false legged tapped loudly on the warm stone of the steps. He spoke without any particular patience towards the guests. "I'll show you the way." he beckoned as he opened the large, oily-dark doors of the palace structure.

With a step they entered through the door and were swallowed by the monstrous house. Stepping into its marble gullet and corridors.

'The scroll room'. It carried an almost ancient, edifying weight to its name. And between the three officers they believed the name was for some cavernous library, or ancient sanctuary. The very designation of such a space in a building as grand as this held a certain amount of pomp to it, like everything they passed. Ancient armors, paintings, and decorations hung from the wall or stood to the side in safely guarded niches or upon finely decorated pedestals and tables that turned the imperial corridors into less a home and more a museum. To picture a young child running between the suits of medieval Greek armor and ancient aboriginal suits seemed unnatural and unwise, it decorated their opinion of the regime further as being decadent.

The heavy battle-scarred guard though soon led them to the end of their voyage, stopping at a bamboo door. Although the heavy groans of the hinges inclined the three to believe the door was not bamboo, but was a false facade between them and the chamber inside. Dutifully and cautiously with heavy feet they followed the peg-legged figure into the dim confines of the scroll room.

The first to shock them was not resplendent decor, but the low dim light that filled the chamber. Soft amber light shone, copying the very light of a late evening. The bamboo covered floor under their weight sagged and sighed as they stepped inside, their eyes adjusted to the low light and they with-held what was almost a portal to home.

Adorning the walls hung long Chinese silk-scrolls. Between them were ancient Tang and Song pieces with fragile fraying ends and fading ink, and modern reproductions of the ancient styles contrasting the modern life of Hou's dream of an industrial China with the rural agrarian utopia of the classical kingdoms. Proudly set in the center of the room was a ceramic fountain. A serpentine long dragon hung wrapped around it, snarling fiercely with its dog-ish face, and water trickled between its legs.

"The Chinese to seek your audience, your highness." said the guard.

The young emperor walked out from behind the fountain. His black robes flowed down to a pool that trailed behind him as he gently glided across the bamboo. He looked gently - if coldly - at the three Chinese officers present before them. "Good afternoon, pleasure to meet you." he greeted them.

"To you, comrade." Cao bowed, giving the emperor the same curt stiff bow afforded of all Chinese, "An impressive collection." he complimented. A nervous tingling played in his tongue and danced in the back of his throat. He felt as if the words were a cloud of dry scratchy feathers, and he coughed them out with uncomfortable force.

To Zhou as well there was the same alienating sensation of being here. Made only the more complicated that she knew - or felt - the man's rank of Emperor was somehow inappropriate. Yet she still felt she should be standing before some remnant of the Qing regime and not the solemn mournful presentation of Yaqob. The feel was no less lost on Cao. But for Wu, he hid behind a distant shell. He merely observed.

"It is." he said kindly, walking to the hanging scrolls, "I acquired them over my stay in China. I find them charming, and beautiful." he smiled as he pointed to them, "Your culture is most fascinating. There is a shared heritage between us I think. Here we are, the two oldest nations on Earth, and we have came together in friendship." He paused for moment, wet eyes fixed keenly on his guests. He only looked away when he motioned to one of the glass cases. "These are commissioned works from Hou." he continued approvingly, "They were gifted to me. The older ones I acquired on my own. This one is from the early Song dynasty I am told. Look at the jagged features of the mountains and cedars. One thing I regret about my time in your country is that I never got to see the wild places that inspired works like these. Tell me, have you seen the mountains?"

"These are commissioned works from Hou." he continued approvingly, "They were gifted to me. The older ones I acquired on my own."

"They're very beautiful." agreed Cao. He felt a close pain that they should be so in the way of the Spanish aggression and that when all else fails here: these may be a casualty of war. They were close, and familiar. A part of him as much as his blood was to China. There smoldered a guilty anger that the African noble had acquired these words - new and old - for a personal collection to boost a sense of self-important pride. It was like Europe's abuse of the heritage of the Spring Palace, and he was as much offended by the collection as he was with that. But he subdued that distaste for the sake of formality, "I'm here on different issues." he said. He felt that weight of war come back on his shoulders as he spoke those words.

"Yes." Yaqob decoupled from the art. He moved away from it like a young mother being parted with her first child. "I have been briefed. You want to prepare an evacuation. You should know that the Spanish advance is closing in on Dire Dawa. Hararghe is closed to you, which means we do not have direct access to the sea. We will have to rely on the less reliable roads in the south that lead to Mogadishu and Swahililand."

"That's fine." Dezhi Cao smiled, "But I have access to airplanes of my own. If need be we could withdraw some of the civilian population to Pemba, and from there anywhere out of the way." he paused for a minute, wondering if he was being polite enough of if any of this would lose him his rank or even freedom in Africa, "Of course we can still see what can be done with Mogadishu or Swahililand, it's certainly an option open to us."

"If you think that is efficient, I will support it." Yaqob said diplomatically. "I am not an expert on these sorts of operations, so I can only follow the lead of those who are. But come, lets not stand around in here. There isn't enough room, and there is only one bench. Will you join me for coffee?"

"Yes" Cao said. He wasn't certain how to respond. Imperial pomp had scattered his wits, and now he was doing everything he could to maintain his professionalism.

"We will move out to the veranda." Yaqob motioned. "It'll be easier to talk in the open air."

--

"It would be safer if we take how many we can out of Africa." Cao continued from earlier. He tapped his fingers on the small glass of coffee in his hands. The conversation had moved well outside, into the shade of a shaded veranda, looking out across the city below them.

The four men sat at a wooden table, shrouded in the protection of a overhanging eave. Bespeckled brilliant white marbled columns rose like tree trucks to the safe embrace of their roof. As they sat and sipped coffee, a warm mid-summer's brief drifted by, ruffling the uniforms of distant servants and attendants and the crowns of palms and trees that scratched from below.

Dezhi Cao felt estranged to have accepted an offer from an Emperor. And for it to be offered to such a mid-level officer as himself. He had politely refused, but Yaqob's polite insistence had persisted and he begrudgingly took the drink. Sen Zhou and Chen Wu themselves held small cups of the bitter African coffee as they sat in the shade of the marbled veranda.

"I just feel that if we were to take your people to Mogadishu or anywhere near to the coast would put them at risk." he continued. The young Emperor reclined on the other side of a wooden table. "I can bring them to Pemba, or whoever can. And from there we could move them as refugees out of the country, to China perhaps. Or having moved them from the front lines to deeper into Africa; further from the Spanish."

"We cannot move them into the interior." Yaqob said curtly. "There is nowhere to put them there. You see, this country is not like your country. I don't know how to explain this but... well, here. Observe."

Yaqob took the heated coffee pot and the extra cups and moved them, leaving an empty porcelain tray in the center of table. "This is my country." he said calmly "It isn't the same shape of course, but just imagine it is my country." And then, as sudden as a storm, Yaqob took his own cup of coffee and poured it onto the tray. Steaming black liquid pooled in the center, and spread out so that most all of the tray was covered except for the raised edges and some dry spots in the corners where the spilled coffee could not reach. "If this tray is my country, the coffee is the places that I cannot control. We do not have cities there, and the only infrastructure in those places are a few roads and cramped government offices. In most of my country, I could not hope to feed refugees, or even house them. My government is mostly powerless in the coffee stained lands. I cannot even be certain if everybody in those places know they are part of a nation at all. And the places on the edges, like those on the tray that are not touched by the spill, are burdened and endangered by the war. The moment that Kinshasa falls, I will lose everything south of the Congo river and west of the Nile. That is almost half of my Empire. And when that falls, and Addis Ababa falls, what exactly will I have with which to protect refugees in the center? If you are going to understand my country, you need to understand that there are three keys to it. Ethiopia and her highlands is where our power is. Somalia and the Ogaden is loyal, but sparsely populated. That is where my grandfather drew his power from. The third key to this Empire is the Congo river. When those fall, I am only a sad ruler of dirt, and I can do nothing to protect my people."

"Then there's not too many places for me to put your people that would put them out of the Spaniard's way, and I'd rather not want to find out what would happen." Cao admitted strongly, "Let me take them to China. I can request further aerial support. Those we don't have room for can attempt the trip to Mogadishu or Swahililand when or if I lose time.

"Admitting, though I can do this for Addis I may not be able to do it with all of Africa; if I can reach them all."

To the side, Chen Wu gave his commander a cynical look. Subtle as to be hidden from the emperor. But Cao could feel the cold sharpness of his eyes crawling on him. For a moment it was there, then it was gone.

Yaqob smiled. "I do not think you have the resources to move most of Ethiopia, let alone most of Africa." The Emperor reached out and placed his hand on Cao's. The officer recoiled uncomfortably, clearly confused but polite about it all the same. Yaqob continued to speak. "But I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to see that my ally cares so much. I do not know if I will survive this war, and I fear what will become of this continent when I am gone. My people will fight for their right to live, and it is good to know that you will fight for them as well."

Yaqob's hand broke away when a servant came to fetch the coffee-drenched tray. He swapped it for a new one, and his presence brought a pause in the conversation.

"I want you to focus on taking the people who can rebuild the nation when the Spaniards are defeated. Many in the government have fled to Gondar, but I can call back some of the non-essential personnel. I also want you to focus on the university students and men who own wealth in the capital. These are the people who you will need. Of course, I must say, they probably will not all accept your invitation. In fact, it might be rather hard for you to collect many willing refugees at all, aside from peasants from the villages."

"We can see what we can do." Cao answered stiffly, "It is the least that I can practice at the least. If some would refuse and find themselves on the wrong side of Spain and there was nothing I can do then regretfully: so be it." he took a measured breath. He felt a tinge of guilt. A part of him asked the question on if he could force people away. But what would the good in it be if they were prisoners?




July 13th, 1980 - Present

“... Of a vote three-hundred ninety for, eighty-five against, and twenty-five absentee, this international congress does agree to commit this body to a state of war against the Spanish Republic.” the tape recorder crackled and popped, “On this date: July third, 1980 the Third International declares its intention for war against Spain, obligating its members to commit to the cause a body of soldiers, resources, and equipment to the current conflict in Africa. This deceleration shall be made to the Republic of Spain itself, as properly regarded and observed under international practice.”

A distorted, muffled bout of cheering filled the room, momentarily drowning out the speakers voice as it warbled back into prominence through the grainy hum of feedback and background noise, “-ations under the jurisdiction of and membership to the International are required to make their obligations for the following objectives:

“Firstly, to initiate in combat with the Spanish Republic on the intended purpose of military and political withdrawal from Africa if not the disarmament of the Spanish military for this incursion on sovereign territory this body has agreed to defend. In doing so: the international commanding body shall be drawn and elected to oversee the operations into and within the Pan-African Empire.

“Secondly, given the likelihood of sustainable damage in this conflict, we commit ourselves to rebuilding the Ethiopian state should it sustain any degree of damage to its self: administrative, infrastructural, or economic. We will lend our abilities: our strengths. And in doing so be of benefit to the African people and their liberty and freedoms, to defend them from imperial powers.”

Again, there was another bout of applause and cheering as the tape cut off silent, the reels stopping dead as the reader was shut off.

“We had several day's time.” Hou said in a low voice as he leaned on his cane, resting his pointed beard on the gnarled knuckles of his hands. He looked down at it with a strong look of apprehension. It was a dark cloud to him, and he heard thunder in what he heard as jingoistic cheers. “But now that it's been done it's time we lay it out.”

He looked up at the men gathered at the table, they were again in the basement of the army headquarters. The spartan décor of the conference room glowed with the sterile light of florescent and hummed the low song of cycling air conditioning. Outside it would be a hot day, and vendors would be prowling the streets hawking chilled fruits and cold drinks.

The full command was present here, and several other guests. Xiaogang Wen and Yue Zen being the most prominent of the non-military bodies present. Their civilian uniforms stood out like sore thumbs among the drab green, blues, and grays of military accompaniment. Or the glimmer of metals on the chest of the generals. Their faces too were at contrast, uncomfortable and awkward as they shared the same air with the martial command of the entire Chinese military. Yue Zen herself appeared coldly out of place as she danced nervously under her red-silk gown.

“I already took obligations to re-mobilize the Pemba garrison.” Lou Shai Dek began, his voice dropped, “As you are aware. For the benefit of some of us: Cao Wen and his men are to see to duties in Addis Abada. According to him, he's to assist the Ethiopians in evacuating Addis Ababa.”

“It could perhaps take time.” Jan Jang spoke, “So I wouldn't imagine they could get to Yaqob right away. He's surely a busy man.

“Though his wife and son are in his care, which must be a burden released from his shoulders at least.” he said in a positive tone. The comment was directed towards Hou, as the commander turned to look at the chairman. “What are the Queen and heir apparent's residency statuses?” he inquired.

“They're staying at my home.” Hou answered, “For the time being.”

“Charity is nice.” smiled Jang, “And if you wouldn't mind me adding comrade, it's perhaps about time you invited a woman to stay with you.” he laughed.

His laughter told cold however and died as he saw Hou's dissatisfied look. He turned to uncomfortable caws and chocked coughs as he adjusted himself in his seat. Yan Sing looked from Hou to the commander with a cold look of with held knowing, tapping a cigarette against the table. “Your trying to lighten the mood is appreciated but not appropriate.” scolded Hou.

“Forgive me, comrade.” Jang bowed, rising out of his chair.

“Just sit down!” Hou ordered. Punctuating the command with a hard knock of the cane against the floor, “The issue at hand: what is it? Do we have anything more?”

“The Vietnamese parliament has already rose their own bar for obligations by declaring war on Spain themselves.” Wen Daohang spoke from the far-side of the room. He loitered like an elderly ghost against the wall. He was a frail figure of advanced age. Older even than Hou: and not as powerful a figure by any means.

“The official statement very much mirrors that of the International's deceleration but it moves them to greater personal obligation. The Quân Đội Nhân Dân is without a doubt going to be set up to be moved.

“Unofficially, I suppose the move is possibly symbolic and I was asked to forward a request to Jan Jang and Han Shen for assistance, hoping it might be part of the Comintern obligations. But we're going to need to exact scale of our obligations from parliament, so it's a pending request right now.”

“Do the Vietnamese lack that sort of resources?” asked Yue Zen.

“Afraid so.” Daohang expressed regretfully, “They have some, but they're not equipped to move nearly that far or to move that many men so quickly.”

“Understood, I'll wait on Congress.” Han Shen agreed, “When do our departments expect this?”

“They'll convene tomorrow to vote.” the congressional secretary answered with no due ceremony, “Since the International's decision the prospect of going to war like our comrades to the south has gained traction. It's not enough to seal a majority, but with time it'll happen. But there will be enough support for sure to determine our obligations.”

“How did they take the news about Pemba being moved, if I can ask?” inquired Hou.

“No movement. I don't think they heard or cared.” smiled Wen, “Or really, since they were there on an existing mission it's hard for them to write it off so it's not being tried. Shai Dek could march them to the western borders and they can't challenge it.”

“An intriguing offer but I don't think so.” smiled Lou, “But I got a notice that I assume means I'm the International Commander, Hou signed off on the order. So I may be able to do that.”

“Pulling two commands at once, that I must say is impressive.” Sing spoke up, his voice soft like a hissing snake.

“We're no longer any young lieutenants anymore.” scoffed and already exacerbated Lou Shai Dek, “I can't say I'm not looking forward to it.”

“For once one of our own gets the honor and privileged to fight the Spanish!” Han Shen cheered, “It's been a few years, not since Aurora. But that was only one engagement with the Americans and not the whole war.”

“The last foe any of us fought on par with Spain would have been the Japanese.” Jan Jang barked.

“We shouldn't focus on nostalgia, not right now.” Hou reminded them bitterly. Jang looked about nervously, then resigned himself to silence. “Comrade Wen, do you need anything?”

“I could use a request to take before Congress,” he said, “Something less than all-out war, but will maintain image among the International. I don't get the impression you don't want to push conflict prematurely, comrade Hou.”

“No, I don't.”

“That is well.” Wen conceded.

“We maintain the Pemba detachment's importance in Africa.” Lou spoke up, “That's a sure given. I can order the nation-side reserve to be prepared for deployment. It won't make them happy without knowing who's going or when they're going. And for that we can probably send a unit to Africa alongside the international force.

“I'll be meeting with the rest of the commanding body, and we will find out where out staging ground should be. With the Ethiopian Navy destroyed we can expect it to be obviously hairy. So for certain we'll need naval resources; no one else in the Comintern has an effective naval force for this level of projection, the weight – in Asia at least – is on us.”

“The commanding agent close to Radek has given me a report that Radek is keen on seeing some sort of raiding detail done against Spanish commercial assets.” Sing spoke up in his cold unwavering voice, “He's met recently with Shen Shao. He hasn't been keyed into the details, but there's an expectation from him that he feel we have a tactical asset in the west with the submarine squadron idling away at Arkhangelsk.”

“The Bohai will be a terrifying asset against Spain. Shao was the man responsible for sinking the Vanguardia.” Shen reminded them, “Given the permission, he should be utilized.”

“Is there a place in the modern world for piracy though?” an aghast Yue Zen nearly shouted, “This isn't the 18th century. The world has laws against that!”

“No one ever punished the Great Powers in Europe for it.” said Shen, “The idea isn't totally invalidated if Europe looses some cargo and capital at sea. Especially the Spanish.”

“I'll see to it that Congress is known.” acknowledged Wen, “Let them argue the finer points. If Hou'll sign off on it.”

“I will.” the chairman promised.

“What's the status of the Russian conflict?” Hou asked Lou, “In this event we were going to allocate men there to Africa. Is Huei Wen ready?”

“No. No he is not.” Shai Dek conceded with remorse, “He hasn't made gains that he's comfortable with. Given our exchanges I doubt he would be complacent with a move and strictly advises a withdrawal from Russia of any kind. The conditions of fighting he says is far too fluid; even with the gains he's made.

“I believe by the time he's seized the Urals he might reconsider the option for a drawback.”

“Likewise Turkestan isn't ready.” Daohang gently cut in, “Their government is eager. But not so eager. Our men are their supplement at the border. There's a deep concern that if we were to leave there would be far less guns to keep the Russian Mafiya from entering their country. If even as a transit stop. So we can't see to an end to our military mission there.”

“Delays all around, it'll be from native garrisons then.” Wen concluded, “I'll let Congress know this.”

“It might be looked at as escalatory, and dangerous...” Jan Jang nervously interjected. He held his mouth for a moment as he looked over the present heads as they turned to him, “But we could utilize the GHH program in the future to perform their intended purpose over the field of battle in Africa.

“The accuracy will be questionable. But it's the only real, long-range resource we have at our hands. Something by which to bomb the front from here at home.

“Should it come down to it, when it does: then we could use it to target the Suez.” he rapped his fingers nervously on the desk, “So far they've been successful in recon on Spanish Africa. But they haven't ever had a combat mission outside of evaluation and training.

“But, it could be showing our hand early. And do we need the Spanish to push to meet us in the upper atmosphere like that?”

“No, hardly.” Shai Dek admitted hesitantly, “It's an option to consider, but one we should leave on the side. The tactical advantages would be a benefit but we don't know what Spain will do once they figure it out. We'll save it when the conflict escalates.”

“Noted, all of it.” Hou spoke, “Last thing: do we perhaps know if Spain will simply back out of this? Daohang?”

“There hasn't been any scuttling demands to meet at the table for peace yet, but any belligerent or third party. This may be the big one, or we're scared of Spain.

“But I'll look into composing demands they cease hostilities and move a statement out. Is the official stance condemnation?”

“Of course it is.” Hou wheezed, coughing lightly into his shoulder, “See what you can do and if maybe. And see if the rule of the last ten years applies.”



A rare breath of fresh hair. A short break from the rush of a campaign. If only for a day, Auyi was home. With his legs stretched out, he sat leaning over a note-book, frantically scribbling down the short sharp characters in the composition of a speech. For what: he didn't know. But having poured so much thought on the road, the river never stopped to flow. Auyi even could not stop to claim to know the topic as it swayed organically through the valleys of his hand-writing. Cutting a course in short sharp lines and dots.

The summer in Guangxi wasn't merciful, though hardly stifling. The foreboding humidity of spring was on its way out, but the sun was at its peak over the valley of the Li River. But it was hardly a matter of issue as Auyi sat composing his thoughts in the shade of his veranda, a glass of tea on the wicker table alongside him.

Echoing distantly from the river below the urging song and chant of the lone fisherman echoed up the bank and among the softly rustling trees. Auyi glanced up off the book to the river below. Dancing in the river's meditative languid bends an old man on a bamboo raft gently bobbed up and down as he sung to and encouraged a flock of cormorants to bring to him fish. The day was quiet, and the water calm and smooth, and the elderly fisherman had the entire river to himself. He was in his world as much as Auyi.

He turned his attention away from the river and the sugar-loaf mountains along its banks to the writing at hand. Again, the scribbling of the pen danced across the bleached white parchment of his notebook as his flow of thought continued unimpeded. Thoughts on the Comintern's recent decision and its weight flowed into thoughts on China's greater importance on a world stage. He wondered on paper if the hermit empire could – and if its time had come – to exert itself upon the world stage.

There was a noise to Auyi's left that rose his attention from his writing. With a sour look he turned to look to the veranda's door. There standing, shivering with his face pale was Auyi's campaign manager. Chen Wu, whose normally stretched mousy face had become even more taught stood leaning against one of the porch's posts. It didn't take long for Auyi to realize something was up. Folding his book over his pen he placed it alongside his tea as he rose. “Comrade...” he spoke softly, “Something's up?” he inquired.

He could feel his own tensity. Wu's eyes were wide behind his wide bottle-glass spectacles.

“Something is very, very wrong.” he sighed. He leaned his mouth into the inside of his elbow as he turned to look at the river and mountain valley.

“Well what is it?” Auyi asked concerned. It couldn't be his family, they were here at home. It couldn't be Bao Yu, she was in the kitchen preparing for dinner. And Jie was in his room, playing with wooden horses. This was something greater, larger.

“Duang Wu was attacked on the campaign trail.” Chen Wu answered in a hushed voice. He turned back to look inside, urgently gesturing his hands he pulled Auyi to the side, “I was just informed fifteen minutes ago by the Central National Police in Beijing,” the manager continued as he pulled Auyi from the door and windows, to a distant corner of the deck.

Pinning himself against the corner beam he continued, his own tone of voice high and stressed. But very much hushed, concerned someone would be listening, “There was an explosive, planted or thrown somewhere near the stage he was giving a speech on. A piece of metal pierced his chest, he bled out before they could get him to a hospital.”

“No shit...” Auyi commented, aghast and stricken, “Do they know who did it? Why?” Auyi had worked with Duang Wu prior, he was a loud man; but he was vibrant. He shared great support for Auyi's intentions as a minister.

“I-I got nothing. N-no details.” Chen Wu admitted. His voice was weakening. Whether it was sadness or fear was a dangerous question; it could be both.

“Well... How's his family?” Auyi asked, if there was any question more human to ask: it was that.

“I- ah... I-I- they'll be fine.” Wu stammered, “A-atleast I don't think anyone was trying to attack t-them. Ah- uh, they'll no doubt receive his pension and compensation, he – Duang – technically died in office after all. So they'll... They'll get something.”

Auyi nodded. A dark cloud had flown low over his mind. A terrible thought that was getting more dangerous than it should crept cold fingers into his consciousness. “I don't want this to happen again.” Auyi demanded, “No one – me, my family, you, or the people – can't be put in harms way. Can you get in contact with the national police, see what you can do with stepped up security?”

“Handoi Hu is no doubt looking into that and organizing something.” a shuddering Chen Wu said, “But OK. Yes, I will.”

“Good, good...” Auyi smiled. But it was weak. Another false mask to wear. He chewed idly on his lips as he looked up passed his manager to the mountains, “Was anyone else hurt?”

“Eight others, two died from the explosion, four suffered severe injuries, I don't know about the other two.”

“Right.” nodded Auyi, he looked back towards the house, “Try to keep it quiet around Bao Yu, I don't want her upset. But for a while can you keep her distant from my campaign? Just in case something happens.”

“It'll be for the best.”

“Thank you.”

Toledo, Ohio

Billy Carter watched from the dugout as Country Jones came to the plate. Country, called such because he came from Arkansas or some other hick place, was currently leading the Ohio League in home runs, runs batted in, and batting average. County swung the bat in his hands a few times in practice. Billy saw his large biceps flex with each swing. Years of working in fields and throwing bales of cotton had created those muscles. Although a colored man, Country was the best player on the Mud Hens and without a doubt one of the best in the whole Ohio League.

"C'mon, Country," Billy yelled with the rest of the team.

The game today marked Billy's tenth with the club since joining them as a batboy. He found the ball field a few hours after he and Clark Johnson jumped off the train they had hid on all the way from Detroit. Clark found work a day or two after they got to Toledo. It was welding workd in a machine shop for damn good pay for a colored man, especially compared to what he was making back in Detroit. He asked around and found a job for Billy with the steel foundry next door. Maybe in the fall and winter, Billy had said. For now he was all about baseball.

Mud Hens manager Phil Lagrange said he had a full team in the middle of the season and couldn't put him on the roster. But he saw that hunger in Billy's eyes, he must have recognized it as something he had a long time ago. Billy just wanted to be on and around the baseball diamond, regardless of what he was doing. He watched Billy play and was impressed, so he cut a deal with him. Billy got to hang around and take in the sights and be the team's batboy in exchange for an option to try out for the team next year, or if they were in dire need of an emergency player he could play some this year.

Country stepped to the plate and choked up on the bat. It was the bottom of the sixth, Mud Hens up 4-3 to the Sandusky Snappers. The pitcher on the mound had been throwing heat all game long, but he was inaccurate as hell. Plenty of his fastballs were meatballs. Early in the third, Skeeter Collins sent one ball rocketing out over the left field fence for two runs. Country himself had knocked in two runs the next inning with a line drive that moved so fast it had steam on it. Now with the pitcher on the mound getting tired, his velocity going down along with his accuracy, this was where Country thrived.

After two wide pitches set up the count for 2-0, the third pitch came across the plate and hit Country right in the left thigh. He fell backward onto the ground and started hollering. Billy and the rest of the Mud Hens were on their feet shouting, threating to come out of the dugout and tear that son of a bitch to pieces.

"Sit the hell down!" Lagrange shouted over the din. "Sit down, all of you! Ain't nobody fighting here today!"

He went out to the plate while the rest of the team watched warily from in the dugout. Lagrange helped Country to his feet and, with the help of the Snapper's catcher, got him limping back into the dugout. Country took his hat off and tossed it to the ground.

"Fuck!"

"Calm down," Lagrange said as he tore open Country's pants and looked at his leg. "It's a bruise. A deep fucking one that'll take a few days to heal, but I'm sure ain't nothing broke, Country."

Lagrange stood and looked around the dugout while Country kept cursing up a storm. The old manager's blue eyes cut through the ruckus and commotion inside the dugout before they fell on Billy.

"Carter."

"Yes, sir."

Billy suddenly noticed the noise had died down. You could hear a pin drop, but all Billy could hear was his own heartbeat.

"I need a pinch runner for Country. You still wanna play ball?"

"Yes, sir," he said in a voice that sounded more like a croak than his actual voice.

"Then get ready, son."

Lagrange went out to talk to the ump about the change while two of the Mud Hens turned Billy around and drew on his back. As a ballboy, his shabby uniform didn't have a number. Using a piece of charcoal they scratched a double-aught on his back.

"Get 'em kid," one of them said as they ruffled his hat.

"Run like hell, boy!"

Billy trotted out onto the field while Lagrange waved at him on the way back to the dugout. He took his place and first and took a deep breath. A fair sized crowd were here today, not too many people can come to a ball game on a weekday afternoon, but it was more people than Billy had ever played in front of that was for damn sure. Mike Carlton, the first base coach, patted him on the shoulder. The Snapper's first baseman eyed Billy sideways. The man, he may have been in his early 20's but compared to Billy he was fully a man, spat a wad of tobacco juice on the dirt and got set.

The staticky PA system in the stands crackled to life. "Pinch running for Country Jones is... 00, Willy Carter."

Billy looked back at Carlton with wide eyes.

"They got my name wrong, coach!"

"It's not the end of the world, son. Now pay attention."

"Now batting, 21, third baseman Matthew Robinson."

Matt came to the plate and took a few practice swings. A white boy from Indiana, Matt was more of a solid contact hitter than a home run threat. He hit his share of bombers this season, but nothing compared to Country. Shit, nobody except the big leaguers were keeping pace with Country. Billy watched the signals from the third base coach and took his lead. With a one-run lead, they'd be looking for insurance, but Lagrange never got too aggressive with it. Billy didn't get the green light to steal from the third base coach, but he still took his usual long lead.

The pitcher stared at him long and hard before winding up and tossing a hard one to the plate. Matt fouled it off right behind the plate. Had he been just a second earlier with his swing, that ball would be halfway to Canada. Billy took another long lead, sliding back to first after a failed pickoff attempt sent dirt flying in the air. Billy dusted himself off and smiled. He was in the pitcher's head now. It was just like playing ball back home in Detroit. Another long lead, another pickoff attempt that Billy beat back to first.

Finally, he threw to Matt. It was a meatball that Matt got around on and sent screaming out to right field. Billy started running at the sound of contact. The line drive bounced into right field as Billy was rounding second. The right fielder out there got a good hop on it and was scooping it into his glove while Billy was halfway between second and third. He saw the stop sign the third base coach was making as he raced towards the bag. Billy had but one thought:

Fuck that.

He shot around third and was running towards home with a full head of steam. He saw the ball coming from right field in a straight shot. Right fielder had one hell of an arm, Billy thought in those few seconds between third and home. The only concession he would make was that going home might not have been the best idea. The catcher was standing at the plate, eyes glued on the ball as it came from right field. I was a simple foot race at this point, Billy's feet against the ball.

He got low and slid for home. The dust kicked up, but he could hear the snap of the catcher's mitt and feel it slap him on the back. But not before his long fingers touched home plate.

"Safe!" The ump yelled.

Billy stood up, covered in dirt and dust and pumped his fist. The hometown crowd cheered and applauded while Matt Robinson was still on first base clapping. Billy walked to the dugout and to a round of back slaps and handshakes from the rest of the team. Lagrange wrapped a meaty arm around his shoulder and pulled him in close.

"That was a thing of beauty, kid," he said in Billy's ear. "But you ignore my third base coach again, I'll fucking break your neck."

-----

Washington, D.C.

"Traci, get in here right now!"

Traci Lord looked up from her cubicle office at her name being bellowed across the offices of the Washington Post, her home for the last few months. Scowling, she stood up and walked through the bullpen with all eyes on her. Bill Bussey, the Post's managing editor, had a stare that could cut through steel. But Traci had already learned that his bark was far worse than his bite. She saw a copy of her story in his hands as she entered his office.

"What is this shit?"

"It's a story, sir. You know, letters arranged into words, words arranged into sentences, and so on and so on until a narrative takes shape."

Bussey scowled at Traci for a moment before sliding his reading glasses on his pointy Roman nose and reading her story.

"'Congressman Harlan Lewis' House bill to fund the African war effort against Spain is a step in the right direction, a step that can lead to strides if the Norman Administration is willing to end its continuous stalling on foreign affairs.' You don't see a problem with that?"

Traci shrugged. "It's an op/ed article, Bill. My opinion and not the paper's."

"You all but called the president chicken-shit."

"My opinion, Bill."

Bussey's scowl deepened, his face turning a shade of red. "The paper endorsed Norman, we like Norman."

"Oh, I like him too," said Traci. "But he's letting Congress dictate the pace of is foreign policy. It's--"

"Not very presidential?" Bussey asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I was going to say chicken shit," she said with a smirk. "But that works too."

"Whatever you think, I'm rejecting the column."

"What?!" Traci's eyes went wide. It was all she could do to keep from going across the desk and tackle Bussey to the ground.

"We didn't hire you for your op/eds, Traci. We want stories, Traci Lord stories. I want you out in the field, reporting events as they happen. Like that embedded story you did in China. That artist?"

She turned a shade of red. Everyone brought up that story. A year in China ended up with a twelve-part series for the New York Times about the day to day life in the People's Republic. She spent time with everyone from the politicians on down to beggars in the street. The series was a smash hit at home and made her a known name in journalism. She'd spent most of that year with a dashing painter named Mei. Mei had more skill in the bedroom than he ever did on the canvas, a fact that came through when he painted Traci's portrait. The Badly Drawn Lady was the name the wits at the Foreign Correspondents Association in Bejing gave the painting when the saw it. The story had circulated around press corps and news services until it became the stuff of legends.

"Bill, I--"

"You know what I mean, Traci," he said with hand up to stall her protest. "You are a known quantity now, sure. And we did promise you editorial pages, something we've been living up to. But this bill going through the House could have serious consequences. I want you roaming the Capitol day and night, talking to everyone in Congress about it. Take the mood of the place and track the course of the bill. I want drama, Traci. I want the type of drama only you can give to a story. That is ten times more powerful than any opinion you can provide, can you do that?"

Traci nodded after a moment's deliberation.

"I'll make some phone calls and head to the Capitol as soon as I can."

-----

Chicago

Johnny Leggario cracked his knuckles and settled back into the seat of his car. Six hours into the stakeout and he had settled in for a long haul. The house he was sitting on was a dump, a scorched husk of a building that someone torched years ago. It was the perfect place for squatters and people trying to lay low. Johnny had Carl the Wop to thank for leading him here. Carlo Di Pietro ala Carl the Wop, capo to the Greek and one of the many cogs in the Outfit, managed a dozen bookie shops on the Northside of the city for the Greek. Johnny spent three days boning up on Carl the Wop through his contacts, following the man and his family as they went about their day to day tasks.

Carl's bio read like a million others who joined the Life, always written out with an uppercase L. He was old school, joined the Outfit when he was still a teenager during Capone's heyday. Purse snatching led to strongarm robberies which led to hijacking and running numbers. Sixty years old and Carl had climbed as far on the criminal ladder as he could go. To some, that would mark Carl as a suspect for the robberies. He couldn't get past the Greek, so he was letting his own joints get heisted and splitting the money. He got paid and got to rub shit in the old man's eye.

The clues that tipped Johnny off to the real culprit were long sleeves and itchy arms. Carl's youngest son, Carlo Jr., still lived with his folks at the age of thirty. Johnny watched him coming and going the past few days. He always wore long sleeve shirts and always picked at his arms when he walked down the street. It took Johnny all of ten minutes to peg Carlo as a junkie, the sleeves hiding the track marks that itched so bad when the kid needed a fix. He followed Carlo to a shooting gallery near Jefferson Park. From there Johnny followed the guy Carlo copped from which led him to a stash house in Forest Glen. A small pack of four dealers worked out of the house. Four dealers, a four-man crew ripping off bookie spots, a weak junkie whose father ran the bookmaking shops, a junkie that could trade information for a fix.

He waited another four hours before he made his move. It was five in the morning when Johnny slipped on a pair of canvas gloves and carried a six shot revolver with a suppressor attached to the end under his sports jacket. He looped around the back of the building and came through a broken window, slow and quietly to avoid noise and cuts from the shards of glass around the building. Johnny pulled the gun out along with a flashlight covered in tape, emitting only a pin-sized light to use as a guide. He held his nose when he passed by three buckets that had been used as latrine. It took him ten minutes to find their stash tucked away in a baseboard near the fireplace. Nearly a hundred grand in crisp twenty dollar bills inside a satchel, not the type of money junkies handed over for Horse. No, this was the type of money the Greek's places carried before a big payout was coming. In addition to the cash, Johnny found a half pound of uncut H, two shotguns, and six pistols. He tucked the money, dope, and guns into the satchel and swung it over his shoulder.

Johnny slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Just like he'd been taught. The four guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. Johnny kept the flashlight beam low and aimed. Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off four quick shots. The rounds hissed through the room, four bullets exploding the four men's heads. He reloaded and fired off four more to each man's heart to be sure they were dead. His task done, calmly walked out into the early morning air. Johnny tucked the revolver into his jacket and climbed into the car, driving six blocks away before tossing the gun and his gloves in a trash can beside the road.

--

"Who the fuck are you?"

Carl the Wop sized Johnny up like a piece of meat. He stood on the doorstep of the man's impressive townhouse, impassively meeting the mobster's gaze.

"I'm Johnny Legs. You know who I am, who I work for. Let's take a ride."

The look of recognition filled Carl's eyes, quickly followed by fear. He knew what Johnny did, and why he was visiting him like this. Johnny saw a tremble in his lip, his eyes beginning to show moisture.

"Oh, God... Please--"

"If I was going to kill you you'd be dead already," Johnny said with slight annoyance. "Let's take a ride."

Thirty minutes later they were sitting in Johnny's car, parked outside a coffee shop ten blocks away from Carl's home. Johnny retold the story, the guys robbing the Greek's shops, following the trail and killing the four men, and of course Carl's own son.

"Look... I know my son has had problems, and me and my wife we've tried to help him... but... you..."

"You know who I work for," Johnny said again with a cool tone. "I'm offering you the chance to do it on your son's terms. Bobby C. will hold you and your family responsible for this theft. If he has his way, I'm gonna come back to your house with four more guys and we'll chop your entire family to pieces."

Carl the Wop slumped forward in the seat and began to shake as he sobbed. Johnny ignored him and instead pulled a covered syringe from his coat pocket.

"This spike is loaded up with pure heroin. I don't care if your boy is a goddamn dope fiend, this much pure H will kill him. It's either the OD or that other option I mentioned. Either give it to him or inject him tonight when he's asleep, but he does not live to see tomorrow."

Johnny slipped the syringe into Carl's jacket while the man continued to cry. He felt a stab of remorse and something else much more powerful. Johnny realized it was envy. If Jimmy Leggario would have been faced with this same dilemma, he knew Jimmy would not hesitate to sacrifice his son to save his own ass.

Carl the Wop went back home somber and quiet. They rode in silence, the only time Carl acknowledged Johnny at all was a short nod to him as he got out the car and went into his house. For an old soldier like Carl, the nod was final acceptance to do what needed to be done. Johnny hit a nearby payphone and called Stein to tell him that the job was completed. He told the lawyer to notify the Bobby C. to check the papers and he'd find five deaths on the Northside all within the same day of each other, a quadruple homicide, and one OD. The lawyer gave his appreciation and told Johnny where to drop off the cash and drugs he had recovered. The money for the job would be waiting for him when he arrived home that night.

Johnny started up his car and headed back home. It wouldn't be long before he got another phone call with another job and another person who needed to be hurt. Johnny hated himself, not because he was becoming his old man, but because he had become his old man. He glanced up in the car's rearview mirror and wasn't entirely sure who it was he saw staring back at him.

The Egyptian Desert

Leyla could feel the desperation of her party growing with every day. It was high summer now, and the heat was brutal. They were sweating away their water supply as quick as they could drink to replace it. Their survival depended on getting out of this dreaded country and back to their own kind, but that meant miles more to go.

The heat was effecting their cars as well. Radiators drank up water just as quickly as the people, and the cruel sand storms of the red desert had a way of gunking up their engines. That was the way it was with sand. It got into everything; their clothes, their hair, their food, and every crevice of their bodies. And no matter how much desert they crossed, there always seemed to be more to go.

They were having some luck, however. They were leaving the chaos around Cairo, and that meant less danger. Most of the violence of the post-Ottoman chaos was contained in the north. There was a Turkish governor, Eyup Pasha, who was trying to hold on to the country with his last remaining funds from a tentative seat in Alexandria. The rest of the country was being gobbled up by Islamic warlords.

But Leyla was choosing to be cautious. She only sent people to the Coptic Christian villages. She was afraid, after all, that the Islamists would be hunting the Ethiopians after their raid. They only brought back water, and only as much as could be easily carried, as they had taken all the food they would need in their raid up the river.

"I read a book once that said the Ancient Egyptians were black." Heruy told her on the sixth day after the incident. Somehow, when she pistol-whipped the rapist-priest Junedin, she gained a friend in Heruy.

"I thought they agreed on that?"

He shook his head. "Europeans still want to say the Egyptians were Jews or some nonsense like that. But you see, what I read is different. The Egyptians used to call these deserts 'Red Land' because the people here are red. Guess what they called the river valley?"

"Black land?" Leyla guessed.

Heroy nodded. "It is that simple."

That night, they slept in an abandoned limestone quarry. It was a beautiful place after dark. The moonlight reflected from the pale stone and gave it a ghostly glow that seemed to make the desert a little brighter. The quarry, they reasoned, had the effect of hiding them from the outside world, while making it difficult for anybody who meant them harm to sneak up on them. Sound in the quarry was amplified by the natural acoustics of the limestone, and the pale stone made everything on its surface stick out.

But the acoustic effect had another effect that Leyla did not like. Junedin was a prisoner now, his wrists and ankles bound so that he could not escape. He cussed at them when he had the chance, so Barentu stuffed a used bandage in his mouth before he went on guard. But that left the priest's muffled grunts to echo in the still night, like the groans of one of the desert's many ghosts. When he finally went silent, Leyla became aware of the quiet and woke up. She expected to see the prisoner fast asleep. Instead, he was staring right at her with feverish eyes as wide and white as two full moons. He wanted to kill her, or to use her as he had used the woman in the village. Or perhaps he wanted both. He was tied tight and completely unable to move, but she struggled to sleep any more that night none the same.

What had snapped in Junedin's mind? Was he just one of those sorts of soldiers who could not contain the emotional extremes of his work, or had he always been a bad person? She supposed what he done had been normal once - the rape in 'rape and pillage' was there for a reason after all - but was that any excuse? She wondered if his mind had only went after they arrested him. Ever since the raid, they kept him tied in the back of a sweltering Landrover. He could not move, or feel the desert breeze, and he only got water when somebody else thought about it. Though the other men hated him just as much as she did, she was not sure if it was because of what he did, or just that he was the only convenient thing to hate right now, or at least the only hate they had the power to act on. If the situation had been different and there was no urgency, would they have seen the rape of that innocent Egyptian woman any differently?

No. She could not think that. If she began to doubt her people without cause, her ability to command them would unravel.

In the morning, the sun rose brilliantly over the limestone ridgeline. The entire sky went from purple to red. When it became a pale orange, they packed up and left.

"We should travel at night." Barentu suggested. The tall man held a rifle in his hand as if they were still in on the battlefield.

"No." Leyla replied. "I considered that early on. If this were home, things would be different, but... we do not know this land. The Arabs move at night. I don't want to fall into any traps because it is too dark."

Barentu nodded. That was the end of that.

They did not just stay in the desert. Their route paralleled the Nile, and they always tried to keep the river in their sight during the day. When they saw a village with churches rather than mosques, Azima would send one of her quickest soldiers to check it out.

The worst times were when they were forced to stop and repair one of the Landrovers. That not only meant more delays, but it also meant standing still in the heat. Leyla was no mechanic, and she left the others to work out what needed to be done. All she could do is stare out at the glittering river, and at the paradise of green that surrounded it. There were trees for shade down there, and orchards that produced ripe and juicy oranges. And most importantly, there was water. She hadn't been near to the river since the incident with Junedin. She sent scouts instead to do their business, and they only went out one at a time.

"We need more water." Heruy informed her. He was solemn again, with the countenance of a gravedigger.

"How much did we use?"

"Eskander's flask." he motioned to one of the men. Leyla flinched.

"We need to find a church." she looked out toward the Nile. "I'd rather not risk a Muslim village."

"We might have to no matter what you want." Heruy said bluntly.

Leyla bristled. "Not if we can avoid it. We should be close to Luxor by now, and that means we are getting closer to the dam. We aren't safe just because we made it this far south."

Heruy nodded. "I will go ahead then. If that is what you want me to do."

Leyla nodded and Heruy sprinted away. She looked back at the glimmer of the Nile and dreamed about water. When she heard the Landrovers sputter back to life, she felt relief. They could move again.

The desert had a way of becoming as storied as the civilizations of the Nile when one spent so much time in it. The hills looked like collapsed pyramids, covered in sharp blocks of stone, exiled from their brothers in the north and nestled among jagged ridges and stunted peaks. The tallest of them sometimes blocked the morning sun and gave them precious lengths of shaded road. There were other times where they seemed to hide something sinister. Nature shook loose small rocks and sent them tumbling down cliff faces, and the sound they made always caused Leyla to pause. The broken-monument cliffs could hide any number of enemies. She was certain that, at the very least, the jackals were watching from the heights, but she never saw one.

"We should leave Junedin out here." Barentu spoke up. This was not the first time he had suggested doing something with Junedin, but it was the first time that his suggestion wasn't a direct execution.

"He would die. I don't have the authority to kill people."

"You are in command." he said. "You can do it if you have to."

"There are rules." Leyla retorted, jamming her finger into the dashboard. "If we start breaking the rules, we stop being what we are. We are still soldiers, Barentu. We have to maintain discipline, that is the only way we can survive."

"You are in charge." Barentu said respectfully. "But if we lose the cars, what happens? You won't let him go will you?"

"No. He doesn't go free. That would be worse than killing him."

That wasn't how she felt. She hated the priest now, and not just because of the evil he had done. If he had followed orders, the predicament of what to do with him would never have had occurred. She was not used to command, but that is what she had now. Their survival depended on her ability to keep them under control.

Barentu did not push the issue, and Leyla was glad of that because she did not have any more answers for him.

The sun was falling in the western sky. Its fleeing light reflected in brilliant yellow across the river. Leyla was worried about Heruy now. She had sent him out hours earlier to find a friendly village, but she had always meant for him to return before dark and he knew that. He wouldn't be held up unless he had no other choice.

"Look." Barentu boomed. He pointed out the drivers-side window at the rocky slopes leaning out above them. "There is a jackal." Leyla leaned in and searched the landscape. For the first few seconds, all she could see was brown, but then it popped out at her amongst the rocks and dirt. It was watching them with alert intensity.

"It isn't afraid." Barentu said. "We could shoot it, but it doesn't know that."

"It is afraid. It just doesn't show it." Leyla replied. It bothered her. It reminded her how wild this place was.

"How far have we traveled today?" Leyla asked. Heruy's absence was making her nervous, and she watched the valley below with suspicion.

"Maybe twenty miles." Barentu guessed. "We wouldn't go so slow if we didn't have to stop all the time.

Leyla winced. It would be quicker if they walked, though that would make it difficult to carry supplies. The Battle for the Suez had taken place over a month before. She knew that the War for Ethiopia was already under way, but there had been no news. For all she knew they were heading in the direction of the newest jewel in the Spanish crown.

The stars were starting to appear in the fading blue-grey sky when Heruy finally appeared. They had been going slower by then, creeping cautiously along the road with their headlights dimmed, and Heruy's familiar shadow had no trouble catching up with them.

"There is a Coptic village down the road two miles." he explained. He was winded, and he stopped to catch his breath. Now that they were not moving, Leyla could feel the first hints of the nighttime chill settling over the desert.

"They wouldn't let me go." Heruy puffed. "Before they knew everything. They had a lot of questions."

Anxiety started to creep into Leyla's chest. "Are they dangerous?" she asked.

"No. They are friendly. But they would not give me supplies. They want us all to come down. The mayor has invited us to dinner."

That seemed suspicious. "Why would they want a foreign army in their village at all? Don't they know about the raid?"

"That is exactly what they want." Heruy said. "They want an army."

--

In the end, Leyla consented to go. It was getting dark, and there was no guarantee that they would find a village before Luxor. If they ran out of water before then, they would be dead.

They descended from the desert in the quiet of the night and passed by miles of lush green fields and copses of palm trees. The air was cooler by the river. She watched inky canal water shimmer under inert shadufs, and for the first time since the morning, she was reminded of how absolutely filthy she was. She had shed her thick coat long ago, leaving the simple black Walinzi uniform underneath. It was brown with dust now. Her hair was filled with sand, and there was a thin layer of dust covering most of her skin. The rest of the men were just as unclean, if not worse, that she was.

The first thing she could make out from the distant village was the pure-white dome of its church. It was not so different from a Mosque, but its lack of minarets and the golden cross that sprouted from the apex of the dome proved that it was Christian. It as surrounded by small, simple mudbrick homes scattered along the banks of the great river. They passed a ramshackle lean-to that was only big enough for the one man standing inside it. His face glowed from the light of a flickering cigarette, and he watched them go by with an empty-faced camaraderie that she knew well from her short experience in war. She saw the shadow of a rifle in his arms.

The Ethiopian convoy came to a stop in front of the church, where they were greeted by three men. The first of them was an older, clean-shaven man in a pale tunic. Surrounding him were two thin young men with bony faces and wispy facial hair.

"Brothers!" he announced. When he caught sight of Leyla, she saw uncertainty suddenly take hold in his eyes. But he did not stop.

"The road is hard. That is what this young man Heruy told us. I cannot let our brethren suffer if I can help it. No, I cannot abide that. Come in, try our food and we can talk."

They followed, leaving Junedin in the car. Leyla could only hope that they would not notice him, and that they wouldn't become defensive if they found out he was a priest.

They were led into a plaster-house near to the church. The unmistakable scents of cooking food were coming from the house. It smelled like baking bread and grilled meat, and it made a day's worth of hunger hit her all at once. She hadn't considered how little she was eating until then. They went inside. The Ethiopians moved slowly. They did not want to offend their hosts in anyway, not while they were so helpless.

The room was lit by a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire, and its light poured onto blue plaster walls and piles of colorful pillows and rugs. There was a family in here waiting - a handful on young boys in linen robes, and four women - two young girls, two grown women - serving a feast on a wicker table at the edge of the room. And it was a feast. There were fava beans and chick-peas, a stack of fluffy flatbread, stuffed grape-leaves, and shredded chicken drenched in spices. It was more than these people could have ever been expected to provide for strangers, and Leyla felt uncertain how to react.

"Please, please." he said. "Be my guest. Eat! We want you to rest after the time that you have had."

Leyla nodded her approval, and the other Ethiopians took their place at the table. There were not room for all of them, so the others sat around the house and waited patiently for their food.

Leyla plucked a stuffed grape leaf and popped it in her mouth. It was excessively sweet and sour all at once, with a vinegary flavor that made her instantly happy.

And so they ate for a while while the two young girls ran back and forth with a pitcher of water to keep their cups filled. Everything was quiet. The Coptic family watched them with faces that spoke partly of excitement and partly of fascination. While they ate, Leyla examined their surrounding. The house was modest enough, though the inside was painted egg-shell blue and there was a golden cross on the wall. The women dressed in colorful tunics, and unlike the Muslims they wore nothing to cover their hair. Some of the furniture looked like it could possibly be of European manufacture.

"Are you satisfied?" the elder man spoke up and broke the silence. "If you are not satisfied, just say the word and I will take care of you."

"Everything is good." Leyla said, smiling. "We did not expect a friendly reception in your country."

The elder replied with an exaggerated nod. "We understand, Egypt is in poor condition now. Our people suffer. You have seen it!"

"We have not seen much." Leyla answered. "We have stayed close to the hills. It is safer up there for us."

"That is what I mean! When travelers have to stay in the desert because they fear the people, then there is suffering in that country! I have seen it first hand. There is an Imam in Luxor who demands that our village pay the Jizya. How can we pay, I say? We are a poor people, we have nothing to pay. But that is not enough. He threatens us, Abyssinians! He threatens to take the tax by force if we do not pay."

"That is awful." Leyla replied. She saw where this conversation might go. "The world is so much crueler anymore. Our home is being invaded now, and our people face trials. We can understand."

"It is a terrible world for good people."

There was a brief pause, and all that could be heard in that cramped room was a humming lightbulb and the hungry chewing of the Ethiopians. The Egyptians did not stop attended to their guests. For them in this moment, the Ethiopian contingent was everything.

Leyla considered the Imam in Luxor. How strong was he? The Copts still seemed to have electricity, which was interesting. As far as she knew, the power in Egypt all came from the dam in Aswan. Or did they have control of the dam at all?

"Who holds Aswan?" she asked.

The elder looked at her thoughtfully. "I do not know." he said. An ornery chuckle followed, and it caught Leyla off guard. "To be honest with you, there is a rumor that Abyssinia holds the dam."

She stopped chewing. Was it true? Leyla and her band had been lost in the desert since the last week of May. The war must have progressed since then - that was only logical - but she hadn't considered an occupation of Aswan as a possibility. She could see, out of the corner of her eye, that the news wasn't lost on her comrades. They had all stopped eating, and they were exchanging looks of bewilderment and hope.

"If this is true, we did not know." Leyla said.

"Oh." the old man seemed crestfallen, but his cordial excitement bubbled back up. "But I suppose you have been away. I do not know much else about your country."

"We hope to find out soon." Leyla said.

There was something that the old man had left unsaid. She knew he had expectations, and when it seemed the conversation was slipping away from him, he rushed to quickly force the conversation his direction.

"I want to ask you to remember us." he blurted. "We are in danger, our people. I know that you must go home, and that you cannot stay in our village to protect us. We would not have the ammunition for you if you did stay. But I do want you to tell your people that we are here. Christ's children suffer in Egypt. I do not see a bright future if we do not get help. Please, Abyssinians, when you get back to your country, tell your people that their Christian brethren need them."

"I will make sure your message reaches our home. If I can tell the Emperor, I will. But... we are at war right now."

"May God protect you." the Copt said somberly. "Because your survival is our survival."

Vancouver

Hank Kelly stared down into his cup of coffee and tried to ignore the sounds from the next room. The thumps and groans penetrated through the concrete wall and filled the small room where Hank kept his makeshift office. The building Operation Cruiser used as operational headquarters was an old slaughterhouse that had been closed since before the war. Fittingly, the interrogation room next door had been the slaughterhouse's killing floor.

"Hank..."

He looked up and saw Patrick Connelly standing in the doorway leading into the interrogation room. Pat had a serious look on his face and the cigarette between his index and middle fingers was dangerously close to burning both fingers as it burned down to the butt.

"I think he's ready to talk. Come on in."

Hank took a deep breath and polished off his lukewarm coffee. He flipped a switch on his desk that turned on the microphones in the next room. CIA, DoD, and who the hell ever was involved in this op wanted to hear whatever came next. Hank took another deep breath and sighed. He had to steel himself for what awaited him inside. He was an analyst, a desk jockey through and through. He read and wrote reports on everything from the production of rice in China to the criminal structure of the organized crime syndicates in France. There was a sense of detachment to his work. It was more academic than applicable. Pat had no such luxury. He did legwork for CIA and saw the brutal truths of the job firsthand. Pat had no problem keeping his composure in the interrogation room, but Hank wasn't sure of himself.

They went inside the long, dim room with a single naked lightbulb serving as the sole source of light. Master Sergeant Silas Crystal and two of his Green Berets stood close to a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. A bloody and beaten man sat on the chair strapped with down with leather belts. A metal tub of water sat next to the chair. Hank noticed drops of blood on the floor leading towards the tub. He also noticed the beaten man's wet head and the black gloves Crystal wore. They were weighted with lead in the knuckles and palms. Sap gloves, they were called, and they were used to issue beatings.

"Reg," Pat said to the beaten man, slapping him gently to wake him up. "Reg, my man. You need to wake up and talk."

Reg Boland, the bloody mess in front of Hank, broke out into a fit of coughing. A broken molar came out of his mouth and clattered on the floor. Boland looked up at Hank with swollen eyes that seemed to look through him more than they looked at him.

"We need to know about the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty, Reg. They're getting equipment from somewhere. We need to know how they're getting it, who they are, and how to find them."

Boland started to say something but stopped when he saw Crystal approaching with his sap gloves. The beaten man flinched and quickly looked down at the floor. Blood dripped from his open mouth and spilled onto the floor in drips and drops.

"I been smuggling them weapons," Boland finally said. "I come out from Canada, head across the DMZ where protection is the thinnest, and meet them outside Vancouver."

"What kind of weapons?" Pat asked.

"Pistols and shotguns and rifles. Mostly I give them explosives, pounds and pounds of TNT and plastic explosives."

"How long has this been going on?" Hank asked.

"A month or so. I... I'm not sure, but I think they had a guy giving them shit before me. An Army guy working out the base in Vancouver."

Hank and Crystal exchanged looks. Crystal's A-Team heard scuttlebutt at Fort Dixon about an ordnance sergeant that went AWOL and was found dead by the territorial police a few weeks later. The territorial police and the FCB were looking into the murder. They were pretty damn close to finding out the truth, too. Their kidnapping of Boland managed to beat a police arrest raid by just a few minutes. The cops, just like the spooks, were in the dark.

"Can I have a cigarette? Boland asked.

"Soon as you answer my question," Hank said. "Who all is part of the Friends, Reg? Give me some names, please."

"I just know them by their first names," he said with a shrug. "And only two guys I've met so far. Guy name Alex and one named Arthur. Alex runs the show, Arthur seems like some kind of geek. He's always inspecting the explosives before I hand them off."

"What do they look like?" Pat asked as he started to pull a cigarette out for Boland.

Boland shrugged in his chair. He regretted the decision immediately and winced in pain at some injury. "They're young guys. White with dark hair. I couldn't pick 'em out of a crowd. Their just average, boring looking guys."

Pat put a cigarette in Boland's mouth and lit it up for him.

"How young we talking?" Pat asked while Boland inhaled the cigarette smoke.

"College kids," Boland said, expelling smoke from his mouth as he spoke. "The boy Alex wore an army field jacket with a button on it that said 'NWC or Die.' That's some A-1 college radical bullshit."

Hank made a mental note. Alex and Arthur, college kids with potential backgrounds in science and electronics. One of them had to know something to rig the raw explosives up into a bomb. He'd start combing the roles of local universities as soon as they were done here.

"Let's talk about the Canadian connection," Hank said. "Where do you get your stuff from on the other side of the border."

Boland shook his head so vigorously his cigarette threatened to fly out. For the first time since Hank came in the room, Boland's eyes were showing emotion. They showed fear.

"No, I can't..."

Crystal stepped up and hit Boland with an open-hand slap. The gloves added to the slap and whipped Boland's head back. The cigarette, along with blood, went flying across the room. Hank turned his head to keep from watching as the sergeant let into Boland with a few more blows.

"Alright!" Boland finally screamed, on the point of breaking down. "I'll tell... It's some guy named Jones, okay? A big fucking guy with blonde hair. Most times I meet him across the border, he gives me the shit and I smuggle it back. Please, that's all I know I swear."

"Most times?" Hank asked after his stomach settled.

"One time he made the run himself, okay? I went to meet him, but he told me to piss off. What he was delivering was too fucking important for me to fuck up."

Hank saw the rest of the men in the room start to stir with interest. They, like him, wondered what in god's name could be worse than guns and bombs.

"What was it?" asked Pat.

"I dunno, I swear. All I saw was a crate with that weird ass symbol they use when something's poison."

"The biohazard sign," said Hank. "Is that it, Reg?"

"That's it. It was a small crate, but whatever it was was bad."

"Shit," Pat said, taking the words from Hank's mouth. "Shit, shit, shit... I think these fuckers have got their hands on some heavy duty shit."

"Reg," Hank said in a reassuring tone. "We need to know how to find them right now."

-----

Cascadia Territorial Police Force Headquarters
Vancouver

Inspector Mark Echols sat at his desk and played the scene over again. A joint CTPF/FCB raid ended up with jack shit thanks to persons unknown. Reg Boland, their target, had absconded minutes before they arrived and was in the wind. That pissed off everyone taking part in the raid, Echols included, but something else gnawed at him. He'd thought he saw a ghost from the past on the streets of Vancouver. The man walking down the street near the raid looked just like... him. Echols was brought back to that night a few years ago when his world was on fire and coming down around his ears.

"Echols," Special Agent Byran Simpson said as he came into the office. "Echols?"

Echols looked up from his desk at the FCB man who served as his partner. Simpson's eyebrows were raised as he looked at Echols curiously. "You okay?"

"Bryan, I saw something when we tried to find Boland... someone I thought I'd never see again."

"Who?"

"A US Special Forces solider," said Echols.

Simpson started to protest, but Echols cut him off with a look.

"A man I saw on the street just a block away from where Boland was supposed to be was a dead match for a man I once knew. He was a Green Beret back during the war, Sergeant Crystal... I haven't forgotten his face since because he's the reason I have no kneecap, but he's also the reason I still have my head. Crystal saved my life, and now he's here in Vancouver doing god knows what."

"Are you sure, Echols?"

"I know what I saw, Simpson," Echols said. "I'll never forget that man's face, and that man was in the same area as our missing person."

Simpson started to curse while Echols looked at the corkboard beside his desk. The Stiff and Surrey had morphed into something else altogether. A dead soldier, a missing weapons trafficker, terrorist, and now spooks. Echols was a long-term detective and was used to cases having legs and going unexpected places, but this?

"I think Crystal and whoever he's working with kidnapped Boland," said Echols. "They're after the same people we're after."

"I'll be goddamned," Simpson said. They sat there in silence for a moment before the special agent spoke again. "I'm going to call D.C. and try to get to the bottom of this shitstorm, at least from the government side of things."

-------

Boston

Elliot Shaw looked through the darkness of the bowling alley for his captor. The lights popped on suddenly to reveal twelve empty bowling lanes with warped and rotting wooden planks across each one. Elliot saw cobwebs in the rafters and a snack bar missing its counter.

"How'd you get in here?" He asked Jane.

"Friend of mine owns it, I told him I was in trouble and needed a place to hide out."

Leading with the gun, she pointed Elliot towards a living area set up by the snack bar. A small kerosene lamp on the floor beside a cot and two metal folding chairs along with a few suitcases. "Sit, please."

"Well, now how can I refuse when such a pretty lady has such a big gun in my face?"

He took a seat across from Jane and pointed to his jacket pocket. "I got some cigarettes in my jacket. I can get you one if you want it."

"No I'll get it. I insist."

She stood up and reached into his jacket, pulling out a silver cigarette case and a silver lighter. After a moment of setup the two were smoking in silence.

"So," Elliot started. "What are you going to do with me?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Why don't you just give me whatever Kane wanted me to get for him?"

Jane chuckled. Even with a smoke in her left, the gun in her right hand was still trained on Elliot's chest. "You don't know what it is, do you?"

"I think it's one of two things. Evidence of him having an affair or something worse. Something that can seriously hurt him, something he doesn't want to quietly pay blackmail for."

The girl got up from her seat and kicked open one of the suitcases. She placed the smoldering cigarette to the side and reached inside the suitcase. She produced a small folder and opened it for Elliot to see. Sitting at the top of a stack of papers was a black and white photo of Kane naked and on top of a woman just as naked as he was. "That's me he's with. He had a camera hidden in the bedroom where we had sex. Apparently he gets off on it."

"So, you found the photos and took them. Why? Blackmail?"

"That was the plan. He hired me just to fuck me. I was getting paid alright, but not like I wanted for what I was being asked to do."

"Fucking over the guy who fucks you over, not a bad motive," he nodded before pointing towards the photo with his cigarette. "Are all those photos?"

"Some of them. Most of it is papers and bullshit written in lawyer speak."

Elliot sucked on his smoke and wondered what else she glommed. Dirty pictures were bad, but certain documents could be as equally damning but not quite as sexy.

"Can I see the other stuff? You can hold on to the pictures."

Jane eyed him for a few seconds before finally picking out the photos and passing him the folder from across the lantern. He thumbed through if and skimmed the papers. Files, paperwork, contracts, all of it pointing towards one thing.

"Huh. Apparently, they're doing some development with the marshes. About time, if you ask me. Place is a shithole."

There were memos from developers and investors and other politicians. A bunch of names and corporations listed all over the contracts and files. Plans to turn the swampy area just outside of East Boston into a whole new town. Subdivision, condos, parks. The whole nine yards. Wedged towards the back was some survey from a geological firm. That was all greek to Elliot, but the last page was interesting. Minutes from a meeting between Kane, a guy named Abbot, and Big Jim Dwyer.

He had to laugh at the audacity of them recording the conversation. They talked about planning to tank the investment deal and short the investors to make sure the project didn't even get off the ground. That made Elliot pause. They were embezzling, sure, but taking the money from investors seemed short sighted compared to the price the real estate in the marshes would be after the deal. It was like trading in for five bucks now, instead of five thousand bucks six months down the road.

Jane raised an eyebrow when she saw Elliot's puzzled look. "What?"

A sound from outside kept him from explaining his thoughts. The sound was of a car coming to a stop. "Oh, shit," Jane said as she sprung up, dropping the photos to the floor and running to turn off the lights. "You were followed, you asshole!"

"No I wasn't, dammit!"

Elliot took off after her and stopped suddenly as she turned off the lights. He crept through the darkness towards the door and wedged it open enough to see through a crack. Two men, tough looking and serious, were just climbing out of a black sedan. The car clicked with Elliot. He saw it once or twice on the drive here.

"Son of a bitch, I was followed!"

He suddenly realized Kane didn't want him to get those photos. He wanted Elliot to lead him and his men to Jane. He was the bloodhound for the hunters, but he was damn sure that he was going to be put down after they found what they wanted.

"Son of a bitch," Elliot hissed. "He played me!"

Sean McKenna's warning from earlier hit home hard. These people were not to be trifled with, he had said. They were ruthless and did not let obstacles stand in their way to get what they wanted. Now young Jane Wilson was an obstacle. So, too, was Elliot.

"Give me your gun," Elliot said to Jane through the dark. She started to protest but he raised his voice to speak over her. "If you want to live, give me your goddamn gun and trust me."

He felt the cool metal in his palm and gripped it tightly as the two men approached the bowling alley door.

A sharp high-pitched ringing drilled his skull. The world came to swimming in milk, bleached clean of its color. The silver daggers of the sun's light cut his eyes and with his regaining consciousness he shut them close, wincing at the precise pain of the day light scalpels. And slowly, the rest of the world around Yun-Qi came to.

Echoing in the near distance the familiar shouts of men echoed in the air. His head rested against something soft. Quan Yun-qi squirmed in a panic as he shot up, shooting his head full of hot pain as he rose suddenly. Dizzy and nauseous, he leaned forward, coughing on the bitter acrid smoke that filled his lungs; it smelled like hard industrial diesel, and harsh wood smoke.

“Comrade, are you OK?” a voice beckoned behind him. Dizzy, Yun-qi opened his eyes to a squint and turned. The speaker sounded distant, as it spoken through a megaphone funnel. Yet it was so familiarly near.

As his senses caught up he choked out groggily: “Yeah...” it was all he could master as his world swayed in and out of sense. Raising his hands to his head he pushed in on the sides of his skull. A dull throbbing pain was growing inside his skull. A deep fear spoke softly: it was a hemorrhage.

“I'll call a medic over!” the same voice said. Yun-qi nodded knowingly as he sat on the warm pavement as metal crashed in the distance. The echoing of the voices slowly cleared up, and the sharpness of their diversity became closer. Slowly he discerned the popping of a roaring flame from the rush of boots.

“Hold still, comrade.” a new voice commanded gently as a set of hands held onto Quan's shoulders. He felt someone move him around.

“You need to open your eyes.” the new voice requested.

Dizzily, Yun-Qi prepared for the light and just barely opened his eyes. Silhouetted against the harsh sun a dark figure sat in his field of view.

“More please.” the man bid. Yun-qi answered.

There was a moment of tense silence from this new shade. Yun-qi recoiled against the brief flashes of new light passing through his vision.

“W-what happened?” he asked. His head was groggy, filled with a fuzzy memory of a ride down the street. He struggled and fought with himself, throwing his head over hurdles as he made desperate throws to figure out what had happened. The last thing he remembered was a train whistle, and the feeling of bewilderment that one would now run to Surgut.

“Never mind that, can you stand up?” the medic requested.

“I-” the officer mumbled.

“Then just lay down for a moment, collect yourself comrade.” said the medic in a rushed voice. Through his narrowed eyes he could see his fuzzy figure look behind him, “How's he?” he asked.

“There's a pulse still, but his head's bleeding.” said someone else.

“Bandage it and call a stretcher!” ordered the medic.

“Right away.” his help acknowledged.

“N- no... What's going on? I- I don't remember.” Yun-qi babbled quietly. The world was starting to trickle back and his senses re-adjust. But as they returned so did a sense of dull lead-loaded pain.

His answer hesitated nervously. “A bomb.” reported the medic, “Someone brought a train with a bomb on it, I guess.” he elaborated.

“I don't remember a train.” slowly babbled Yun-qi. He struggled back up into a sitting position and peered into the silver light. The snowy light slowly lifted and bright oranges filled the wounds opening in the silk veil. He watched with first fearful curiosity, and then stunned amazement.

Cratered in the train-yard the sheered husk of a locomotive lay flayed in a nest of twisted rails. Scorched glass and heat-seared pebbles filled the space. Glistening shards of broken glass sparkled from the train-yard side apartments. And the loading cranes at the river's edge stood bent and twisted as debris and a few ropy strands of gore clung to the sheered beams and popped rivets. Soldiers, Chinese and Siberian alike clustered about the yard, hurriedly searching for bodies among the twisted ruins and pulling out torched cinders.

“Oh- Ah- Ah...” Yun-qi meaninglessly blathered as he rose to his feet. He felt his heart strumming wildly in his chest as shock set in. They had been attacked, and not in any expected manner. Every part of his protested it and clung for his breath to ride out in an angry scream. But in the tangled confusion and chaos, bruised with his body they could not come out as nothing but gasping exclamations.

He staggered to his feet, but he was not ready for it and began to drunkenly stagger. The medic threw himself for him and grabbed his superior officer to stabilize him. “NO!” he protested loudly.

“A-an officer has to stand. An officer has to stand!” Yun-qi yelled enraged, “In battle, in victory, in defeat, in peace. An officer has to stand!” he hollered, throwing his arm into the medic and casting him aside.

He took several weak steps forward, swaying on rubber feet he looked down at the cataclysm in the bank below him. He drank in the terrifying details. He swayed as he turned, and saw the man that was laying behind him. A thick bandage wrap around his head held the blood in, but it was already staining itself a deep crimson red from back to crown. A small puddle lay next to his head, near to the corner of the brick wall where he had hit.

“Who's he?” he asked.

The medic looked down at the young soldier. His tired wide eyes looked up and down the unconscious figure with dry pity. Thick glasses and a heavy pointed chin was covered in dust and ash.

With a light gesture he ordered his help to open the soldiers pockets and he did. Pulling out a set of small metal tags from his uniform pocket. “Lièbīng Chu Hong.” he read, looking down at the private's tags.

Yun-qi nodded. He looked over at the pool of blood, his head rang and filled with a pain that swarmed like ants as he saw the blood from Hong's own injuries. He staggered on his feet, and held his head to keep it from splitting open. He choked down his fear, his disgust and asked: “What's his condition?”

“I can't make an appropriate diagnoses here.” replied the medic.

“What's his condition?” Yun-qi insisted, lowering his voice to a tense growl.

The medic worriedly bit his lips and looked back down at him. “Maybe he'll make it, but I doubt it. He's been bleeding bad for a while. If he makes it into surgery and survives: I can't tell you what'll happen.” he gave a resigned sigh, “But he did it to save you. You could have just as easily smashed your head on the alley wall in that blast.”

The medic bowed his head. Yun-qi nodded. Still shaken from the blast Yun-qi swaggered back and forth. “Very well.” he said gruffly, “Get him in first. See him through!” he ordered, “I'm fine. Don't worry about me.” he added, walking weakly towards the site of the blast.

He approached the edge of the grassy berm. His soles on both grass and concrete. The rushed foot falls of the stretcher carriers were coming in fast to carry away Hong.

“Are you sure you're OK to be standing?” asked the medic.

“I'm not dead yet.” Yun-qi answered on a heavy breath. The acrid diesel and charcoal air burned in the back of his throat. He wasn't: but somehow a clinging doubt suggested he may someday be.



“I'm sorry, I'm out of coffee.” the cashier said dryly as he rifled up through the shelves. A cigarette hung limp and life-less as it smoldered to the end of its life from his puffy swollen lips, “I do got cigarettes, plenty of those.” he lethargically compromised.

Leaning on the counter, Tsung held his head in his hand. A tired distant stare looked up at the hawkishly propped cashier. In truth her perhaps didn't need it; but he was running low on the can he did keep, “When will you be getting more in?” he asked begrudgingly, turning to look anywhere but the lumpy man on the ladder.

The store wasn't so much a proper business. As an extension of the Chinese supply chain it had simply taken over an existing structure, a bar. Much of it was still unclean and dusty or broken furniture had been pushed aside against the wall only to be hidden behind banks of ready-to-move boxes in even they needed to move elsewhere. And through the hole punched in the far-wall it had begun to double as a warehouse where the storemen lazily moved boxes from floor to truck or from truck to floor.

It also doubled as the mail office, as evidences by the minder handing over a pad of bleached, dry parchment to a waiting riflemen and the stacks of wrapped envelopes beginning to cover the bar counter.

“Dunno.” answered the cashier.

“So you don't know?” Tsung asked.

“No, I just can't say.”

“So you know?”

“No.”

“Well that's what I wanted!” an exasperated Tsung shouted. He dragged his fingers up into his eyes and messaged the sides of the sockets.

“I do have cigarettes.” the clerk reminded.

“I don't want fucking tobacco.” Tsung growled. He felt a deep pricking annoyance with the fat indifferent dog behind the counter, “But do you know if anyone else here does?” he asked instead.

The cashier shrugged as he swept into a basket a stack of outgoing mail. “The regimental quartermaster might have an idea.” he reported, “You should try him.”

“Alright, fine...” Tsung groaned, “Where is he?”

“She.” the cashier corrected without failure, “Tu Ma got set up at a monastery.”

“Ok... So where's that? Which one?” Tsung inquired.

The cashier nodded out the door, “Other side of the river, upstream.”

“Name?”

“I don't pronounce Russian names. Sorry. But are you sure you don't want a smoke.”

Burned out on him, Tsung held his hands in the air. “No.” he griped, “I don't.” turning on his heels he went for the door and stepped out into the sun.

On the street Tsung stuffed his hands into the pocket of his uniform. In his mind the swirling frustrations of his dealings with the army cashier tugged and pulled on him. He moped as he strolled, shoulders slacked and face bent to a disgruntled angle. He just looked ahead, staring down the street as he me moved away from the orange brick building.

To roam a city he had just not long ago been a part of its siege carried an alien cold air. The stillness of its landscape pulsed from its fiber. And as if the air itself the air itself was broken, shattered, and burned there was a deadened stillness. Crawling through its ruin the rumbles and guttural coughs of the Chinese supply network prowled and scavenged from its hallowed corpse.

The damage onto the city was hardly an all encompassing carpet bombing. Though shelling was liberal, it had carried a certain methodical surgery. Rows of townhouses often stood nearly intact, with the exception of the deep gouging claw marks that had been left behind by heavy shrapnel or the pocked craters of street and metal fragments. And then for hardly a half block another row lay open like sarcophagi torn open and looted; what had been their lids now a dusty mess that spilled into the street as busted waterlines lazily drooled slowly flowing currents of water.

Splashing across a stream-let of that water he passed onto the river-front road. Here the bodies of tanks and armored cars lay pushed aside like discarded carcasses. Their blackened shapes still smoldering from the inside as the sharp bitter taste of cordite and gas clouded the air around them. Pieces of metal and a sheet of charred grass made the carpet on which they sat, waiting to be collected and cut away; relegated to scrap so that they may have their reincarnation.

With his feet growing sore he finally came to a bridge. Its naked span swept clean of debris and cleared of barricades. Lumbering across the concrete and asphalt structure moved the trucks ladden with supplies to come in, or to go out. He stepped out onto the side-walk and began his lonely trek across as from the far-side came the elephantine cabins of the semis that carried the artillery; no doubt things were pushing ahead for them to re-mobilize. The bridge itself rumbled as if a giant underneath was shaking it.

Matte and flat, the long heavy barrels of the Chinese cannons provided no idea of grandeur or promise to greatness. They flaunted little, save for the drab green paint that masked them into the landscape. Though the crews of a few of the five that passed him had painted the long arm of their guns with dragons of clouds, those too were faded against a persistent layer of dust and diesel soot.

Their crews looked no different. Either hidden in the cabins of the trucks that carried them or sitting along the edge of the steel trailers they looked lack-luster and bored. Leaning against each other they took the trip with a leg hanging off the side, or fully laying against the floor of the trailer itself. Detached expressions of boredom and disinterested stares watched the world they helped make go by.

They disappeared on into the city behind Tsung and into the labyrinth of ruins and streets. But there was little doubt in Tsung's mind that there was little that would get in the column's way. Perhaps even they had a road clear, began the very moment the city was forfeit to them.

Crossing to the other side the young soldier walked through a forest of banners. Flags of the Chinese state, unit standards, and all the decoration of Huei Wen's army. Even a silk-sewn image of Hou Sai Tang on a field of cotton and polyester red looked out at the city his army had taken with empty deadened eyes. His image flew taller than the flags themselves, stretched between two heavy poles. Instinctively, Tsung gave a subtle bow to the image before continuing on.
_____________

“I'm looking for Tu Ma.” said Tsung. A idle rifleman stood at the gates of an enclosed set of buildings.

“What for?” he asked, leaning against the red brick of the wall. Next to him a gate of green sheet metal sat closed beneath an arch of the same pinkish-red stone as the wall itself, ivory white trim traced the three respective doorways and the sweeping central point of the gate's crown. A line of trees and bushes shrouded the property's wall from the street, and even the small chapel and auxiliary structures behind the monastery wall.

Tsung wasn't feeling the mood for another argument, and not before his final destination. Yet helpless, he could do little more than appeal to the guard's questioning, “Liebeiing Li Tsung, 1st Liaoning Cavalry. Can I come in now?” he answered defeated.

“Commanding officer?” asked the guard.

“Juunshi Sun Song.” Tsung gripped.

The guard nodded, and reaching into a pocket inside his coat. Pulling out a note-pad he flipped through the pages.

“What's that?” Tsung asked.

“A list.” the guard replied, glancing up from the pages as he ran through the lines.

“For what?”

“Of things, Tu Ma's got enough going on between the city itself and the army quartermaster to be playing shopkeeper. Shit people need only.” the rifleman answered with dry gusto.

There was a long moment of waiting as he ran his fingers down the pages. “Ah.” he said, “I suppose your squad lost a tank, would be you looking to ask what's going on with a replacement?”

Tsung stood in the middle of the side-walk perplexed and rather shocked, “I suppose I am...” he mumbled.

“Suits me.” shrugged the guard, knocking on the metal door. As it slowly swung open he invited: “Right on ahead, Regimental Quartermaster Ma is set up in the chapel.” Tsung bowed as he walked onto the grounds of the monastery.

It was a simple enough space, and hardly large. A yard of faded beige bricks formed a courtyard no bigger than a soccer pitch, grassy patches formed emerald ponds of landscaping at the base of spindly trees and young pines. Along the edges the plaster or wooden walls separated the compound from the city proper, until its furthest point where it marched off to a wood and gravel viewing deck.

Clustering the property, Siberian and Russian soldiers went about their duties, and if the local clergy were still here as fighting raged in the city then they had for sure been forced out now. Green hardtops trundled in and out as they used the concrete outbuildings of the eastern walls for storage, before leaving through the green gates.

The chapel itself was a modest Russian baroque church. Seemingly unscathed from the fighting, its walls still retained a bright vibrant orange and its white-framed windows unshattered by bombs, bullets, or grenades. A single steeple stood behind its solid oak entrance, the tower capped with a green crown the matched the lightly windowed dome; both held aloft golden crucifixes that rose fixed to point at the sky with holy defiance to the Chinese atheism below. Red gutter drains snaked down every outer corner.

Turning to it, he breathed relieved as he opened the heavy wooden doors.

Once inside he was greeted to a final silence. A sanctuary that while distant was all the same near. It was also empty.

Russian iconography decorated the walls, yet there were no pews and very little furniture left. Tsung's feet echoed on the hardwood floors as he moved about, breathing in the nostalgic smells of preservation and heritage; that dusty musky smell brought on by careful repainting and re-varnishing. It permeated the air.

“Comrade.” a woman's voice said suddenly.

Tsung jumped, surprised. Turning on his toes he found and met the speaker with a frozen panicked look. Laughing, the woman that had to be Tu Ma smiled.

She was a small woman, portly but not wide. She looked up at Tsung from behind large glasses as she sat at a wooden table along with another officer.

“Sorry, comrades.” Tsung bowed nervously.

“Your forgiven.” sighed the other officer, “Give me a moment, I'm almost done.”

Tsung nodded and backed away. Turning back to the quartermaster, the discussion he must have stopped was resumed, “You're going to have to get with Huei Wen personally if you have to.” he said, “But so far as things go I don't believe my medics have enough bandages; not after this passed affair. We had some thousand wounded from both sides flooding my hospitals and on my surgery tables. With most of it gone to chase the front I'm not given much to work with here.”

“I understands.” Tu Ma acknowledged, if stressed. A stray hair swung against her forehead as he hung out from under her olive-green cap.

“Good, thank you.” the surgeon officer sighed, relieved. He bowed as he got to his feet, “We're committed to try and serve the civilian population too so the need is still constant. We're touching the bottom of our spare supplies as-is, so please get us more.”

“I will, I will.” an exacerbated Ma placated, “I'll put your demand forward this evening.”

“Afternoon.” the surgeon demanded.

“Yes, afternoon.” she said, correcting herself. Relieved an understanding had been made, the surgeon bowed again, and headed for the door.

With its muffled thud, Tsung had his audience with Tu Ma.

“What is it?” she snapped, crankily. She starred down Tsung with an assertive look that itself burned.

“A, uh-... A couple things.” Tsung fumbled, surprised, “If you'll answer, that is.”

“I'll try.” she grumbled, she opened up a book on the table and tapping a pencil against her head thumbed through the pages, “Where are you from, and from who?”

“First Liaonang Cavalry, Sun Song.” Tsung repeated.

“Thank you.” she skipped several pages in her reports, and settled in on one. Running her finger down the list she went through the items.

“Sun Song, reported a damaged tank, lost it completely in the battle. Shanghai'd someone else's so he could get back into the field. I filed the requisition order later that evening and haven't heard anything.” she stated bluntly, shutting the book added emphasis to the fact she intended this audience to be done, “No doubt you're owed ammunition rations but it goes without saying, but if Song's not even supposed to be here: why are you here?”

“Because I really had a more, uh- personal question.”

“No, I'm not available.” she shot early, standing up.

Tsung recoiled back, “No, that's not what I wanted to ask.” he said.

“Fine, what was it?”

“I'm just looking for coffee, one of your cashiers said I should look into it by asking you since no one seems to have any.” he explained on quick breaths, “And uh- just wondering if you can say you got any?”

Tu Ma gave him a long glowering glare, “I haven't been able to get any.” she said, “There's a war going on in Africa and way I hear it the Ethiopian navy was just destroyed by the Spanish. They can for now no doubt move between here and there, but a lot of sailors aren't taking it. They don't want to risk being intercepted and captured by the Spanish, or whatever those bastards will do.

“So no, I haven't been able to procure any Ethiopian coffee. That sort of thing isn't even part of the official ration list so it's not on any priority for my CO to look at getting: let alone me.

“Now if you wanted tea you could probably be supplied. But we're not getting coffee, that's for the civilians back home. But I doubt the availability for that will remain for long, because Vietnam as I gather isn't producing coffee as it was under the French.

“Next question?” she spat.

“Ah- no, no other questions.” Tsung mumbled. He felt truly defeated, “But I guess I'll update everyone else about the tank. I suppose...”

“Good, now get the fuck out.”



In the darkness of the tunnels there was an absolute peace never before experienced. Walking through puddles as water dripped from over head Vasiliy strolled down the tracks of an abandoned metro tunnel. There was an eeriness to the air as he walked along. It hung still and moist in the air like some dark and sacred tomb, full of monsters.

But in the echoing splashes of his footsteps and the distant drops of water that leaked through cracking cement there was no other sound or indication of life. He was very and truly alone as he swept his torch across the rounded tunnel face. Loose strands of fraying cable and rusted sagging conduit clung from the side of the concrete vault's walls.

Once for some time Vasiliy had dreamed of skulking through the unknown tombs of ancient kings. To go to Egypt and the Levant and dig out some once great crusader fortress or Saracen castle. To perhaps travel to Jerusalem and dig under the Dome of the Rock to find the fabled ruins of the old Jewish Temple. Precariously preserved in ancient granite somehow, and built over top like some lost Parthenon. But as his interest waned as he aged he lost the dream.

On some fundamental level it perhaps stayed with him. But shifted its focus from the ancient to the contemporary. To not just see sacred sites with their magical shroud of mystery. But the hidden sites of the modern world, themselves dressed in the magnetic intrigue and force of the state. And he obtained that. Before the dying twilight of the Czar's vast empire to Finnish anger Vasiliy had only once walked the dark halls of the Kremlin; to no important matter but the delivery of routine papers on Makulov's behalf. But that visit had placated the young child in him to see the mysterious and the hidden.

But then, here he was again. Within the Kremlin, but not just inside of it: under it. He drew his flashlight to the ceiling and swept it along the center spine of the great tunnel. This voyage had re-awoken that child again and it gnawed at him to explore this even greater secret. It was by no means spectacular, a long tube of concrete and tubing, subway rail dominating the sandy, gravel floor under his boots. Sometimes he'd walk through a puddle and the sound of its splash would echo for so long it sounded eternal. But there was no wasteful touch of decadence in here. It was spartan.

The tunnel's location was not easy to find, but knowing now where it is meant it would not be difficult. It had avoided the cliché of the book in the bookshelf, or the disguised lever on the wall. If perhaps related, its button was a rosette in a wall in the private bedroom of the Czar, but not only there but the bathroom. There was loose lips that were paid to learn this.

So now it was time to begin acting. Who knew how long those mouths would remain sealed.

Coming on the end of the tunnel Vasiliy knew the time was fast approaching. Preparations were all but done. He stopped on his trail, scanning his flashlight up the large iron door that now block his way. Beyond it was the red line and their best chance of getting out alive. That last minute siren of doubt spoke to him. She said it was suicide, it was fruitless. That they'd best need an army.

But clicking off the flashlight to see the tunnel's darkness in all its glory Vasiliy shut her away and embraced that last awoken child in him. He was in one of Moscow's many great secrets, and it was time to feel it in its entirety.

Suicide or not.



A dark sky drifted in over the capital of the Siberian communist state. With it, so too did the lights of the city turn on. The streets glowed and buzzed with amber light as the lamp-posts hummed to life and so too the houses, apartments, and buildings along the narrow streets. Novosibirsk shifted from its day-time life to the night-life as Chinese manufactured cars ferried the families and workers of the city to evening shows or bars for a night of respite from work, and to distance themselves from the war.

Despite the conflict moving in their favor, there was almost a cautionary tension in the city because of it. In some way, the phantom fears of the post-war riots of their first war with the Republic still hang over the minds and consciousness of the people.

An Angua stood with his back turned to the table. Cast in the glow of warm incandescent light and with the soft glow of street lights against his back he stood to address the small room of Chinese intelligence agents, and their Siberian partners. He held the room in waiting silence with still statuesque eyes. They sat in a room at the top of a three-story town-house, which had become the inconspicuous center of Siberian operations for the Intelligence Bureau. Just outside the window the long straight march of one of Novosibirsk's main drags raced towards the river.

“Our men now have well and now crossed the Om River.” the chief of intelligence to Huei Wen began, he held out his right hand, open palm. His long face stiff as a boulder as he looked out at the men sitting or standing around the spacious top-floor sitting room. Some with their arms crossed leaned against the red and white candy-cane stripped wallpaper. Others yet sat around a tea table in the middle of the room, where a warm kettle sat at its center as a polite offering, “And they go further. Tyumen has been liberated from the Republican foes and Comrade Wen continues his march to the eastern-most capital of Yekaterinburg.

“They leave behind them an extensive span of un-watched, or under-guarded territory.” Angua continued, “There is admittedly little that Comrade Wen can accomplish to this effect, or Comrade Afanasi. Both must consolidate their numbers at key locations to police this new territory. But, if the first war was an example: some party will take advantage of this and destabilize the war.”

He let his words hang in the air as he held out his other hand and opened the palm, completing in his mind the image of conquest and consolidation, “It befalls the men in the shadows to hold this territory and to consolidate it for them. Acting on our own powers, resources, and terror to identify and carve from the landscape the opposition that would rear back up and bite the glorious mission in the ankles and drag us back from where we began limping and wounded.”

Wrapping his hands behind him he stepped aside and turned to the window. Looking out at the kaleidoscope of light and night in the streets and alleys he continued, “In 1976 dissatisfaction with the war in part from dissident factions tore through the streets of Novosibirsk demanding the head of Nikolov Nitski. To calm their anger comrade Nitski was forced to end the war. This we know, this we all know.

“Though their faith in the cause has dissipated in the events after, and civil war has allowed us to hunt down and destroy the worst of the reactionaries I feel there may still be the threat. And one that will become darkly galvanized with the more Russian home-land that we lead to liberation.

“The future for us will no doubt not be clean. But I say: when has it not? But what we may do is necessary, and we shouldn't forget it.”

Silence began.

It was a persistent contemplative quiet that rested on all the ears. Outside the traffic of the streets rattled muffled through the windows. In the lower floors soft music dripped up through the floorboards and echoed up the narrow staircases to where they were now.

“Do we know who we're targeting?” a Russian agent asked, his heavy bear hands were wrapped about his burly barrel chest. A thick beard hung like moss from his chin, but otherwise his head was bald, even his eyebrows.

“The Mafiya I feel will be our most important organized threat.” Angua answered, he tapped the window glass, “And they're somewhere in the city, they're over the country. How many affiliates I'm not certain, but that will in our cause to find out. Any individual who we have suspicions might be dealing with now, or had dealt with the Mafiya in the past will be held under our lens. We'll chip our way into their ranks and burn it out from the inside.”

The Russian man nodded along, blue eyes shown with a knowing and eagerness as a wanting smile crawled under his heavy facial hair, “We must break them.” Angua continued, “It will be a hard task for certain. But we should not shy away from whatever tools we have at our disposal.

“Secondly, we should investigate and pursue any leads as to the Resurrection movement from the past. They may be dead, but I will not excuse my doubts on their viability to seek out any remaining rebellious groups. Old, former leaders may still be in contact with others.

“But since the civil war many of these men have been filed or are imprisoned. This gives us ultimate freedom to re-open their information and crawl through their leads to retrace the lines of relationships. Do not consider any connection innocent, have your suspicions comrades: and then prove them. The stability of the mission and of the Revolution depends on it.”

“Fine, fine,” smiled the Russian bear, “But can I ask another question?”

“You may.” Angua bowed.

“Who is organizing this?” he asked, “Beijing? Novosibirsk? Who are we working for?”

“Neither.” Angua replied, to the surprise of the room. He glossed over the surprised faces with a blank expression, “That is to say I have not been sanctioned to put this together by either government. This is an independent mission and we will use our own independent programs to see it out. But the information we acquire does not go to either command, but to all of us.

“I understand this interferes with our oaths and our loyalties. And I invite any of you in this room who do not see this as complimentary to the current larger mission at hand to depart. But I hope, and request of you to put aside this meeting, forget about it, and to not speak of it.

“I can not be sure how well our enemies are embedded, and in some ways we must suspect our commanders even as being the enemy. Ours is a army built on suspicion, do not stop from questioning.”

Again, the same nervous silence washed over the present men. Some shuffled, look to their neighbors with deep wondering looks. Waiting to see if the other would get up and turn from the room. To Angua, this was to know where their own loyalties lay: to men or to revolution.

He breathed a breath of euphoric relief and happiness when no one turned to the door, and he cracked a thin smile as the deal was sealed. At the center of the room a Chinese agent leaned forward from his chair, pulling his revolver from his coat, and placing it on the table before him. “My gun is yours!” he declared. A bald head gleamed in the light, and a faded tattoo of a serpentine dragon traced the lines of his high, wide cheekbones to his eyes and then up to his brow, opening its snarling bear mouth against the glossy dome of his head.

“How do we procede?” he asked.

“That is exactly what we must know now: how, and where do we start.”

Nashville, Tennessee

"I agree with y'all that something needs to be done for Negro rights on a federal level."

James Calhoun sat with Isiah Wolde and his daughter Sarah while the Vice President of the United States spoke. The meeting was being held in the conference room next door to Tennessee governor James Fogle's office. Fogle protested Reed bringing Wolde and his followers in the capital, let alone the governor's own office space, but Vice President Reed shut him up with a curt word and sent him back to his office.

"Now I want you to know President Norman agrees with what you're doing. He sent me down here to meet with y'all and to hear you out. He'd come in person, but matters in Washington are taking his time."

"We've seen the news," said Wolde. "Everyone up there seems to be losing their minds about this whole African war thing."

"They call you the Ethiopian, yes?" Reed asked. "Spent some time there before coming back here. I see several of you are wearing Pan-African flags on your lapels. I guess I know what you all make of the war."

"Naked aggression, Mr. Vice President, nothing more than imperialist greed from Spain. I believe the president partially agrees with me based on his comments to Congress a few months ago, but yet he seems to delay on sending aid to my adopted homeland."

"It's not that simple," Reed said with another grin. "Legislation and bills take time and debate before they can be passed."

"We know the legislative process, Mr. Vice President," Sarah said with a hint of sadness behind her voice. "We know how politicians delay and kill bills, how they horse trade and cut deals while people suffer. The people of Africa are facing war while the colored people here face oppression..."

Reed started to reply, but Sarah raised a hand to cut him off.

"We support the people in Africa because at least they're able to fight back."

"Mr. Vice President," Wolde said, placing an arm on Sarah's shoulder. "This young woman here has been with us since the very beginning, as has her father here on the other side of me. James, show Vice President Reed your mouth."

James opened wide, showing Reed his mouth of metal wiring.

"What happened?" Reed asked.

"A Mississippi policeman groped his daughter. He thought he was in his rights as a father to protect his daughter."

"The policeman had other ideas," James said through his wire tightened mouth. "Ideas that involved a billy club and my jaw."

"Every day," said Wolde. "Mr. Reed, every day the millions of colored people in this country are in a struggle. It's the struggle to get up every morning, to take a job that pays a fraction of what a white man earns, to play nice and mind your manners and not look to long at the white folks if you don't want any trouble. The stores take our money, but they won't let us come in the front door. This government asks us to fight for freedom, but we can't fight for our own. A hundred plus years after the end of slavery and we're still on our knees."

James saw the emotional look on Reed's face. The vice president swallowed hard and nodded.

"We want to rise up, Mr. Vice President. We don't want to stand above white people, we want to stand as equals. Is that so much to ask for, sir?"

"It isn't," Reed said after he cleared his throat. "It's goddamn basic decency. I promise you, all three of you, that when I get back to Washington I will do all I can to see some kind of civil rights bill passed by this Congress."

"We've heard the promises before, Mr. Vice President," said James. "For years we been hearing promises. What we haven't seen is follow up on those promises."

"You will this year, by God," Reed said softly. "You will this year."

-----

The White House
Washington D.C.

A secretary escorted Clay Foulke and the rest of the Democratic House leadership through the halls of the West Wing. Behind Clay was House Majority Leader Harry Hayes and Chief Whip Jennifer Armstrong. Clay glanced behind him and saw Harry and Jenn had that nervous look that came when you were called to the Oval Office. For his part, Clay had become used to it. It got old after the sixth time he had to come up here and get his marching orders from the General. As much as Clay wanted the Speaker gavel, he wasn't too happy about playing second banana to the president. Because of President Fernandez's political leanings, Russ Reed's Senate Majority Leader job meant he had been the top Democrat in the country. He got to dictate their legislative stategy in the Senate and House and to hell with the White House. Now with Reed as VP Clay had been looking forward to being his own man... but now President Norman made sure he couldn't scratch his balls without presidential approval.

"Clay," the president stood as the three Congressmen entered.

President Norman's company for the meeting included Secretary of State Lilian Mather and Secretary of Defense Phillip Dalton. Clay recognized the young woman at Mather's side. A State Department wonk who served as Mather's right-hand woman. Handshakes and greetings were exchanged before the seven men and women settled into the couches and chairs in front of the Oval Office desk.

"Thank you all for meeting me," President Norman said with a look around the room. "I know you all have busy schedules, so thank you for taking the time to come here. I'll cut straight to the matter. This bill that Congressmen Lewis introduced, the foreign aid one. Where is it at?"

"In committee," said Clay. "It's in the appropriations committee under debate."

"Who is the chair of that committee?" Mather asked.

"Walsh out of Oregon's Third District," Jen answered. "Democrat, of course, in his fifth term. Caucuses with the rest of the western liberals."

"Like every Democrat on that committee, He's indebted to the leadership for his assignment," Clay said with a nod towards Jen. "The bill dies in committee if we say so, Mr. President."

Norman nodded and leaned back in his chair, his hands wrapped behind his head. While he was lost in thought, the old admiral took up the thread.

"What are the chances of the bill getting out of committee if you don't back it?" Dalton asked.

"The Democratic majority is too overwhelming," Harry replied in his thick Southern drawl. "A lot of the people on Appropriations want to stay there. Pissing us off will see them swiftly removed. And hell, even if it made it out of that committee the Rules Committee would hamstring it with rules and bury it on the calendar. It wouldn't see the light of day until the year 2000."

"Let it pass," Norman finally said. He pulled his hands down and leaned forward in his chair. "The story is already out on the bill, so we look bad if we try to bury it. Pass it through the House. The Republicans might try to claim credit but don't let them. Lewis isn't affiliated with Republican leadership and from all accounts he did this on his own accord. Lewis gets credit for introducing it, but we get credit for making it happen. The Republicans can either fight it, which make them look petty, or go along with it which makes them look weak."

"What about the Senate?" Clay asked.

"We'll worry about that when the time comes," said the president. "I'll get the Senate leadership into the Oval Office when Vice President Reed returns from the South and we'll work it out."

The young woman next to Mather leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She nodded before addressing the president.

"Sir, what about the repercussions of this bill? First off, we're sending aid to a country that hasn't really asked for it. Secondly, this may provoke action from Spain."

Norman ran a long, slender finger under his chain and took in the Secretary of State's information.

"Does State still have people in Addis Ababa?"

"We have an ambassador and skeleton crew there, yes sir."

"Have them put out feelers to the government. I figure they'll be happy with any help they can get, but if you want confirmation then we can get it."

"And the other thing?" Dalton asked. "Spain?"

The president let a small smile escape his usually stoic demeanor. "Spain is striking into the heart of Africa while China and the Third International are getting into the conflict. They have bigger fish to fry, Phil."

Dalton and Norman shared a smile and a knowing look between them. Clay remembered that both men served during the two wars, wars fought against Spain amongst other foes. If the war against Spain was going to become a dog pile, Clay imagined two old soldiers like Norman and Dalton would relish the chance get in a few kicks Spain while it was down.

-----

Rome, Georgia

"A vote for Jim Sanderson is a vote for Georgia!"

The crowd at the political rally cheered as the MC whipped them up into a frenzy. Russell Reed stood behind the stage with Jim Sanderson while the MC continued. Reed had his chief of staff and a few secret service agents that shadowed him everywhere while Sanderson's entourage included his campaign staff and a few movers and shakers from this part of Northwest Georgia. Sanderson's glad-handing of the local bosses was part of getting elected in the state. The governor of Georgia appointed Sanderson to fill Russell's unfinished term in the Senate after the presidential election. The appointment was a temporary one, the permanent replacement to be named in a special statewide election due to take place in a week.

Georgia, like all the South, was solidly Democratic. As long as there was a little D beside the name on the ballot, you got elected. The problem with the special election was Governor Taliaferro made it an open one regardless of party. Jim was just one of three different Democrats running for the seat. Everyone knew the governor did it because one of the campaigners included himself. His term as governor was due to expire soon. Taliaferro, in his second term, was barred by the state constitution to run for a third term. He needed employment and eyed the Senate as that place.

"Fuck Taliaferro," Sanderson said into Russell's ear. "Making me have to work for this shit. "

"He's trying to upend us," Russell said back into Sanderson's ear. "Now that I'm VP, he thinks that means he can take over control of the state. He smells blood in the water, and you need to show him that it's his own blood, Jim. We need to remind that asshole who controls Georgia."

"Are y'all ready for Senator Sanderson's good friend?!" The MC yelled.

"My cue," Russell said as he stifled a yawn. He'd come to Rome straight from Nashville, riding overnight and getting little sleep. The still had five more campaign stops to make in Northern Georgia before the day was through.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome your former Senator and current Vice President of the United States... Russell Reed!"

Reed bounced up the stage and on to it with his arms spread to the crowd. He smiled wide and waved big in the way the rubes usually ate up. There was applause, but he could read the crowd right away and tell something was wrong. There was an uneasy buzzing amongst the people he didn't like. The applause died away quickly and left Russell standing on the stage while murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"Thank y'all, thank y'all so much. It's good to be back in Georiga, especially here in Rome. First time I been here in at least five years. Now... I want to talk to y'all about Jim Sanderson. Y'all know..."

Russell trailed off when he heard the hissing and the boos. They started at the back before gaining and overpowering him. He tried to calm the crowd, to take back the initiative, but failed. Scowling, he stepped off the stage and heard a few chants of the word "Nigger lover."

"What the fuck is going on out there," Russell raged to Sanderson and his campaign staff.

Suddenly, one of Sanderson's men shoved a paper in his hand. It was a copy of that day's Atlanta Constitution with a front page story about Nashville. The strapline mentioned his secret meeting with Wolde and the other protestors.

"We should have known about this before you came here, Mr. Vice President," one of Sanderson's staff member said.

"Fogle," Russell said to himself. "That goddamn son of a bitch told the press about that meeting."

He ripped the paper in two and tossed the shreds to the ground. He felt his face turning red with rage while the booing of the crowd intensified.

"No offense, Russ," Sanderson said cooly. "But the best thing you can do for me right now is get the hell out of Georgia and as far away from me as possible."

-----

Chicago

Johnny Leggario smoked a cigarette and walked around the Cheetah Room. The place was hopping with the usual crowd of middle-aged losers and college boys drooling over the girls. Sinful Sindy danced on the main stage, a pair of pasties covered her nipples but showed everything else. She wiggled her ample behind along with the uptempo blues number. The rapt audience tossed bills on to the stage and cheered her on. Johnny finished off his cigarette and lit another on the way to the bar. Mel the bartender handed him his usual Jack and Coke that was mostly Jack. He nursed it and watched the crowd going about its business.

The idea of strip clubs always struck him as bizarre. It was nothing but pure titillation with no resolution. Horny men coming here was like a starving man getting a bowl of wax fruit. Just get a hooker and be done with it, he figured. It cost a lot less and had a lost less bullshit attached. He couldn't complain, though. The Cheetah Room was easily the most successful skin joint on the Southside. The girls were teases but they looked damn good doing it. Johnny thought as much as he saw Sindy stretch her lean body across the metal pole. The place could run legit and make money hand over fist, but laundering the Outfit's money and pushing Bobby C's dope and coke put them into the stratosphere of money making. And for his troubles Johnny got a twenty percent cut.

Johnny's take in the joint was more than enough for him. Lots of wiseguys ended up dead or in the clink because they got greedy and stupid. Johnny skimmed off the top of the Cheetah Room's take, but that was expected. He took just enough to not arouse suspicion. A guy who took too much got killed, and a guy who didn't take at all raised a lot of red flags. An honest man in this profession was a weirdo. Johnny made sure his skim was right in the middle and enough to keep anyone asking any questions.

"Johnny," Jeff the bouncer said as he came up. "Guy wants to see you."

Johnny took his drink and followed Jeff towards the front. Just inside the front door were two men in ill-fitting suit. One was short and fat and Johnny didn't recognize him. He had thick glasses that made his eyes look giant, and his hair was cut short almost down to being bald. The other was gray-headed and lean. His hair was slicked back with grease and he wore a trim mustache that tried to distract people from the pockmarks on his face. The pockmarked one Johnny knew.

"Mick Mahoney," he said with a quick handshake. "Your Irish fuck, you owe me six grand. Give me one goddamn good reason not to let my guy Jeff take you out back and beat you until you piss blood?"

"Johnny--," Mick said with a nervous laugh. "Johnny, I got a way to pay you back. I--" he motioned towards the fat man. "We have something you might be interested in."

Johnny sighed and checked his watch. Fuck it, he thought. Nothing else to do tonight. He led the two men into the back offic and sat behind his desk while the other two men sat down in the folding chairs opposite him. Mick pulled out a cigarette while the short fat man got out a cigar.

"Where's your manners, Mick?" Johnny asked. "Introduce me to your friend."

"Yeah, this is Prussian Joe."

"Johann," the fat man said in a thick German accent. "They started calling me Prussian Joe in Joliet."

"Did time in the clink?" Johnny asked.

"Ja. Five year stretch for armed robbery."

"Fascinating," Johnny said as he looked at his fingernails. "Now explain why I shouldn't beat your ass for just affiliating with this deadbeat Malone?"

"Mr. Legarrio," Prussian Joe said as he laid his hands on the desk. "Mick has brought me to you because he says you are a man who is a man of action. How true is this?"

"Depends on the action," Johnny said non-committedly. "And depends on my cut from said action."

"Prussian Joe and I were cellmates," said Mick. He nodded as he spoke, eager to talk fast and please. "A few years back when I went away for that bunko beef? Joe and I got to talking and he told me his plan after I told him about my connections. I got out and he came to see me when he got out."

"What plans?" Johnny asked with a raised eyebrow.

"The First National Bank Downtown," said Prussian Joe. "I have a plan to rob it. It's been in place for sometime, we have only to act. If we pull it off, we can walk away with at least ten million. What do you think of that type of action, Mr. Legarrio?"

Johnny finished his smoke and took his sweet time finding another one and lighting it up before answering.

"I think I'd like to hear more."

Socotra

Like vultures descending upon a fallen beast, ten vaguely-humanoid beings sank into the blue depths of the sea. The regulators clamped firmly within their mouths let off billowing curtains of bubbles with each exhalation. Hoses ran from the mouthpieces to long cylinders of compressed air mounted onto bodies clad with close-fitting rubber wetsuits. Long, webbed fins extended out from their legs, giving each of these beings the ability to give powerful kicks against the water. In spite of their monstrous appearance, these creatures of sea were in fact human. They were hombres ranas - frogmen - the salvage divers of the Spanish Armada.

The sea around them resounded with the sharp pulse of air flowing from the pressurized airtanks into their mouths, followed by the gurgle of a thousand bubbles of spent breath trickling surfaceward. Diving with such a system made it possible to remain underwater for an hour or more: plenty of time to accomplish their appointed task.

Steely eyes behind bug-eyed facemasks surveyed the underwater world rising up to meet the frogmen. A landscape of brightly-colored corals - the surface of an alien realm - manifested just below them. A school of anchovies moved across the teeming reef below in a shimmering, undulating cloud. A pair of hammerheads harried the anchovies along, repulsing the swarm of tiny fish whenever the hammerheads approached. The sharks disengaged from the anchovies and made an ambling, lazy pass by the divers. Sharks very seldom gave the salvage divers any trouble, but that didn't stop one of the frogmen from pre-emptively gathering his powerhead in his arms. Even while under the sea, the Spanish were prepared for a fight. In addition to various salvage tools, each diver carried with him a fiberglass rod terminating in a firing tube upon which a shotgun slug was mounted. With a deft jab into the intended target, the powerhead would discharge directly into anything that got close enough to threaten its wielder, issuing a swift death to even the most aggressive undersea beasts.

But the Armada had not issued the frogmen their powerheads with sharks or barracudas in mind.

The Armada's command chain had learned that Ethiopia had lost something very dear off the desert isle of Socotra. Surely enough, after a week of conducting sonar sweeps around the island, the Delfin found what the admirals sought: the unmistakable profile of an airplane resting upon the seabed. The Spanish suspected - hoped - that the Emperor had allowed some sort of secret weapon to fall within Sotelo's grasp.

Now, with their own eyes, they could see the wreckage. Beyond where the reef dropped off into an open plain of furrowed sandbeds, pale aluminum wings stretched outward against the blue abyss. As they approached the derelict plane, the story of how it came to arrive at the bottom of the Gulf of Aden was revealed. The fuselage was peppered with bullet holes, and the left engine pod had been completely mangled by a machine gun fusillade. Wide, swathes of sooty black scorchmarks fanned out from the ruined engine and mottled the rest of the wing. The nose end of the plane, including the cockpit, had snapped off completely save for a twisted sinew of metal and wiring that kept it attached to the wreckage - a wound that likely occurred during the water landing. The tattered nose of the airplane rested in a crumpled heap underneath the right wing.

Some of the frogmen pulled strings attached to the vests wrapped around their torsos, allowing air trapped in buoyant bladders within the vest to vent out as a gurgling string of bubbles. With the excess air released, they sank down to just a few feet off the sandbed, sending little crabs and long-legged shrimp scurrying away to safety. Some of the other divers circled around the wreckage, searching the site with powerheads in hand for any hazard or sign of trouble. A pair of divers descended to investigate the remains of the cockpit. Within a coffin of spiderwebbed glass, a pair of skeletons slumped against their seats clad in pilots coveralls. The two Spaniards watched with apathetic interest as a tiny guppy swam about one vacant eye socket and nibbled at a scrap of flesh. In a cloud of disturbed sand - the pair left the cadavers to the scavengers and regrouped with the rest of the party near the opening of the fuselage.

At the yawning entrance of the decapitated airplane, the Spaniards conducted a final check of the equipment they had brought down with them from the Delfin. Two inspected the tethers of steel cable they had brought down, which terminated in heavy duty carabiner hooks and ran all the way to winches onboard the ship. Another diver tested a hydraulic pincer, pressing the claw-like tool against a section of the airplane's aluminum skin. An audible whine could be heard through the water as the twin blades of the implement bit hard into sheet metal and left a long, clean cut through the aluminum. The other divers were equipped with more mundane tools - prying tools, hammers, and crescent wrenches - but they were well prepared to bring any valuable Ethiopian hardware back to the surface nonetheless. With their gear assured to be in good working order, the divers slowly filtered inside the plane.

As the divers floated inside the cavernous fuselage, they quickly discovered they were not alone; illuminated in a ghostly beam of blue light filtering in through a porthole, was the spectral form of a skeleton wrapped in a white dress. The dress, stained and muddied by prolonged exposure to seawater, billowed and ebbed in the currents. The skeleton sat upright against the hull, still restrained to the bench seat where she had spent the final moments of her life, as if to watch the frogmen as they entered her underwater tomb. A chill ran up the spine of more than one Spanish diver.

Refocusing their attention on the task at hand, the frogmen took note of the massive object that dominated the airplane's interior. Surrounded by clusters of nondescript schoolfish was a crate so large that it almost seemed like the airplane was built around it. Satin blankets that had once been colored in rich, royal colors had shifted about in the crash and lay strewn all throughout the back side of the fuselage. The crate itself was abnormal as well, solid hardwood - perhaps teak. Given its quality, it seemed like the last material someone would ever use to make something as mundane as a crate.

Unless that crate carried something valuable indeed.

One of the divers approached the crate with what looked like a modified crowbar. He planted his webbed feet against the floor of the airplane, pressed the chiseled end between two planks, and attempted to pry the crate apart. The planks, however, didn't budge. Not only was the crate luxurious, it was thick. But not thick enough to withstand the hydraulic pincer. Its wielder placed a corner beam in the maw of the device and started it. A cracking sound reverberated through the airplane as the blades dug deep into the wood and snapped the beam in half. Another three cuts around the top of the crate and some prying by the other divers finally resulted in the separation of the top from the rest of the crate. At last, the Spaniards removed the top and allowed it to sink unceremoniously to the floor.

Upon looking upon the crate's contents, their eyes bulged in their masks.

Inside the crate was a chest made of a yellowish wood darkened by the passage of millennia. Its facets were adorned with inlays of brilliant gold. Two beams of wood ran lengthwise along the artifact, each held a safe distance from the object itself by gilded rungs. The top of this box was entirely covered in the same majestic gold. A glassy surface of smooth gold formed the cover, which was adorned with a golden figure depicting a pair of four-winged angels. Each angel kneeled before the other one, shrouding its body with one set of wings while forming a crown of outstretched feathertips over the box with the other set.

Being the devout Spaniards they were, each diver recognized immediately that they had laid eyes upon the Ark of the Covenant.

The pace of their gurgling regulators increased, leaving a shimmering cloud of bubbles trapped against the ceiling of the airplane. For some time, the divers hung idly against the open crate, dumbstruck by their discovery. Underwater, nobody could communicate with one another to say what should be done with such a relic. But they all understood that no matter what, something as precious as the Ark could not be left to wither and rot on the seafloor. It had to come to the surface, that much was unanimously understood.

The pincer made short work of the airplane's roof; a square large enough for the Ark to pass through upward toward the surface was quickly opened, allowing the six winch cables down into the fuselage. Knowing full well the fate that befell the who laid hands directly upon the Ark, the Spaniards took immense care to avoid touching the relic itself and slid the carabiner rungs over the handle beams, lest they suffer the same fate as ancient Uzzah.

Three deft tugs were given upon the cables: the signal for the crane operator to activate the winch. At last, the Ark of the Covenant rose from its crate up toward the long shadow cast by the Delfin. The frogmen swam upward to accompany it, watching the ancient relic intently to assure no harm came to it. So intently, in fact, that the divers failed to note the cluster of dinghies surrounding the ship, nor the red tint to the water around its hull.

The crown of seraph wings burst through the surface with a crash of frothy seawater, and came to a stop beneath the arm of the Delfin's onboard salvage crane. The divers that had released the Ark from it's watery tomb soon cleared the surface as well, tearing the regulators out of their mouths and breathing unassisted for the first time in an hour. As they pulled their facemasks up onto their foreheads, they were greeted by a quick succession of firearm reports.

Waiting for them on the loading deck at the rear of Delfin was a macabre sight. Meandering trickles of watery blood ran off the stern into the waves, emanating from a pile of unceremoniously-stacked bodies - bodies the divers recognized as the deckhands and officers of the Delfin. The cold eyes of a cadre of gunmen standing vigil about the ship focused themselves upon the surfaced divers. The gunmen did not appear to belong to a well regimented military organization; for their clothing was a mismatched hodgepodge of hand-me-down combat clothing and battle dress from many nations. The only article of their uniforms that spoke of any cohesion were black vests adorned with a purple eye. The same symbol flew upon a black flag that hung upon the Delfin's mast where the flag of the Spanish Republic was normally flown.

Standing at the bow of the ship stood a man with a flowing purple robe, with an immaculately-folded turban of the same color resting atop his head. The figure, who had been enrapt with the Ark of the Covenant dangling above the waves, at last took note of the bewildered frogmen floating nearby. The divers had outlived their usefulness; with a dismissive wave of his hand, the robed figure bid his gunmen to shoot.

____________________________

Another burst of gunfire echoed across the water, sending adrenaline pumping through the priest's bloodstream once again. He waited for a time after relative silence settled over the ship before peering over the lip of the vessel from his hiding spot. The fore deck of the ship was still spattered with blood and littered with bullet casings from the initial gunfight.

For the past hour, the priest had been hanging from the anchor chain of the ship, waiting for the moment the ferengi were the least alert to emerge from his hiding spot and remove the threat the invaders posed to the Holy Tabot. Once the divers had descended, he reasoned, he would strike out against the invaders.

But just before the priest made his attack, what seemed to be a mutiny broke out - firefights broke out without warning throughout the ship. Shortly thereafter, inflatable boats arrived from the island, carrying armed gunmen who boarded the ship and assisted the mutineers in wresting control of the ship from the ferengi.

At first, the priest had hoped that the Lord had sent the Emperor's fighting men against the ferengi. But after watching the execution of the Spanish at the hands of the boarders and embedded mutineers, it became apparent that a darker power had taken control of this vessel and - if the Spanish divers could retrieve it - the Tabot.

With the immediate area clear, the priest climbed overboard at last and crept along the deck of the ferengi ship, removing the knife from between clenched teeth and twirling it about in his hand. Stealthily and unseen, he made his way toward the rear of the vessel, where the divers had jumped off into the sea.

Hanging over the water, he saw the Holy Tabot. Hanging above the churning waves from a number of cables affixed to a small crane was the physical manifestation of the alliance between the Lord and his chosen people, still dripping with seawater. A monstrous travesty. These invaders would pay with their lives. By his hand, they would all feel the wrath of the Lord of Israel and the House of Solomon.

The priest's assault of the loading deck came with the ferocity and suddenness of lightning from a blue sky. One gunman - one of the original ferengi mutineers armed with a Spanish sidearm - only heard the thumping of bare feet on the deck before he felt the knife plunge through his neck. The priest withdrew his blade from between severed vertebrae and made for the next apostate.

He vaulted over a rack of airtanks and was upon a swarthy-skinned fighter from the Levant. This one made an attempt to defend himself, loosing a spray of bullets from a Great War firearm that drew the attention of the other gunmen. It was a futile attempt, and amidst the sparks of lead striking metal, the priest got in between the gunman and the barrel of said gun. The dagger tore from sternum to throat, and he fell in a bloody heap upon the deck. A hail of bullets honed in on this half-naked warrior priest as every armed man on the Delfin opened fire.

The priest moved swiftly to his next victim, using the crates and equipment scattered about the loading deck as cover from the murderous deluge of bullets. His next victim could only watch as the wild-haired Ethiopian lunged toward him with a knife in hand. In his robe and turban of royal purple, the priest reasoned this man standing on the edge of the bow near the suspended Ark must be the leader of these people. For such a role in this heinous affair, his death had to be assured.

The Ethiopian seized the robe-clad man by the shoulder, sending the turban tumbling behind him into the sea and revealing a smooth, bald head. The priest grabbed him tightly and presenting him before his accomplices like a human shield while placing his bloodied dagger against his throat. The gunmen immediately ceased their fire and the nearest three approached cautiously with firearms raised against the priest. Within fifty paces of the priest and his hostage, the Ethiopian threatened to press the blade down into the bald man's neck, giving his would-be rescuers pause. Save for the lapping of the waves against the ship's hull, the roaring hiss of an airtank ruptured by a bullet, and the heavy breathing of the Tabot's guardian, a tense silence fell upon Delfin.

"You have menaced the Holy Tabot of the Lord God of Israel and the House of Solomon. For this, you must all perish."

None of them seemed to understand the priest's Amharic. The bald man, an olive-skinned man with the almond eyes of Asia, glanced to his accomplices. They seemed ready to set their firearms aside, but looked about to each other and their robe-clad leader for confirmation. The bald man gave a knowing nod, and the gunmen begrudgingly set their weapons on the floor. One of the fighters, upon setting his rifle on the deck, reached for a rack of powerheads and passed one to each of his partners. They then brandished the spearlike weapons, challenging the priest to his preferred means of combat.

((Suggested listening. Thanks to vilageidiotx for suggesting this.))

The priest released his hostage and accepted their challenge.

He twirled his knife about in his hands, inviting his combatants to make the first attack. Judging by their confused glaces to one another, it seemed they were not accustomed to combat with hand to hand weapons. Nonetheless, one of his opponents opened with a swift jab to his chest. He evaded the lunge, and brushed the powerhead away with his wrist before getting in close and pressing in with his dagger. His companions held the priest at bay, presenting the points of the powerhead spears at his chest.

The priest held his ground as the three attempted to encircle him, and parried away two jabs meant to force him into the reach of another powerhead. One of the combatants lunged at the priest at the moment he expected him to be caught unaware. But instead, the priest caught the lunging attacker by surprise: the Ethiopian seized hard upon the powerhead's fiberglass rod and pulled the weapon - along with it's wielder - in close. With his free hand, the priest plunged his dagger afgainst the attacker's clavicle. With a bloody gurgle, his opponent released the powerhead and collapsed to the deck. Now the priest had two weapons - one for each of his remaining opponents.

One of his remaining opponents, clearly one of the Spanish mutineers, took the offensive. He swung his powerhead down at the priest as if it were an ax while his surviving partner jabbed squarely for his head. The priest took the powerhead's shaft into both hands, allowing the knife to fall to the deck as he diverted the jab and held off the mutineer's swing. While his opponents recoiled, the priest twirled the powerhead around his arms and in one graceful, fluid motion, pressed the powerhead hard into the Spaniard's gut. To the priest's surprise, the sound of a gunshot rang out from where the weapon's point made contact. A spray of red mist materialized, and the mutineer crumpled to the deck clutching an oozing wound in his stomach.

Curious weapons indeed, the priest mused.

Now that he was alone against the warrior priest, his last remaining opponent appeared truly frightened. As if to say 'To Hell with this,' the apostate threw his powerhead to the deck and reached for the more familiar FE-74 he had set aside earlier. Understanding that he would not reach the man in time to dispatch him, and knowing the capabilities of this curious ferengi spear, the priest took his powerhead into his hand like a javelin. With a powerful throw, he launched the powerhead at the apostate.

This time, there was no gun-like report, but the spear found its mark regardless. His opponent groaned and fell to the deck, flailing to extricate the powerhead lodged in his neck. The priest could see it was not a fatal blow. He retrieved his fallen dagger from the deck and went over to finish his work. He stooped over his dying victim, plunged the dagger into his beating heart, and twisted.

The priest found himself too exhausted now to return immediately to his feet. His ribcage expanded and contracted for a few moments beneath coffee colored skin mottled with the blood of half a dozen men. After several labored breaths, he struggled to his feet, ready to kill the bald man in the purple robe.

But he was already behind him. The last thing the Ethiopian priest saw was the bald man crashing a rifle butt into his head.

Lavonia, Georgia

Russell Reed skipped rocks across the waters of Lake Hartwell and ignored the sounds of the party coming from inside the house. The sun was a beautiful golden ball as it began to slowly sink over the tree line. With Russell and his wife Robin back home, the Reed family had come from across the state for a party. He had no desire to see any of them. His daughter and two sons were one thing, but the distant cousins and aunts and uncles who he barely knew were just too much for him to take at the moment.

Two days had passed since the fiasco in Rome and he was still holed up here at the lake house. The papers in Georgia and the segregated south were ripping him apart for his meeting with Wolde and discussing his complaints. They cried that he was cajoling to dangerous radicals, that he was defying the constitution and laying the ground for full on communism in America. Wilbur Helms, that giant liver spot with eyebrows, wrote an editorial in a South Carolina paper saying that Russell was selling out the South, working as a puppet for the Norman Administration to step on the god-given rights of the state. Helms, the man who had a half black daughter, raged that federal desegregation was the start of a military dictatorship under Michael Norman Africanus I. Russell called the president several times over the last few days only to be told he was in a meeting and that he would get back to him as soon as possible. Like Jim Sanderson, President Norman wanted Russell as far away from him as possible.

"You're missing the party."

Russell turned and saw Robin standing by the shore, her high heels in her hand as she walked barefoot across the sand. For twenty-five years this amazing woman had been by his side. They'd met at a political event in Elbert County where Robin was from. He was floored by her brains as much as her beauty. She was attending law school at UGA and had a razor-sharp mind for politics. As much as he respected the advice of the old pols and brilliant minds he knew, there was nobody else he trusted quite as much as her. Robin could read people and see all the angles almost as well as he could, but her strength lay in her compassion and sympathy. Had she lived in another place or another time, Russell she would have been the political star of the family instead of him.

Instead, she had to console herself to the role of key advisor. From the impossible highs to the unbearable lows she was always there. He made his ambition known to her shortly before their wedding and she accepted her life as a politician's wife. That fervent wish of his to one day sit in the Oval Office was known to her and only her. Robin never said it, but he knew very well she shared that dream. She wanted to see him there and be at his side as First Lady.

"I don't want to talk to any of them," he said as Robin took his hand into hers. "I talked to Sally and the boys, and I saw and played with all the grandkids. I consider my family obligations through. I don't give a damn if my cousin Lee accidentally chopped off his little toe cutting firewood, or how the diabetes makes it hard for Auntie Miriam to get up the stairs. Besides..."

He pulled her hand up and kissed the knuckles, his eyes glittering in the evening sun.

"With you outside now, I have no need to go back inside."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she said with a grin.

"Not with some people."

"How long do you plan to hide out here on the lake?"

Russell shrugged and slipped his hand away from hers. He began to pick more rocks up and throw them into the water. Now they weren't skipping at all, just sinking straight away.

"My value as VP is tied to the president's trust in me," he said through gritted teeth. "How in the ever loving hell can I get him to trust me when I can't even control politics in my own state. We've got five goddamn days to get Jim Sanderson elected and this civil rights shit is hitting him as much as it's hitting me."

"Do you regret meeting them?" Robin asked. "Knowing what you know now, would you still do it?"

He stopped throwing rocks and looked back at his wife for a long moment.

"No. I just regret it leaking. It's time, baby, we can't go on living with half of this country so goddamn hypocritical. 'Land of the free? Sure, but y'all just can't come in through the front door and don't think twice about eyeballing that white woman or we will lynch you, boy. And voting?'--"

Robin put a hand on Russell's back and rubbed it.

"Listen to you, the idealist."

"Don't call me that," he snapped. "I am not an idealist--"

"Sure," she said with a wink. "I know you, honey. You're pragmatic as anybody else, or so you let them think. I've had your heart for a quarter of a century, I know how it works. You don't get moved much, but when you do everyone needs to get out the way. Once you're wound up, nothing stops you. You know what you need?"

"What's that?"

"Winding up. Go out there and show Taliaferro who controls this state. After that, we're going to go back to Washington and remind the President and Congress just who you are."

He looked into his wife's eyes. Those deep green eyes that he loved to just look at for no other reason than the beauty and warmth that radiated for him. It was odd to hear her talking so bluntly while her eyes were filled with so much love.

"Whose that? Because ever since the election, I feel like I don't know who I am."

Robin pulled him close and kissed him softly. "You are my husband, Russell Reed, the man who has dominated national politics for nearly twenty years. The man who can read and bully and motivate men like nobody else. Forget your title, forget the Constitution, forget the hangups that come with the vice presidency and just do what you do best..."

They kissed again and she held him close.

"Win."

-----

Sun City, Arizona

Roderick Marston adjusted his tie and looked out through the two-way mirror down onto the casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes while they worked clattering slot machines with dead eyes. A half dozen dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across the floor on too tall heels while they dished out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up did a bad job of hiding the miles and the years. Roderick figured for the right price a man could take one of them home. Drunk businessmen played blackjack while geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriner fez hats played roulette.

"Everything looks to be in working order," Roderick said to the man behind the desk.

The sprawling office above the casino floor was decorated in a very gaudy fashion that included leopard print wallpaper and a faux fur carpet. Fake Venus De Milo statues flanked a walnut desk big enough to hold an orgy on. The desk looked out on the long mirrored glass where Roderick stood. Behind the desk, his leopard fur slippers up on the desk, was Benny D'Amico. He wore a bright pink shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He also wore a white pair of pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age but made Benny look clownish.

The Desert Rose Hotel & Casino was the casino on the Sun Strip. Like all the big joints in Sun City, the Boys from back east owned it. The Fortunato Family from New York had the Lucky Gent, while LA's Valestra Family co-owned the Lion's Den with the Kansas City Como Family. The Desert Rose belonged to the Chicago Outfit. Benny was their point man. Roderick owned points in the Desert Rose and the Lucky Gent. Not enough to make some noise, but enough so that he never had to worry about money.

"Suckers come in with cash, they leave lacking it. Sunrise, sunset," Benny said with a shrug.

"My friends at the Arizona Gaming Commission are very interested in how much of your take is getting skimmed. They say they may launch an investigation into the Desert Rose's books."

Benny's face went a deep red that matched the scarlet tie Roderick wore. The AGC was without a doubt the most powerful force in the state. The five-man board decided the rules and regulations that dictated the gaming industry in Arizona. Other states across the country had gaming or some sort or another, be it a lottery or on-site horse race betting, but Arizona was the only state in the US that had fully legalized gambling. The gaming helped with the image of the state as a rowdy place. Arizona was the last of the forty-eight, the last part of the Wild West that got tamed. To Roderick, it was still the Wild West. He had the old bullet wounds to prove it.

"Fucking gaming commission assholes," Benny shouted. "Always up my ass."

"Relax." Roderick placed his hands on the large desk looked down at Benny. "You know they're just busting your balls until you cough up a big enough bribe."

"Jesus... and they call me a fucking crook. You and your people are the goddamn crooks!"

Roderick sighed and checked his watch.

"I golf every other week with Red Mulligan, he's the chairman. I'll be in Phoenix with him the day after tomorrow. I'll talk to him and work out a deal. I already know he'll want points."

Benny's face went from deep red to near purple. "What? That's a bunch of bullshit, so now I gotta keep bribing this prick?"

"You give him enough points in the Rose, he'll keep the rest of the commission off your back, Benny. I promise you. He did the same shit with the Gold Dust down the street. Once he gets his points, no more problems."

"Fucking Arizona," Benny mumbled. "Back in Chicago, I could clip this goddamn cocksucker and everybody would be thankful for it. Back east, everyone knows how to take just their share and not get greedy. But out here, you all have your goddamn hands in everybody's pockets and keep wanting more and more--"

"What do I tell Mulligan," Roderick cut him off. "Besides a string of expletives?"

"Four percent, alright?" Benny said as he shook his head. "And that's non-negotiable. Fucking Bobby C. is gonna whack me because I'm giving his money away to all you fucking crooks."

Roderick said his goodbyes to Benny and left the Desert Rose out through the back. He got into his waiting car and looked out at the glowing, blinking lights of Sun City as his driver sped him across town to the conference center. Early in the evening and the town was already lit up in full glitz and glamor mode. He was a Sun City native, his dad an original city councilman back when the town was first incorporated. He remembered it as a sleepy desert town forty years ago and now it was the booming pleasure captial of America and Roderick loved every bit of it. This town was America right down to its core. Bright lights and the hope, the prospect that anybody could get lucky and hit it big. Like most of America, it was bullshit. The game was rigged and the house always won in the end. To Roderick, there was nothing more American than that.

At the conference center, he slipped in the back entrance and stood backstage waiting for his introduction.

"Rod," Red Mulligan said as he came up with his hand out. "How'd it go with our friend?"

"Four points, Red. That's all he'll give up."

"Shit, Rod, that's only going to mean two for me when you get your cut."

"It's free money," Roderick said with a shrug. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Will you back off the Desert Rose?"

"For now," Red said with a scowl.

"Good, because that asshole already wants to kill you," Roderick said as he readjusted his tie and scrutinized his appearance. "You push too hard and he'll push back hard. You'll go to start your car one day and you go sky high."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Sun County Republican Party," the MC said. "Thank you for coming out to our annual Lincoln Day Dinner. Our guest needs no introduction, but how about I give him one anyway? Six years on the Arizona Gaming Commission, four years as a Congressman, and now in his second term as the junior US Senator from Arizona. Please welcome your senator, Rod Marston!"

"Remember these mob guys are amateurs at grifting when it comes to guys like us."

Roderick gave Red a playful wink before he came out onto the stage to thunderous applause.

------

Boston

Elliot Shaw slowly opened the door of the bowling alley just enough to let him look out a small sliver in the door. Two heavyset men in suits were climbing out a car and talking to themselves.

"Think they're in that dump, Gino?" The muscle on the left asked his buddy.

"I guess so. The guy's car is out front, where else could he be?"

Elliot stepped away and scampered back in the darkness just as the door swung open. The two men stepped into the abandoned bowling alley and tried to see through the shadows. Elliot watched and waited to take advantage for their confusion. The gun in his hand felt very heavy as he jumped and struck one of the men in the back of the head. He fell to the ground in a heap, the noise causing the other man to shout in alarm.

He felt meaty hands on his shoulders that tried to wrap themselves around him. He struggled and fought in the dark, reaching back and pistol whipping the man with the barrel of the gun. Elliot kept swinging until he felt blood hitting his hands. He pushed the man away and heard him fall to the ground.

"C'mon," he said to Jane in the dark "We gotta get out here. These men were following me, this place isn't safe. Get your stuff, and we'll go."

A few minutes later and the two were headed out the bowling alley to Elliot's car. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and pierced the two front tires of the thugs' car with his knife. "That'll slow him down," he said as he got in and started the car. "I got a place you can stay and hide out. It's the last place they'll look."

He peeled rubber leaving the dilapidated parking lot.

----

"What's going on, Shaw?" Helena asked from the other side of the door.

Elliot leaned against the doorframe and smiled "Howdy, my dear. I was wondering if you'd let me inside."

"Depends. Who's your friend?"

He looked back at Jane and then back to Helena. "I was trying to get a ménage à trois going. Wanted to know if you were up for it."

"I told you I only like three-ways when two guys are involved."

"Oh, well. A guy can dream. You gonna let us in?"

Helena stepped aside and let Elliot and Jane into her apartment. It was more than just an apartment. Penthouse would be more like it. Nice, open spaces and plenty of rooms. Not like the rattrap Elliot called home. Helena Murphy, Elliot's off and on girlfriend, was also a high-priced call girl.

"So what the hell is going on, Shaw?"

"Helena, this is Jane Wilson. Jane, meet Helena Murphy, she's my sweetie. You see, Jane, we're courting--"

"--If that's what you call it--"

"--and I was hoping Helena would let you stay here for a while so we can figure this thing out."

Before Helena can voice her protest, her phone began to ring. She walked across the room and answered, speaking for a moment before holding it out.

"It's for you, someone named Stan Mertz."

Elliot cursed and took the phone from Helena.

"Stan, long time no see," he said in a cheerful tone.

"Elliot, nice to talk to you as well," the BPD sergeant said from the other end of the line. "How are you?"

"Ummm... busy. Just dealing with work. How did you know to call this number?"

"Your old buddy Sean McKenna. I tried calling your place, but you never picked up. The Deputy told me you had a girl who you might be with so I gave her a ring. Listen, I have one hell of a case that I can't seem to figure out. You mind giving me your expertise?"

"That's what I'm here for, Sarge."

"So, yeah. I'm working a murder case and I've pretty much got everything I need. I mean I got fingerprints, and eyewitnesses that saw the vic and suspect arguing a half hour before the murder. The victim is a William Henry and the likely perp is his girlfriend, one Jane Wilson."

"That sounds pretty straightforward, Stan. Don't see how you need my help."

"Well, here's the thing. I go to order a trace on the phone line of the apartment where the vic was found, and the lady operator tells me that I've already ordered a trace on another phone. Now that is curious because I have no memory of doing that. But it's on their log, clear as day. Just a half hour before I call, someone tracked a number to an old bowling alley using my name and badge number. Isn't that very strange?"

"I gotta be honest, Stan, it puzzles the shit outta me."

"Alright, Shaw, well we know about your notebook, me and the rest of the Homicide guys. We've always felt like we owed you one because of that bad shake you got, but we tracked down that number you traced and it came to a bowling alley where we found a car with flat tires. It's not yours, so someone must be after you. Bring Jane Wilson in, Shaw, and we'll all talk. I know you got a job to do, but I got mine."

"I'll think it over, Stan."

He hung up quickly and turn towards Jane. "Who did you kill?"

"Nobody," Jane said with a shake of her head. "Nobody, I swear!"

"This boyfriend of yours, was in on the blackmail scam, right?"

"Right. He came up with the blackmail idea once I told him about Kane. He used to flirt with me, you could tell he was just waiting on me to say yes. It was Will's idea that I sleep with him and take photos."

"The cop I just talked to said a witness heard the two of your arguing shortly before he was murdered."

"We were at his place. He wanted to give Kane back the files. He said it was getting too heavy. I told him that if we did that now, we'd be dead."

Jane closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I left, went to blow off some steam when I came back he was..."

"Dead," Elliot finished for her. "How'd he die?"

"Shot a few times with a small pistol."

"How'd you know it was a small pistol?"

She pointed towards Elliot's jacket. "The gun I gave you, it was the one I found on the floor beside his body."

"Fuck me," Elliot said under his breath.

"You have no idea, Shaw," Helena said as she looked up from the documents Jane stole from Kane. "What this girl stole, no wonder she's in trouble."

-----

Vancouver

Arthur Stewart watched Joanna from across the hotel lobby. She was all dolled up tonight in a slinky red gown and high heels that matched her flaming red hair. She sat at the bar and chatted with a middle-aged man next to her. Tonight was the result of a week's worth of watching and waiting by the Friends. He, Alex, Joanna, and Chris all took turns shadowing the man at the bar and getting his routine down pat.

Peter Leigh served as president of the Territorial Legislature. It was mostly a ceremonial position, allowing the longtime politician plenty of time to booze it up. Leigh served as a minor cabinet official in President Rans' administration before defecting to the Pro-US side after General Norman's Eight Army Group invaded NWC territory. That defection was the only reason Leigh hadn't been sent to prison or put out to pasture like the rest of the NWC's government. To Arthur and the Friends, Leigh's defection was tantamount to treason.

He felt his face flush in anger as he saw Joanna's slender fingers caress Leigh's arm and feign both laughter and interest in whatever he was saying. Arthur went back to pretending like he was reading his newspaper. After another half hour, Leigh stood and wrapped a flabby arm around Joanna's shoulder. He whispered something into her ear and laughed loudly before paying the bar tab.

Arthur followed them through the hotel lobby and out onto the sidewalk. Leigh hailed a cab that pulled up quickly. The cab, stolen that night, was driven by Chris. The taxi pulled out into the street and sped off. Another car pulled up with Alex behind the wheel. Arthur got into the passenger seat and held on as Alex hurried to catch up with the cab.

"How drunk is he?" Alex asked as he handed Arthur a heavy object covered in an oily cloth.

"He's completely shit-faced."

Arthur pulled off the cloth and gripped the pistol tightly in his right hand. His heart was beginning to pound as Alex gained on the cab and started to draw close. It was parked at a red light when Alex stopped behind it. Arthur jumped out and ran to the car. He peered in and saw Leigh was busy pawing on Joanna's breast with a fat hand. The sight of him doing that sent Arthur off more than any political theory or difference of the opinion the man had. Things like territorial sovereignty and imperialist aggression seemed distant concepts, intangible compared to the fact that this traitor and coward was touching his woman.

"President Leigh," he said as he tapped on he glass.

Leigh turned in time to see the gun go off. The bullet shattered the window and drove into Leigh's head. The man slumped forward as Arthur shot him two more times in the head. Joanna was already scrambling to get away from the dying man. The roar of the gun filled Arthur's ears and made it hard for him to hear. He felt detached from his body as Chris and Joanna started to pull him away from the dead man. The next thing he knew, he was in the backseat of Alex's car and feeling Joanna's lips on his cheek.

"Did you leave the note?" Alex asked from the front seat.

"Sure did," Joanna said before turning back to Arthur. "You did good, baby."

"I did it... for you," he said softly. "The thought of that animal touching you like that."

"You killed for me?" She asked, her eyes shining with tears. "I love you so much, Arthur."

"I love you too," he said as they kissed.

"And the VX, baby?" She asked between kisses. "You'll do that for me too?"

The VX didn't seem like that big of a deal if she wanted it. As long as it made Joanna happy and he got to see that proud look she gave him just a few minutes ago when he told her he killed Leigh for her. For a man like Arthur, someone who never really had a family or friends to speak of, companionship and love was a hundred times more potent than any drug. He got high off their respect and admiration and he'd do anything to keep that feeling.

"Of course," he said into her ear. "Anything you say."

----

Atlanta

Jim Sanderson gazed out at the skyline of Atlanta from his hotel room. Looking at the city always brought him back to his first time seeing the city. He was twenty-one years old when he left Hawkinsville for the first time to serve State Representative Jack Bartley as his chief of staff. The city looked so huge driving up from South Georgia. Hawkinsville had maybe two thousand people total, that was a few city blocks here in Atlanta. The size and scope of it all gave him a sense of vertigo that took days to overcome. He spent his first night here in Atlanta on Bartley's couch, his shabby suit coat his only cover. That was so long ago and he'd come so far. He was now a US Senator... for at least the next few days, anyway.

His big lead had evaporated once the governor jumped into the race. Jim hadn't been serving in the Senate long enough to establish himself as a firm incumbent. All the slack-jawed folks knew Hampton Taliaferro after six years in the governorship, but Jim Sanderson was nothing but some podunk congressman from a tiny town, just a placeholder until a more senatorial man could take over. He had wanted to be a Senator ever since he learned about it in law school, every decision and race was a stepping stone to that old, great chamber. He was there, and now it was all slipping out of his grasp.

Patsy and Jacob, two members of his staff, burst through the door into his bedroom and snapped Jim out of his reverie.

"Vice President Reed is coming up on the elevator to your suite, sir," Jacob said in a rush.

"Shit, why didn't you stop him?"

"He's the vice president, sir," Patsy replied meekly.

Jim let out a long string of curses. He was in this mess because of Reed cajoling to those civil rights radicals. He knew he had Reed to thank for his career, but the man was always a meddler. He had to control everything. If he couldn't lead then he didn't want to play. It was ten times worse since he became VP. Being second banana galled him so much he had to take it out on everyone else and micromanage every little thing.

"Bring him in here when he gets up here," said Jim. "We'll talk."

Five minutes later Reed strolled in. Jim did a double take at the man's attire. He wore an immaculate three-piece suit that was pitch black with a dark red tie almost the color of blood. By his side stood a shorter, heavyset man with a bad combover. The short man looked familiar, he'd seen him somewhere.

"Senator Sanderson, have you met my friend? James Sledge. He's a Jim, too."

"Senator," Sledge said with a firm handshake from his plump, sweaty hand. "It's an honor."

"I know you," Jim said as he showed the two men to a table beside the bed. "Done a lot of work for the party, right?"

"Here and there," Sledge said with a shrug. "Wherever I'm needed."

"Is he your fix, Mr. Vice President?" Jim asked. "Some kind of peace offering to get you back involved in this race?"

Reed flashed a tight smile and folded his hands together. "He is the fix, Jim. He can stop this slide and have you win the race by twenty points easy."

"What do I have to pay for such a gift?"

Reed clicked his tongue. "Jim, is that how you speak to me? Who was it that plucked you from the State House and brought you to Washington? If not for me, you'd have wasted ten years of your life carrying Jack Bartley's water. I brought you along, I brought you political contacts in Georgia and the rest of the country, I--"

"You made me work sixteen hour days, six days a week typing out bullshit replies to constituents," Jim snapped. "You made me miss my own children's birthdays so I could go to every goddamn podunk town in this state and stump for you. You cost me two marriages in pursuit of your political goals. You, you, you, you! Now that I've become my own man, you can't stand it. You have to control every goddamn thing about this campaign and make me look like your puppet. That's why I'm losing because they think I'm just Russell Reed's houseboy. You destroyed my life--"

"I gave you everything!" Reed roared, slamming his fist onto the table. "If not for me, you'd be a fucking ambulance chaser in Hawksville or whatever the hell that little hometown of yours is called. This is down to the wire, son--"

"I am not your fucking son."

"This is the time to prove how bad you want it," Reed went out without missing a beat. He reached out and placed a hand over the top of Jim's. The anger had disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, replaced now by a sadness or sympathy. "Think of all you sacrificed, Jim. Working sixteen hour days, six days a week to learn how to handle constituents. Missing your children's birthdays so you could learn about the local level of politics here in Georgia, two marriages ruined in pursuit of that goal of seeing your name on the US Senate rolls. That has to mean something then a few months inside the chamber. A single misstep now and you risk losing everything you've spent twenty years trying to achieve. Jim, son, do you want to win or not?"

Jim swallowed hard and nodded. His voice was thick when he tried to speak and he finally croaked out a reply after swallowing again. "Yes. More than anything."

"I need two thousand dollars," Sledge said softly, reminding Jim that he was still in the room. "Some of that is my fee, but the rest is going to be for operational costs."

Reed squeezed his hand and nodded. "Jim, the less you know the better."

"What about your cost?" Jim asked Reed. "What do you want?"

The Vice President stood and adjusted his tie. He walked beside the bed and beckoned Jim towards him.

"When you return to the Senate, I want your unquestioned fealty on all Senate matters. You vote how I say you vote, you lobby how I say you lobby. To hell with those old Southern bastards who think they run the Senate. We are going to run the Senate. You and I. And all you have to do, son... is kneel."

Jim shuddered and fought back the tears as he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Reed's legs. The tears were from desperation and his own self-loathing at a realization. When his second wife Mary left him, she said that she couldn't be his wife with him already married to Senator Reed. He thought then that her remark was just a spiteful taunt, but now he knew the truth. He loved Russell Reed. Despite all years of abuse and from Reed, he had kept up his slavish devotion. Jim loved this cruel man with all his heart, this man he had given his soul to now held his political future firmly in his hands... and he was fine with it.

"I swear, Russ... Whatever you want, it's yours. I swear. Please, please, please just let me win."

Reed placed a hand on top of Jim's head and smiled as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"That's what I want to hear. Now stand up, son. We've got work to do."

On the table, a kettle of warm tea was placed. Steaming gently from its spout the soft gentle smell of a warm tea drifted up. It streamed upward into the cool crisp air of the sitting room until a hand grabbed it and turned the pot over, pouring from its silver lips a stream of bubbly golden liquid.

“Entertain us, comrade,” began an officer with a pleasant smile, “What was it that the Priest wanted to speak to you about?” he asked as he looked up from his seat to Shen Shao. The look of wanting on his face bespoke the certain desire a puppy might have for a treat, and he entertained this personal want well as he waved the tin cup containing his tea under his nose.

The tea which he spoke of was Dymtrio Radek, the eccentric and unconventional communist leader who had seized control of the Russian Neobolshevik movement, and by extension his share of western Russia. Though the Saint Petersburg based leader had lost the faith of the White Russians, he was at least recognized by China.

Shao considered, walking over to the table for his own cup as he looked at the handful of other commanders in the room with him. Together they made up Shao's general staff.

“He has a request for me.” he answered the question, “Was that what you wanted to Ji Ho?”

Ho laughed. He was a man of modest appearance, and perhaps forgettable if met once. His wild hair was thin and he already wore a faint net of laugh lines and other fine wrinkles in his face, “Well perhaps, that was a very vivid answer.” he smiled, delicately sipping his tea. The still hot liquid stung his lips, but it was the homely tones and familiar comfortable smells in its aroma he sought for the moment.

“Seriously, what did he want?” he asked.

“He wants us to commit piracy on his behalf.” Shao explained, “At first I didn't take him seriously, but I've been entertaining it.”

“Hence us.” a stockier figure acknowledged. Shao Jian was his name. An elephant of a man. Healed bruises splotched and flawed his complexion and it was hard to tell where the uneven roundness of his face was his given face or the healed injuries from fights. He had acquired a reputation among the friendly Russians as an adept wrestler. His heavy boulder arms barely fit in his blue naval great coat as they crossed his barrel chest.

“I have no opinion on the matter.” he added, “As far as I care Radek is Beijing. So his word doesn't have weight.”

“He knows that, he just gave me an open offer to the matter.” explained Shao indifferently. He took a seat on the couch alongside Ho, and leaned up against the arm.

The sitting room wasn't large, though perhaps the biggest room in the building. Chinese command for the Arkhangelsk detachment comprised a far corner of the city's delta port, although the crown and core of the unit slumbered in the frigid gun-metal gray waters of the White Sea, beyond the wild rocky islands that broke the river mouth into network of shallow or usable deep waterways.

At the edge of this allocated port stood an old wooden house Shao had taken over. It was draft, the floors creaked, and when the sun went down for the winter and the arctic winds blew in the windows rattled in their frames. He had not expected to reside for so long in Russia since the end of the Finnish situation. During horrible spells and the depth of winter he was known to winter within the flag-ship of this northern and distant submarine fleet: the indomitable and massive Bohai.

“He is in particular asking me if we can capture any vessel we come into contact with and to bring it to Sankt Petersburg. Or maybe even here. He believes we might be able to use our assets to resupply him so he and his men could awaken the old Imperial fleet.”

Shao Jian scoffed. “Like hell he wishes, I hope he knows that's a tall order.”

“I'm well aware.” Shao sighed, “After we met I asked to have a brief tour of their ships in Saint Petersburg alone. There's a few there, but they've been afloat in one place in ice and thaw for a long time.

“I can't speak for their submarines. They have additional assets in Estonia, but I think they're just as frozen.”

“Besides, how are we going to get the fuel to start them up, let alone fill them?” inquired a third officer. Su Jiang-Shing. A small weasel of a man. Over sized glasses crowned his rigid bent nose as he leaned into the exposed inner logs of the cottage, “To refuel them and change the oil is a task in itself. And where would you suppose we hunt for Spanish fuel tankers? We'll need to know their shipping lanes.”

“The war isn't in Europe's western ocean.” Ho pointed out, “So the hard part is finding them. To stop and capture one is easy.”

“But if we did we would still need to bring it here.” Jiang-Shing responded. He leaned off the wall and came up onto the couch, leaning over the back, “Then someone will be protecting them.”

“Then we mute the ships.” consoled a fourth, “The Spanish can't deploy protection if they don't know they're being targeted in their backyard.”

“Kuo has a point.” Jian said.

“I fucking should!” he laughed. He was a man much like Ho, but a broader face and heavier built. Not muscular, but not considered overweight. His strange Mongolian proportions was reflected in his height, or lack there of to the rest of his body. And his eyes watched the room, with a more dramatic squint than should be expected, “Li, back me up with these clowns.” he gently implored.

“He has a point.” the sixth said, seated next to Kuo on the couch opposite of Shao and Ho the two sat side-by side. Kuo with his impish legs out as Li cradled on atop his knee. Li was soft-spoken, and IB. Although he wore the coat of an intelligence agent he has mostly set aside the great coat and adopted one of the navy. Like many, he had a cold look in his eyes; not cruel, but it had a damning sense of knowing or not just look at a man, but in.

“What would it take to maybe prevent them from sending an SOS?” Shao asked them. He reached out to the table and poured himself a cup of warm tea. “If we went to take a ship, can we drown the message?”

“We'd need their frequency for that.” Kuo said, the blunt directness of the statement a direct knowing reminder to his role, the entire operation's communications specialist, “And we could run through all the channels, but there will never be any confidence if we found the right one.”

“Did we recognize yet this is crazy?” Jian asked the other officers.

“I was under the impression that was besides the topic.” Ho laughed, respectfully dismissing Jian, “Maybe then if we tricked them into calling for help and we found the broadcast?”

Kuo shook his head, “No, I don't think that would work. I haven't known a ship captain to ever cry for assistance for hitting a minor bump. We'd need to attack the ship directly and wait for them. But by then we would have made ourselves known and our enemies would begin patrolling the waters.”

“We'd need to capture the ship first, find their communications, a log book, or any notes and go from there.” Li added on, shifting his legs, “Or even try to pull something from Europe itself and hope there's a universal frequency for coastal Europe. They may be imperialist swine, all of them; but their not uncivilized or completely backwater. China and the International has the same principle.”

“A storm!” Jiang-Shin laughed, “Something harsh enough, we can tail a liner and hope they call for help when they take in water. We can isolate the frequency then.”

“No, too unpredictable. I already know this would be a waste of our fuel.” Shao protested, “How about just destroying their communications all together?”

“It's grandiose.” Kuo remarked.

“Loud too.” Li added.

“I know it is, but I have the airplanes. The only in the unit really. We dispatch aircraft to perform a run on their bridge, put explosives into the tower. Paralyze the entire thing and we board, take control, and tow it in.”

“You can't erase bomb damage.” cautioned Ho, “Some coast guard is going to notice something if they come too close.”

“Then we pull it at night.” Shao offered.

Ho shrugged. “It doesn't matter, if the entire thing is crazy.”

“Right it is.” Jian repeated. “But even if we do this shit, then what happens when it arrives? What would the South Finns do? Norway? Sweden?

“If we fucking pull that to Saint Petersburg, we're going through the territorial waters of several countries. You're going to need to time it right and keep all of this dark.

“And then when it's here: what can we expect Radek to do with all of it?”

“That's his problem, and not ours.” Ho laughed, “He asked, supposedly promised something in return, so if we have to come back to restock on supplies from China we might as well bring something back in.”

Jian sighed, “I still hold my doubts. Give me some damn tea.” he demanded, holding out a hand for one of the tin cups.

Ho passed him back one and Shao delicately bored the still hot drink into the cup.

“I admit I like this entertaining idea.” Li added, cutting the early silence, “In the event of an escalation in Africa, it would be useful to divert Spanish resources from the front. How much effort or purpose they would put into it to simple hunt for submarines I don't know.

“But even if to destabilize the Spanish economy and isolate it, then I have no problems.”

“What are you thinking?” Shao asked. A professional relationship had taught him that Li – when silent – often meant he had something bottled up. It only need coercion.

“That at the least it would be unwise for Arkhangelsk to become forgotten when things turn violent. That we have a unique position to be a flanking force. Not large, but as a distraction. We could goad Spain into opening a second front.

“We could force them to enter the Russian quagmire, we would be sacrificing the stability and safety of the Communes simply to pull Spain into a front it does not need to fight.

“With fighting in two regions, we can pull Spain thin. With our submarines we can drown enough Spanish soldiers that over time they would be loosing battles they never fought. Public opinion sours as blood spills, Sotelo finds himself standing on thin glass.

“Beijing continues to push until that glass shatters, and we crash upon Iberia like a tide and purge this cancerous tumor of nations from existence, and then we take Europe.”

“That's a pretty aggressive and daring move.” noticed Shao, “Would anyone go along with this?”

“It's unlikely, but it's a scenario all the same. If we're going through scenarios it only helps our position by considering all the odds. As we were just doing.

“If it helps us at all, I'll write back to Beijing and ask for a proper analysis on this. We can get some advisory comments on the entire concept and a best course of operation. And who knows: we might even get supplied better.”

“Ping would appreciate that.” Shen Shao remarked, a smile crept across his face.

“We could also always do something about the Finnish navy on top of that.” Jiang-Shing added, “It would be beyond the call and perhaps even what we're justified to do. But if there's anyone closer to us that can figure out what we're doing: it's them. Radek will need absolute control of the Gulf of Finland for absolute security.”

“We'd be starting another war in Finland.” said Jiang.

“I know.” Jiang-Shing admitted, “But there's things that need to be concluded. They might eventually involve themselves someday. And if we're going to involve Spain in something they don't need to fight, as Li suggested: it'd be in provoking the Helsinki no doubt.”

“Would the rest come in after?” asked Kuo, “This could easily spiral out of control. Sven would love the opportunity.”

“Sweden would join, Norway might follow.” said Li, “If it's not handled carefully we'll have all of Scandinavia on the move. It'd be best here to coordinate with Sven and Radek and to find an opportunity where it would be best for us.

“Until then I do support an initiative to blind Helsinki, but we might have to simply use Saaremaa and Hiiumaa as a mid-way point. We can offload civilians there and let the Russians process them as prisoners in Estonia before taking the rest to Saint Petersburg.

“I may be in support of stretching Spain, but not stressing us. Only when we can handle the rest of Scandinavia do we provoke Helsinki.”




The ringing of telephones echoed in a soft song among the hushed chatter of office workers, desk sergeants, and the tapping of a few typewriters. In the central offices, it was business as usual within the headquarters of the National Police. The low wood panel wainscoting trimmed and braced the glass walls that divided the higher-ranking officers of the command center from the general population of the present floor.

Wearing a uniform that was little more than a plain Zhongshan suit with red and orange trim, detective agent Chu Sun. A plain white turtlenecked shirt crawled up from under the folded collar of the simple uniform suit to underneath his wide jaunted chin. Metals flashed in the incadescent lighting of the national offices as he walked between the rows of desks to the far window-side office. Giving passive acknowledging glances to the laboring men and women he continued his march.

Chu Sun wasn't a large man, but his stride was confident. He had a purpose in his head with his summons, his arms swinging at his side like an officer on parade. Shallow-set brown eyes flickered from an intense look of determination to the door ahead and the people he passed. His head and face was a rounded shaved landscape, save for the crown which grew short course hairs in a receding march from his furrowed brow.

Reaching the door, Sun stepped inside.

Separated from the chiming of phones and the soft ringing and tinkering of type-writers, the office he stepped inside had a zenful air. From behind frosted glass it carried a full panoramic view of the room outside, clear into the furthest cubicles at the far end. And backed by large windows it was flooded with warm summer sunlight. Beijing stretched out beyond it, spanning clear to the foothills of the ancient city where the haze overtook all clarity and the world blurred.

A heavy-weight man looked up from his ornate desk. With a disconnected voice he looked back down as he continued to scratch together a note. “Good afternoon, comrade.” he said plainly, continuing his writing, “Take a seat and I'll be with you in a moment.”

“Absolutely, comrade Hui.” bowed Sun, he held his hands at his stomach as he stepped aside, pulling out a chair. Sitting, he patiently waited for the commander of China's national police to look up and acknowledge him.

“Have you heard the news?” Handoi Hui asked, putting down his pen. He looked up to Sun, hands folded together atop the desk.

Handoi Hui was a whale of a man. Already a fat figure, it was exacerbated by his age. Pale skin began to hang loose from his chin and jawline and folds of liver-spotted flesh curled underneath his ears. With his head shaved bald he looked like a military Buddha. And he sounded like a shark.

“The political attacks?” he said, “I have.”

Handoi nodded, “We need to get involved.” he grumbled stiffly, “Orders from Hou himself. How's your caseload been?”

“Admittedly it's been light,” confirmed Sun, “By now I have everything finished, it's been regular work these bad few weeks.”

“Then you got time to travel.” Handoi pointedly noted, “I want you on the ground on this case. I need someone good, and you're as good as any. A previous IB career, you're well suited.”

“Thank you, comrade.” Sun nodded, he folded his arms across his lap. “But wouldn't this be the case of the IB themselves?” he queried. Namely it often would. He worked the case of the Red Guard Gang and usurping Mao from his office. It was by then he had cashed in his service and hung up his coat; he didn't want to play the politics again.

But now against his intentions, he'd be coming back. The idea made him feel sick to his stomach. But he had to hold it, to outwardly express it might attract Handoi's ire; and termination wasn't in his plans either.

Politics here would be the lesser of his evils.

“So what's the course of action?” he asked politely, swallowing that bitter question.

“You and your men are going to report to the chief of the municipal police in Nanjing,” Handoi ordered, “he will help direct you on the investigation. Look over the forensics, bring it here to be examined, help them in casing the matter.

“You have full rights and power in this, and should it jump beyond their jurisdiction you are allowed to follow it; I don't need to remind you about this.

“But this situation his high-profile. So we can't ignore it, understand that.”

“I understand.” Sun acknowledged.

“Great.” smiled Handoi, nodding. His chair creaked heavily as he leaned back from his desk, “You should also set up to interview the victim's – Dong Wu's – family again. Deduce whether they know anyone that might be leads.

“I can give you access to the national directory of known dissidents there. And maybe you can go through old IB networks; but that's strictly a measure off the books.”

Chu Sun nodded slowly, the IB were always off the books. It was a disturbing idea to say the least. And he knew how they worked.

“I don't need to tell you anything more, it's been on the radio and printed by the NPN. The real details will be in Najing when you arrive.”

“I understand.”

“Good, then be on your way.”

Sun eagerly got out of his chair. “I will.” he bowed curtly.




A narrow alley packed between the cold stone walls of brick houses and low high-rises lay filled with nightly vendors, the sound of people, and that of music. Strung overhead, red lanterns swung from wires and clusters of incandescent lighting shone a vibrant golden light onto the alley below, raining onto the night-time shoppers as they wandered through the golden evening glow of mid-night lighting. From food-stalls, the smells of smoldering sea food such as prawns, oysters, and fish. Sweating vendors with oily complexions threw rice and vegetables in large aluminum-cast woks over phantom gas-fire flames from their wheeled food carts as they lorded over their tiny domains with a cook's fury.

Between the food vendors sat huddled among their huts of tarpaulin and trinkets men and women selling the hand-made wares or factory-made options of life in China's southern port city. Nestled between the claustrophobic confines of booths packed with all manners of cloths from pants to shirts to bras and dresses, or the modern output of Chinese design: the ECG radio, telephones and appliances that were once much too big to sell on the street. And sprinkled among the chaos the foreign merchants who lived on Chinese shores sought to sell the image of their homelands, Hispanic merchants from Mexico vied awkwardly with cobble-space with those of Africa or Vietnam; few really knowing well the language but seeking to exchange the universal capital in the Communist empire of the far-east.

Navigating through the sardine schools of neighborhood shoppers Pui Tui and Yan Cong wound their way through the crowd.

In the eyes of Tui excitement blossomed in his wide-eyes as he scoured the booths and displays of China's back-alley exchanges. A purpose shone on his expression, and a light confidence guided his step. Fresh oil smeared his clothes. But it was all forgone by the freedom of race winnings, lovingly returned to his hands through the Hong Kong government and tactically neglectfully marked book work. And the throbbing after burn of victory and racing lust turned in his head like nicotine and filled his mouth with a dry thirst for a prize, a treat.

Cong meanwhile was not flying on the same dragon, or sitting on the same cloud as his friend as he tried to chase his fleeting figure as it wove through the bodies. The maze of the night-markets was not new to him, but it was always hard. Unathletic, the frail boy fought to keep up, but Tui was always just a few steps ahead. “Tui please, can you tone down your excitement just a little!” he called, stuffed between the elbow of a factory worker off of shift and a young mother trying to negotiate tomorrow's breakfast and lunch through the alleys.

“I swear, I will find a way to kill you.” he shouted sourly to Tui as he was caught by the cloth grocery bags. He lethargically struggled for his freedom, if less to actually escape and more to remind the woman where he was.

“It's not my fault you were born a runt! Come on!” Tui teased, stopping in the middle of the aisle to turn to his friend. The foot traffic continued to work around him like he was a stone in the middle of the stream.

“No, I'm serious. Why did I let you talk me into this?” Cong protested loudly as he caught up to his friend.

“Because no exercise will kill you.” Tui badgered, “Should I hold your hand at all?”

Cong shot a sour look up at Tui. He opened his mouth to again resume protesting. But his friend assumed control and grabbed the youth by the arm and pulled him through. Cong floundered like a hooked, confused trout behind his friend as they navigated the stream of humanity.

“Perhaps I'll treat you to something too.” Tui offered gently as he pushed through the street. His gaze danced between the crude Mandarin and Cantonese signs hanging over the booths, looking for the one particular one he wanted.

“What are you even looking for?” Yan Cong blabbered, “I don't think you ever told me that.”

“A watch!” announced Tui, “I always wanted a watch. A good watch too: metal with a leather strap. Not plastic and that cloth shit.”

Cong bumbled and spat. “Where are you going to find that!?” he snickered.

“Oh, I'm sure I can.” Pui Tui said with confidence as he gave pause. With a pleasant gasp, he turned his friend about and pulled him to the side, and into the shallow recessed enclave of relative peace that was a stall of sparkling watches.

Seated at the stall, a dark-skinned man sat cross-legged on a wooden stool. His elder, leather skin hung from a frail and slender build as he looked at the two youths with eyes so drawn shut from his own brow he may have been blind.

“Good evening.” he welcomed the two.

“Good evening.” Yan Cong responded with excitement. Hanging from small wooden hooks – little more than twigs – an assortment of watches hung from the walls and ceiling of his haphazardly constructed hut. Watches that sparkled in a soft golden glow, others silver. Some with harsh rubberized bands, others some sort of cloth that may have been easily cut from rags. Some were dirty a ragged in their faces, others like they were straight from Europe or America.

The old man looked up at Tui. “They're all on sale.” he said, “I may not be here tomorrow night, so get what you want while they're hot.”

Cong looked up at them perplexedly. He had a strong tinge of doubt at their validity. How he could get so many of this type into the country was as much a curiosity as the man was. But his thoughts and doubts were brushed aside quickly as Cong made his choice without hesitation.

“How's that one?” Tui pointed, looking up at a silvery, metal banded watch hanging among a crowd of cheaper looking ones up high.

The old man looked up and nodded. “Yes, that is a good one. Would you like it?” he invited.

“Sure. How much?” asked Tui.

“Three-hundred Renminbi.” the vendor declared. He straightened his back and shoulders as he took a deep breath, preparing to haggle.

“I'll take it.” Tui declared eagerly.

The old man froze, seemingly to calculate what had been said. He blinked, and turned towards his friend. Coughing lightly, he spoke: “As you wish.” he bowed, sitting up on his steel as he reached up to grab the watch with one skeletal hand. Gingerly, he pulled it down off its hook and passed it to Cong.

Tui took to it like an eager imp, and pulled from his pocket the wad of red bills he kept there. Shakily counting out the desired amount, he paid the man.

Tui watched as the transaction took place, noting the smudged numbers on the inside of the man's arm. He thought to ask, but the payment was complete and the old man was offering them a wonderful, fruitful night. And at the drop of a hat, Cong was withdrawn from the stall and back into the river.

“Tui! Look! I got one!” Tui giddily boasted as he pulled his friend off to the far-side of the alley. Standing against the cold rough stone of the back of some building he flashed the watch up for Tui to see. Its silver metallic face gleamed a fiery gold in the overhead lights. And despite Cong's cynicism towards it, he had to admit it looked attractive.

“It's -uh... Nice...” Cong complimented weakly. He looked up at his friend, and his face struck with the lost confusion to the situation he asked: “But, why a watch?”

“Well, you see: at the races I was approached by a man who congratulated me for my victory. He complimented my victory and told me about luck.” the young man said with a wide boyish grin, “He said that he always keeps a little charm on him. Some carry old Imperial coins, he said. He: he had a watch.”

Cong looked perplexed. Tui picked up on the clear visible lack of understanding in his friend's eyes. “You see: this is my lucky charm. This is what I earned on my winnings!” he cheered.

“You know, you're going to get chomped in the ass for this.” Cong pointedly observed, “Are you sure you're being careful?”

“I am, Cong! I am!” Tui laughed, “I've been doing things right, I'm getting the money in a way that the city won't notice. I'll be set for life!

“Maybe someday I can go live in a house like a party officers. I can move out of my parent's place. Go live in an apartment like Mei's! No: bigger than her's. And no one will know.”

“Tui, there are limits.” cautioned Cong, “Are you sure you're not taking it too far?”

“Bullshit, with this watch: I'll be unstoppable lucky!” he laughed excitedly, wrapping it on over his arms. With a satisfied tug he locked it on over his wrist and smiled, “There, I shall be unbeatably lucky! Do you want something to eat?” he asked

Yan Cong sighed, he wasn't going to win the argument. His friend was too invested in it, and all he could do was hope he would be lucky. “Fine.” he said resigned, “I could do with some dumplings.”

Tui nodded excitedly. “There you go.” he cheered excitedly, “Now let's go eat, I'm hungry.” he smiled, walking back out to the flow of foot traffic.

Unhindered by his excitement and the eagerness, Tui moved at a much slower pace, one where his friend could comfortably keep up. The two knocked through the crowds on their way to the soft glow and promise of sitting food down the market.

They didn't get far, until they stopped at the sound of panicked screamed.

Freezing with the rest of the traffic, they turned to look down a narrow side-alley. People began to part hurriedly, pulling themselves aside as if a plague victim was peeling down the street. Stumbling from some dark shadows to the side, a girl stumbled; arms held up in front of her face as she stumbled and staggered through the rain-whetted gutters. With a sudden umph, her boots tripped on a loose brick and she took a stumble, her arms coming to a crash landing on the pavement, stone, and brick underneath. Her pink sweater packing with grime as she coiled up into a protective ball, quivering.

“THE ANIMALS, THEY'RE AFTER ME! TH-THEY'RE IN THE WALLS!” she wailed helplessly as she coiled up, visibly shivering.

“M-mei?” Cong whispered, baffled. Gingerly he kneeled down, hovering a hand over her shoulder.

“NO, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH HORSES FOR THE NIGHT! FUCK OFF!” she screamed, her voice was course. Tears streamed down her face as she peeked out from behind her arms. Her eyes wide, pupils dilated she lay her sights on Tui and immediately her blood rushed from her face.

She spun to curl on her face, trying more desperately to hide herself from the outside world. “Nononononnonono, this isn't happening.” Mei sobbed tearfully, voice wavering with terror, “Why...”

Islington, London

Alfred Lambert skipped up the last few steps to the offices of the New Jerusalem magazine. He’d been working at the magazine for the best part of three decades. He could remember his first day as if it were yesterday. He’d worn an ill-fitting linen suit that his mother had picked out for him from the charity shop and been so nervous he’d sweated through it on the way there. Jonathan Aitkens, Jerusalem’s then Political Editor, had teased him mercilessly about it for weeks. Needless to say he’d used his first pay cheque on a new suit. He’d hated Aitkens back then but looking back on the whole ordeal he couldn’t help but laugh. Despite all the teasing Aitkens had made him a better journalist. Three decades ago he’d been a sweaty, chubby freelancer looking to make a dent in the world of journalism and today he was the Political Editor of New Jerusalem. It had been some journey.

As had the journey Lambert had been on this afternoon. Fred had been summoned, along with a half dozen other Political Editors, to a meeting at Downing Street by the Prime Minister’s attack dog Samuel Hobbs. His official role was “Director of Communications” but Lambert had never seen Hobbs do anything other than shout at people. Hobbs was from Newcastle and was one of the few in the Prime Minister’s inner circle that hadn't gone to Cambridge. He started out writing obits in a small-time paper in Newcastle and now he was one of the most powerful men in the government. When he slung insults at you across a Downing Street table they stuck. As many had done this afternoon. Lambert knew better than to interject during the meeting and instead listened in silence as Hobbs briefed the Editors on the government’s legislative agenda for the upcoming twelve months.

It was unspectacular enough to begin with. Amongst the headliners were legislation aimed to crack down on the alleged rise in illegal trade union activity and cutbacks to social programs deemed non-vital. It was the final policy that had almost knocked Alfred off his feet. He almost pinched himself to check he was awake when Hobbs said it. The shocked faces of the other Political Editors around the room mirrored his own. The second Hobbs was done speaking Lambert had tucked the folder Hobbs had supplied each of them with under his arm and broke into a jog out of the meeting room. It was that very same folder that Lambert slapped onto the desk of his Political Correspondent as he entered the New Jerusalem newsroom.

Sebastian “Seb” Hadland was Alfred’s protégé. Hadland was the son of a family friend. Usually Lambert disapproved of nepotism but at the time the boy had been out of work for near to two years and at the point of depression. He’d never worked a news desk before and had no journalistic experience but under Lambert’s wing he’d turned into the finest writer on the New Jerusalem's payroll. The skinny Political Correspondent reached for the folder and skimmed through it as Lambert watched on. Hadland seemed disinterested at first until his eyes fell on the policy on the final page.

He set the folder down on his desk with a bemused look. “You’re kidding, right? ‘The Voluntary Repatriation Bill’?”

“I wish I was.”

“Forced deportations? That’s what it’s come to?”

Lambert sighed. “Hobbs says the Prime Minister will be pushing the legislation through Parliament next week.”

“They’re British citizens,” Seb muttered as he crossed his arms. “This is wrong. We need to go public on this one.”

Going public. Alfred and Seb discussed it from time to time. It was the nuclear option. Ever since the Troubles had ended all news outlets had to clear the contents of its publications with the government. It hadn’t always been like this. After the Troubles the government of the day had introduced the legislation as an emergency measures to combat the mountain of misinformation distracting it from rebuilding Britain. Decades later and the emergency measures were still in place. It made breaking stories near impossible and criticizing the government a risky proposition at the best of times. Going public would mean going to print without state authorization. It was also likely result in the complete closure of New Jerusalem.

Lambert shook his head. “You know we can’t do that.”

“Then what the bloody hell are we for?” Seb said with an exasperated sigh. “We can’t keep pretending to be journalists forever, Fred.”

It stung. Once upon a time New Jerusalem had prided itself on its independence. Those days were long gone. The anarchists that had torn their country apart in the wake of the Great War had ensured that. For as great as men like Jonathan Aitkens were, even they had to bend the knee and hand over their work to the government ahead of time. It was a bitter pill to swallow for Alfred, no doubt a bitter pill to swallow for Aitkens too, but there was more than pride at stake here. Lambert had a duty of care for all of the members of staff and unilaterally deciding to run a scathing piece about the Voluntary Repatriation Bill would have repercussions for all of them.

“We don’t have a choice. We print what they want us to print or GCHQ turn up and take everything,” Lambert said through gritted teeth. “Including us if they’re feeling particularly vengeful. You know that.”

Seb nodded despondently and Alfred walked across the small, cramped office to hang up his coat. The office building that contained the New Jerusalem's office was almost a hundred and fifty years old. The whole building felt like it shook every time someone walked across the office. Finally Lambert took to his seat at the desk next to Seb’s and found his protégé giving him a pensive look.

“How old were you during The Troubles?”

“Young,” Lambert said with a shrug. “Too young to remember them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“All I ever hear is how bad things were then. On days like these it’s hard to imagine how things could be much worse than they are now.”


Whitehall, London

A thin, pale figure slinked through the hallways of Downing Street. His footsteps made no sound and he drew no more attention to himself than was unavoidable, except for the occasional polite nod to the cleaning staff still hard at work. It was four in the morning and the Prime Minister wasn’t due to arrive in Downing Street for two hours. Samuel Hobbs had been awake for two hours. He was slender, barely filling out the inexpensive grey suit wrapped around his pale flesh, and his face was beset with deep wrinkles. His hair was more grey than black and his teeth had been yellowed by cigarettes in his youth. Yet Hobbs retained an unconventional attractiveness to him that even his most ardent admirers would struggle to explain. He brushed some lint from his shoulder as he reached the door to his office and reached for the doorknob.

A smile crept across his thin lips as he opened it very slowly and peered inside. There sat on the chair at his desk was Dominic Hewitt. Hewitt was his second-in-command and had agreed to take the night shift whilst they tried to smooth the land for this repatriation thing. He was a tall, gangly man with a smug face and his hair was immaculately parted at all times. Even at this early hour having worked through the night Hewitt was still inexplicably well turned out. Hobbs opened the door a crack and slide through it with care as he approached Hewitt from behind. He made certain to mask his footsteps as he approached and ran one of his pale hands through Dominic’s hair with a mocking laugh.

Hewitt pulled his hair away with a nervous chuckle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Hobbs, how do you do that?”

Hobbs ignored him completely and pointed down to the newspapers spread across his desk. “What are the papers saying?”

A self-satisfied smile appeared across Hewitt’s face as he fired back. “They say what we tell them to say.”

Hobbs glared at Hewitt and the Press Officer laughed nervously and reached for the newspapers in front of him and brandished them in Sam's direction.

“The Times called it a “necessary step to curb growing Afro-Caribbean extremism in the capital” and the Mail went with the guest-worker angle like we suggested. Only the Guardian really dragged its feet.”

Hewitt handed Hobbs a copy of the morning’s Guardian and the Prime Minister’s Director of Communications scanned the front page with his beady, probing eyes. A pained expression appeared on his face and he threw the copy back down on the desk and gestured to Hewitt to get out of his seat. Hobbs set his briefcase down beside his seat and then sat down and pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his suit. He scribbled down the name of the Guardian’s Political Editor with a menacing smile.

“Trust me, Charlie Whitebread is going to have a damascene-fucking-conversion to the merits of voluntary repatriation overnight unless he wants the Mail to find out about his little gambling problem.”

“Stop it,” Hewitt said with an over-zealous laugh. “You know it turns me on when you talk dirty.”

As the words left his mouth Hewitt spotted a young Downing Street staffer in the doorway to the office. In her hands was a tray with Sam's morning coffee and a selection of biscuits. Hewitt could tell from the look on her face that she’d heard the tail end of his sentence and he turned blushed red.

“We were just going over the papers.”

The young staffer smiled and set the tray down in front of Hobbs. “Of course.”

Hobbs nodded by way of thanks and Dominic stood up from his chair to shut the door behind her as she left the two men alone. His cheeks were still rosy with embarrassment as he sat back down. Hobbs reached for a custard cream on the tray in front of him and took a bite out of it as he scanned over the newspapers one last time.

“From the looks of it this should be enough to get the PM to stop breathing down my neck for a couple of days. He’s really worried about this one. He seems to think that with South Africa dragging out longer than anticipated there might be trouble over this repatriation thing. Some blowback from the Afro-Caribbeans in the inner-cities seeing as it’s all happening at once.”

Hewitt leant back in his charge and smiled sardonically. “I don’t blame him. Have you ever been to Brixton on a Saturday night?”

“Oh, relax, you poof,” Hobbs said as he crunched on a custard cream. “They’d eat those Brixton boys for breakfast up in Newcastle. There’s nothing to be worried about. It’ll be fine.”

Hewitt leant back in his chair and noticed his ruffled hair in one of the reflective surfaces in the office. Hobbs rolled his eyes and he noticed the younger man go to painful lengths to fix his hairstyle. He was about to jab Dominic about it when the young man started speaking.

“The Ethiopians are not going to like it. They might kick up a bit of a stink but I think privately there’ll be some that will be pleased by the move. It plays into their hands, after all, so I don’t expect too much trouble on that front.”

Hobbs nodded appreciatively and reached for the coffee on the tray in front of him. “So what you’re saying is that the PM has nothing to worry about on this? Is that what you’re saying to me, Dominic?”

“I’m not sure if I’d say nothing but the nearest thing to it.”

“Well, the Prime Minister will be very glad to hear that when he arrives this morning,” Hobbs said as he took a mouthful of coffee. “Now fuck off and go fiddle with your hair somewhere I don’t have to see you.”

Dominic laughed nervously at the dig. Hobbs stared at him impassively over the brim of his coffee. Hewitt’s nervous laughter fell silent and he looked at the Director of Communications as if attempting to deduce whether he was being serious or not. After several seconds of silence Hobbs looked towards the door instructively and Dominic made his way towards the exit.

Once it had closed him Hobbs shook his head and muttered to himself under his breath. “Oxbridge wanker.”


Brixton, London

At a small, square table crammed into the corner of a cramped, messy kitchen are Errol Clarke and his adoptive son Keenan Gayle. In Keenan’s hands was a copy of this morning’s Guardian. Errol could see the young man struggling to read the headline on the front page and urged him to try to sound it out. The boy had always been slow, even when he was at school, and now that he was out it seemed like he’d gotten even worse. Errol tried to encourage the boy to read where he could. It was important to keep your wits about you. It was even more important for Keenan now that his daughter was around. Up until six months ago Keenan had seen his daughters at weekends. Then her mother fell into a very strange crowd and decided she wanted to move to Ethiopia. It had all came entirely out of the blue and Keenan, who at that point had been unemployed despite being twenty-five, had been forced to get his life in order since. Learning to read properly was part of that.

Errol could see Keenan losing his patience as he tried to sound the word out. “Rep… repatr… repatri-“

“Repatriate,” Errol said as he tapped the word on the front page with his index finger. “The word you’re looking for is repatriate.”

Keenan scratched his chest through his green string vest and then smiled blankly in Errol’s direction. “What does it mean?”

Clarke had seen the signs. He’d been about Keenan’s age when he’d come to Britain after they had invited workers from the colonies to help rebuild the nation. He remembered at the time that the “guest worker” program was a temporary initiative and that workers would be expected to return to their native countries once the program was finished. Problem being that the problem never finished. The guest workers had children, British children, and built lives for themselves here in Britain. His daughter Honor had been born in Tooting, attended school in Roehampton, and had never so much as ventured north of the Thames until she was eighteen, let alone Jamaica. Yet in one foul swoop the government had declared that Errol, Honor, Keenan, and even little Simone as having outstayed their welcome.

Errol spoke as plainly as he could. “It means they’re going to send us back.”

“Send us back where?”

Errol shrugged his shoulders and then stared out at the morning’s sky with a sigh. “Jamaica I suspect, though if they won’t have us I’m sure they’ll try to palm us off on the Africans.”

“I don’t understand," Keenan said with a frown. "I was born here.”

Errol’s thick lips twisted into a smile. “You think that makes you one of them?”

A confused look appeared on Keenan’s face. The boy was strong and had a good heart but it was clear from his expression that even speaking plainly Errol had managed to confuse him. It was a wonder the boy managed to tie his shoes correctly in the morning, let alone look after a child, but as always Errol endeavoured to explain it to Keenan in a way he’d understand. The old man leant on his cane and tried to formulate his approach when memories of his father flashed across his mind. He had been like Keenan in a lot of ways; both were strong, openhearted, and quick to trust. It hadn’t done Errol’s father any good but there was still time for Keenan to learn.

“My father travelled across the Atlantic to fight in their war for them. I guess he thought there’d be some glory to be had or that the white man might accept him if he fought. You know what they had him doing for three years? Digging trenches. He nearly lost a foot out there and was half-deaf by the time he arrived in Britain. And guess what? They still didn’t want a thing to do with him. He lasted nine months here in Britain before he decided to move back to Jamaica.”

Errol cleared his throat a little to mask the fact he was choking up. Opposite him Keenan’s eyes were locked on him. It was the first time Errol had spoken to anyone about his father since leaving Jamaica. He’d never even told his own daughter about any of this. Honor was long gone. They hadn’t spoken in years and rumour had it she’d left London years ago. Chances are that even if she was here she wouldn’t want to hear it. Perhaps one day Keenan might pass on Errol’s account of his last conversation with his father to Honor. Perhaps she could learn from the folly of it as Errol intended for Keenan to.

"After the British started the guest worker program I told him I was going to move to London to find work. Even after the way they treated him he still couldn’t bring himself to speak a bad word about the place. Can you believe that? Listen, Keenan, you need to understand that they’ll never accept you as you are. All you can do is keep your head down, work hard, and try to save what you can for you and yours. I have a feeling the coming months are going to be bad.”

Errol’s old eyes caught movement in his periphery and he turned to see Keenan’s nine-year old daughter Simone stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She was wearing pink and purple pyjamas bearing small pictures of puppies and kittens over them.

She rubbed her tiny eyes as she looked up at the man she knew as Uncle Errol. “What’s going to be bad?”

Keenan placed the newspaper down on the table and walked over to his daughter with a smile. He bent down, picked her up, and carried her over towards the window by the sink. Errol smiled as he watched Keenan playfully pretend to dunk Simone into the sink and then sat her atop one of the cleaner portions of the counter beside it.

“Why don’t we get you ready for school?”

Simone frowned. “I don’t want toast this morning.”

“You don’t have to have toast. You can have something else,” Keenan said as he made his way over towards the fridge and scanned its contents. “As long as “something else” doesn’t include milk because someone used the last of it in their tea this morning.”

Errol stared down at the cup of tea in front of him with a guilty smile. It was his third cup of tea this morning and it wasn’t even seven. The elderly Jamaican man didn’t have many vices but milky, sugary tea was one of them. He made a mental note to pick up some more milk next time he was out of the house and then watched on as Keenan flicked through the cupboards for something.

Simone pointed up at one of the boxes in the cupboard. “Can I have porridge?”

“Sure,” Keenan said as he pulled the box down. “You can have as much porridge as you want.”

Errol smiled at the scene as Keenan began to make a bowl of porridge for Simone. He made it ten seconds in before Simone decided she wanted to be involved in the process. The transformation Keenan made when his daughter was around was extraordinary to watch. Errol was almost certain Simone read at a higher level than Keenan. Yet there, his daughter in his arms, it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. For a second Errol wondered whether he’d been wrong to worry and then his eyes met with the headline on the front page of the Guardian.

“PM PLOTS TO REPATRIATE MIGRANTS.”


Chelmsley Wood, Birmingham

Chelmsley Wood High School was one of the worst performing schools in all of Birmingham. It was the kind of school that had to offer a salary several thousand pounds above market rate just to get teachers to walk through its doors. The Troubles had hit Birmingham hard and even with the money the government had poured into the city it was still having a hard time finding its way back onto its feet. It hadn’t taken long for the knife crime that was rife on the city’s council estates to bled into its schools. That was why it was such a shock when Conrad Murray had applied there. Murray had graduated from University College London with a first class degree in Politics and followed that with a Masters at LSE. He was exactly the kind of teacher that Chelmsley Wood High School needed, though nothing like the teachers they usually employed.

He stood outside the school gates with a cigarette in his hand and a newspaper beneath his armpit. Conrad had a well-kept reddish-brown beard that was longer than the neatly parted brown hair atop his head. He wore a brown tweed suit with dark leather elbow patches and a pair of well-worn light brown brogues. Beneath his beard was a boyishly good looking face. He’d grown the beard on the advice of one of his colleagues to disguise his youth. To the students youth meant weakness. At Chelmsley Wood High School you couldn’t afford to show weakness.

It was Neil Durham that had taught him that. Neil taught business studies. He’d been at the school for decades and had long since stopped caring. He had dirty blonde hair with flecks of grey in it and his round stomach folded over the waistband of his beige trousers. Conrad reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out a cigarette and passed it to his colleague. Durham nodded silently and patted his trousers down in search of a lighter before remembering he’d placed it in the pocket of his short-sleeved yellow shirt. He lit up and watched as Murray read the front of the newspaper with a pained expression. Once Conrad had finished he met Neil’s gaze and patted the front page with the side of his hand.

“What does this mean for the kids?”

“We’re not sure at the moment,” Durham said as he took a long drag of his cigarette. “The head’s talking about maybe suggesting to some of the parents that they ought to take them out of school ahead of time. You know, to ease the transition.”

The headteacher of Chelmsley Wood was fifteen years younger than Durham and spoke like a man that had never taught in an actual classroom before. It was because he hadn’t. Ten years ago Durham might have kicked up a stink at the prospect of taking the kids out of school, five years ago he might even have had a quiet word with him, but this was all happening too late. There was no fight left in him.

Murray sighed. “They’re children, for Christ’s sake, they need to go to school.”

“The head takes the view that the coloured children might… act out if they know they’re going to be leaving and won’t have to face any punishment for their actions. He’s just trying to protect the staff.”

Conrad shook his head in disbelief at the words leaving Durham’s mouth. “I’m going to take it up with him.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’d watch that kind of talk too. There are a lot of very anxious teachers around here. You’re new at this teaching malarkey, Conrad, and you’re new to this school. Trust me when I say that he won’t take kindly to being lectured by someone that’s been on the job for five minutes. Especially not someone with a...”

“You can say it,” Conrad said with a smile. “A coloured girlfriend.”

It had taken a few weeks for the news to make its way around the school. Murray was shacked up with Honor Clarke. Clarke was the closest thing to famous as one could be in a place like Chelmsley Wood. She was an academic, one of only a few hundred university-educated coloured in the country, and she had made news in Birmingham by calling on the government to provide “reparations” for the slave trade. Durham had read about it at the time and hadn’t thought much of the woman. He bore no ill feelings towards coloureds, he’d spent long enough teaching them in school to know they were no different than whites, but talk of reparations was several steps too far for him. He was shocked when he’d found out the young white History teacher that had just joined the staff was her boyfriend. So were a fair few of the parents.

“I know this isn’t perfect but it’s a damn sight better than how things were before,” Durham said as he scratched the back of his neck. “You feel for those kids. I understand that, especially given your own… circumstances, but the work has to come first. The work always comes first. You’d do good to remember that.”

Durham watched Conrad go through a range of emotions as he lifted his hand to his mouth to take a drag of his cigarette. As he did so his muddy green eyes met with the face of the cheap watch he was wearing and widened in shock.

Conrad threw his cigarette to the ground. “Shit, I’m meant to be meeting a friend for a drink in fifteen minutes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

One of Murray’s light brown brogue crushed the butt of his cigarette into the ground and he shoved the newspaper into his shoulder bag. Durham watched as the young teacher paced off in the other direction. He envied the passion the young teacher had for their profession and the naiveté that came with not having been at life or teaching long enough to know better. He’d been like Murray once, though without the beard and the coloured girlfriend, and stood there beneath the dreary Birmingham sky he couldn’t help but wonder what young Neil Durham would have made of the man he’d become.

Long after his colleague had disappeared from sight Durham mumbled to himself with a sigh. “See you tomorrow, Conrad.”


Whitehall, London

John Coltrane’s Naima echoed through the halls of Joyce and Fraser Campbell’s Downing Street residence. Not a night went by in the Campbell residence that Coltrane, Davis, Monk, or Coleman wasn’t played, especially now that the children had been sent away to boarding school. It was a promise the Campbells had made to themselves. Even on the most tumultuous nights they would still make time for them. Jazz music had been part of what brought the pair together whilst studying at Oxford and on some nights it was what kept them together. When Fraser had met Joyce Campbell he had thought her an unattainable beauty, at least for someone like him, and was so taken with her that he would stare at during lectures. Joyce had thought the boy simple, he was so nervous he could barely string a sentence together, but she soon learned there was a steely determination beneath it.

Fraser had wanted to be a musician. At the time he had been prodigiously talented with a saxophone and spent more time practicing than he did studying. Joyce had tried to explain then that he could do anything armed with a Philosophy, Politics, and Economics degree from Oxford but music had been Fraser’s passion. Yet somehow today Fraser Campbell sat in Downing Street as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He couldn’t quite recall how he had fallen into politics but through no design of his own he found himself the second most powerful man in Britain. Joyce had been the political one whilst at Oxford and to this day she remained cleverer than him. In truth, it ought to have been her that stood in front of that dispatch box every week. Sometimes Fraser suspected she would have been better at it than he was.

Joyce had been his rock. Through good times and bad his wife had stood by him and challenged him to become more than he was. She was tall, thin, with blonde hair and legs that went to her chest. Sometimes Fraser kidded that her eyes were so piercing they could see into a man’s soul. Joyce had towered over him at Oxford and did so even more now she was expected to wear high heels at all times. In contrast, Fraser was a stout, unattractive man who had lost most of his hair quite early and wore thick-lensed glasses that made him look like an accountant. He was certainly not the type of man one would expect a woman like Joyce Campbell to marry. Neither was he what anyone would have described as “Prime Ministerial” yet he was her husband and the Prime Minister all the same.

It was on night’s like these though that the responsibility of leading an entire nation weighed heavily on his mind. The Prime Minister was sat in his shirtsleeves in a spotless kitchen. On the large white table in front of him were reams of documents and folders. Beside the documents was a large glass of red wine and an empty bottle on the kitchen counter signified it had been a very long day for Fraser Campbell.

“This is a fucking shambles.”

The sound of high heels clicking their way towards Fraser caught his attention and he spotted his wife in the doorway to the kitchen. She smiled at him and the Prime Minister felt his heart flutter in his chest like it was the first time. He smiled back at her and stretched out a waiting hand in her direction. Joyce floated towards him slowly and took her husband’s hand, rubbing her thumb against his, whilst resting her head against his shoulder and placing a soft kiss against his cheek.

Fraser could feel her gentle breath against his neck when she spoke. “What’s the matter, dear?”

“It’s this repatriation thing,” Fraser said as he gestured to the draft legislation in front of him. “This isn’t why I went into politics. In fact if I remember correctly, this is exactly the kind of thing I went into politics to oppose.”

“I thought the papers looked good this morning?”

“Of course the papers looked good,” Fraser sighed. “They always look good. They don’t have any choice but to look good.”

“Well, they certainly didn’t have to be as effusive as they were,” Joyce said as she reached down to one of the documents on the table and scanned over it. “That was by choice.”

It was clear from the look on Fraser’s face he was unconvinced. The invasion of South Africa had slowed considerably after the early successes the British had in Cape Town. Fraser was beginning to worry that it had been a mistake agreeing to it. Britain couldn’t afford a long, protracted struggle on a front so far away from its supply lines. If it turned into that, he’d have to give serious thought about withdrawing from South Africa altogether and that could make his position very uncertain. Especially given King William's public support for the conflict. Campbell's Home Secretary Thomas Moore was already on manoeuvres and seeing as the Palace hadn’t shut him down it meant they weren’t completely anathema to the idea of Moore in Downing Street.

Fraser’s chubby face flushed red with frustration as he mulled over his predicament. “Why doesn’t that inbred bastard at the Palace abdicate and run for office if he wants to run the country so badly?”

Joyce smiled and reached for the glass of wine on the table in front of them. “That’s no way to talk about our King.”

“Bollocks to our King,” Campbell muttered. “I’m the Prime Minister and I’m meant to be the one in charge here, not him. Yet here I am shipping millions of coloureds back because he intimated in passing that he would “appreciate it” if the guest worker program came to an end.”

Joyce took a hearty mouthful of wine. Fraser felt his wife tense as she swallowed and the wine made its way down her throat. “Why don’t you do something about it then?”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“He’s young and childless,” Joyce said as she kissed Fraser’s neck and ran her hand down his throat towards his trousers. He could smell the wine on her breath. It was intoxicating. She was intoxicating. “Rumour has it that pretty wife of his is having trouble conceiving. If something were to happen to our King…”

Fraser grabbed her hand at the wrist and pried it away from his groin. “Never speak those words out loud again.”

“What’s wrong?” Joyce smiled. “Too much wine?”

The Prime Minister shook his head and stood up from his seat. He walked across the kitchen patiently to the stereo in the corner of the room and turned the volume up until Naima was obnoxiously loud. He walked back to his seat and pulled Joyce close to him. Fraser's hands were clamped around her wrists so tight he could feel her pulse. There was fear in his wife’s eyes.

“They’re listening,” Fraser mumbled. “They’re always listening.”

Joyce’s face became equal parts shocked and relieved. Fraser pulled her body into his and his gut pressed against her toned stomach. He slid one of his hands up the side of his wife’s dress and his face, once a picture of crippling indecisiveness, dripped with an easy confidence that Fraser Campbell rarely displayed in public.

“Trust me when I say that I have not forgotten who I am and what I promised you. I will do whatever it takes when the time is right. God knows we’ve worked too hard to get where we are to fall at the last hurdle.”

It was true that jazz music had been part of what brought Joyce and Fraser Campbell together but it had been the lesser of two parts. The other part Joyce and Fraser rarely spoke about, even amongst themselves, in fact they had gone to painful lengths to hide any proof of its existence. Joyce and Fraser Campbell were committed republicans. Once Fraser had consolidated enough power they intended to put their values into practise.

By any means necessary.

Brixton, London

In the middle of the small patch of grass at the centre of Angell Town council estate was the smouldering husk of a vehicle. The smoke from it billowed up into the night’s sky and filled the lungs of PCs James Oldfield and Ray Newman as they watched on. Ray covered his mouth with his forearm to stop himself from inhaling any more smoke. James knelt beside the vehicle with his hands on his knees and inspected it for any signs of evidence. Both men were stationed out of Brixton police station but that was where the similarities ended. Oldfield was six foot three and as skinny as a rake. His features were soft, shapeless, and unassuming. He had the kind of face that was easily forgotten. “Big Ray” was a heavy-set man, built like a fridge, somehow fat but flat-stomached at the same time. His face was not so easily forgotten. In the middle of it laid a thick red rose that dominated his other features.

Newman peered over his nose at Oldfield as he watched the young officer inspect the burnt out vehicle. “I’m telling you, these people are fucking animals.”

James look round at him and frowned. “We don’t know it was them.”

“Oh, pull the other one…” Ray said with a derisive laugh. “A burned out car in the middle of a council estate in Brixton and you’re trying to play Atticus-bloody-Finch. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work this one out, James.”

James Oldfield might not have been a rocket scientist but he was the sharpest tool in the box at Brixton police station. He'd arrived armed with a wealth of knowledge about criminal psychology and a had thirst for problem solving unlike anybody in the borough. It wouldn’t be long before Oldfield was CID. As much as a killjoy as James was at times there was no other police officer in London that Newman would want to catch the case if one of his loved ones went down. He took to policing as naturally as Big Ray took to boozing, darts, and forgetting his children's birthdays.

“I’m just saying,” James said as he stood up and started to scribble in his notepad. “Due process and all.”

Ray shook his head. “You’re too soft on them. You think they give a fuck about due process? You think your due process will save you when one of their kind is bearing down on you with a machete?”

Oldfield looked up from his notepad and shrugged. “Nobody said the job was meant to be easy, Ray.”

The sound of a motorbike entering Angell Town estate caught Newman’s attention and he looked round as it made its approach. It pulled up beside the two police officers and Newman made a slow reach towards his baton suspiciously as the motorbike stopped beside them. Oldfield eyed the man and woman on the motorbike curiously as he slipped his notepad into his back pocket. They were black, the man was a wall of muscle and the woman slight and short, but other than that Oldfield couldn’t make much out. He looked towards Newman cautiously and Big Ray placed his hand on his baton.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Newman said to the man and woman who were staring at the officers silently. “Jog on.”

The woman reached into the back of his trousers and pulled out a weapon. Newman seized up upon seeing it and his eyes had slammed shut. There were two loud bangs in quick succession that he recognised as gunshots. It wasn't until he heard the sound of the motorbike's engine scurrying off into the distance that his eyes opened again and a flash of relief crossed his face upon realising his was unharmed.

It was replaced by dread as he noticed Oldfield sprawled out on the floor with two bullets lodged in his gut. “James?”

Oldfield moved to speak but a mouthful of blood came pouring out in place of words. Newman felt his blood run cold and his hands began to shake as he desperately tried to stem the bleeding. There was blood everywhere. He raised one of his hands to his radio and the blood on his fingers made them slip across the radio’s buttons.

“They’ve shot James," Ray screamed into his radio as a decade of policing experience went out the window. "They’ve fucking shot Oldfield.”

Atlanta

Jim Sledge stood in the shadows of a parking garage near the Georgia state capital. He'd been there for nearly an hour now, quietly watching and waiting for his contact to show up. He'd called the lieutenant governor's office from a nearby payphone and talked quickly to whomever answered. The rest of the capital's workers and politicians headed home soon after five, but Jim saw the light of the eighth-floor office stay on well after everyone was gone for the day.

The plan he and Reed worked out was dependent on this part. If tonight's meeting didn't work out, they'd be forced to take another approach. The senate race was down to the wire and if any changes were needed they would have to be made fast. How this meeting went could decide the outcome. Sledge adjusted his thick glasses and squinted when he saw the car pull in from the street.

A long, black car cruised through the garage before idling a few feet from where he stood. Jim got into the back of the car and found the man he was looking for waiting for him already. Lieutenant Governor Ashley McCall stared at Jim over his reading glasses. McCall had curly black hair with flecks of white in it and a long, skinny frame that led to many jokes around Atlanta about him being a scarecrow, all full of straw and no brains.

"Well you got my receptionist all riled up," McCall said as he pulled his reading glasses off. "But your choice of language got my attention. I debated if I should come or not."

"As I imagine you would. You're a good man, but when someone promises you the governor's chair you come running."

"Speaking of that."

"Ash, I am a man of vision. The vision I'm seeing is Ashley McCall as Georgia governor in 1980, being reelected in 1982 and 1986. Six years of governor until... Senator McCall? You never know, they say Preston Marbury has a bum ticker. Or maybe something higher? Cabinet post? Maybe even higher. That's what I'm seeing Ash, but how it turns out depends on how this conversation goes."

McCall chuckled. "Hamp wins this Senate election, I become governor by default. He resigns and I'm in the big chair. Two years worth of experience as governor heading in '82 means I win the Democratic primary in a landslide and the general election? Son, this is Georgia. There's Democrats or nothing at all."

"Solid thinking, Ash," Sledge nodded. "But Taliaferro winning that Senate race and you taking over makes you look weak. Everyone in the state knows what he's doing, Ash. He's gonna go to Washington and set you up here in Atlanta as his puppet."

McCall started to protest, but Jim cut him off.

"Doesn't matter if it's true or not, all that matters is what people think and what they say. You've been dependent on Hampton all your political life. For god's sakes, he's your father-in-law. You know what they say about you behind your back, Ash, about how you married into, how you're dumb and just Hamp Taliaferro's little lackey. Hamp himself jokes about you, says getting you elected as lieutenant governor was only because he loves his daughter so much. The end result of all of this will be you taking over the governorship no later than this time next week. Hamp has been a political force in this state for decades, but he's gotten too complacent. He's had his time. You're young and you are the future of this state. Your future is very bright if you play along. You want to be your own man, don't you Ash?"

McCall struggled to find a response. He fiddled with the hinges of his glasses and mumbled to himself.

"But... I got my wife and kids to think about. He's my father-in-law."

"Nobody will know," Jim assured. "What I'm going to ask of you is minor and just between us. If you help me out, I have promises from people that your subsequent gubernatorial campaigns will be successful."

"Who is promising?"

Jim held his hands out, palms facing outward.

"Ash, I'm not going to say... but put two and two together."

McCall sighed and looked down at his shoes. Jim saw him working his wedding ring up and down his finger in an unconscious tick that was as effective as any words McCall might have spoken. After what felt like five minutes, McCall looked up at Jim.

"God help me, what do you need from me?"

Jim gave him a sympathetic smile. He found that an understanding smile made traitorous behavior go down better. "I need the governor's itinerary for the next two days, as well as the names of the state troopers that are part of his security detail."

-----

Sun City, Arizona

Bart Marston placed the back of his head against cool concrete wall and closed his eyes. The dimly lit, concrete corridor was in the basement of the Lucky Gent Casino, as far away from prying eyes as possible. Even with the door closed and the concrete wall between them, he could hear the squeals from the man inside. Nobody worked over card cheats quite like Chuck Waters. Bart clocked in at five foot ten and Chuck towered over him by at least a full six inches. Big and mean with a buzzcut so close his blonde hair looked almost white. Everybody on the strip knew Chuck and knew not to fuck with him.

The metal door swung open and Chuck walked out with a pair of bloody rubber gloves on his hand and sweat beading down his forehead. His suit coat was off and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past the elbow, revealing a USMC tattoo on his forearm. He flashed Bart a smile and shot him a wink.

"Come on in, Bart. I think he's ready for your talk."

Bart lit up a cigarette and followed Chuck inside. There were just two features in the small concrete room. One was a small table that had the contents of someone's pockets -- wallet, keys, change-- resting atop them. The other feature was a large wooden chair like the kind they used for the electric chair. It was bolted to the floor and had thick leather straps to bind whoever sat there in place. Strapped in was a bloody pulp of a man who Bart saw a half hour ago, being shoved into the room by Chuck and two members of the Lucky Gent's staff.

Chuck pulled off his rubber gloves and let them fall to the cement floor while Bart smoked and rifled through the contents on the table. He picked up the beaten man's wallet and pulled his driver's license out to read. "Luverne, Minnesota," he said, blowing smoke from his mouth as he spoke. "Spent some time up there during the war, cold as hell."

Bart turned and stared at the beaten man with a soft smile. He made sure he held the driver's license up so the man could see it through the dim lighting and his swollen eyes.

"I'm going to keep this, Mr. Davis. So I know who you are and where you live. Sorry for me partner's roughness. You see, Mr. Davis, the Lucky Gent Casino does not take kindly to card cheats and neither does he."

"I didn't cheat," Davis spat, spitting out blood and saliva as he babbled. He slurred as he spoke. Bart figured that was because he was missing so many teeth. "I-I-I- use a mathematical system. It's not--"

"It's cheating," Bart said in a dull tone, saying what he had said to countless cheaters before. "Not legally, but it's cheating. You're a card counter, and Sun City does not like card counters. Card counters have to be smart guys, right? A smart guy like you doesn't need his fingers and toes to count and that's good. It's good because you're going to be missing at least a whole hand's worth of fingers if you ever step foot in this casino, or any Sun City casino again."

Bart pulled back his suit coat, revealing the revolver on his hip and the badge beside it. The badge was a gold star with the words Sun County Sheriff engraved on the top and sergeant at the bottom. Chuck walked to his suit jacket on the floor and picked up his own badge, showing Davis that he too was a sheriff's deputy. Bart tossed the license back on the table and stepped forward to make eye contact with the man.

"Go back to Minnesota, Mr. Davis. I'm sure Luverne is a nice town and I can assure you that Sun City is not. It's a cruel town that has no place for you. You're too smart, and Sun City hates smart men. You've got twenty-four hours to leave town. Remember that I know your name. I call around the hotels in the city and discover you haven't checked out at the end of those twenty-four hours, my partner and I are going to hunt you down and bury you alive out in the desert. Understood?"

"I'll leave," Davis sobbed. "Just don't hurt me, don't hurt my family."

Bart patted the weeping man on the shoulder and turned to leave with Chuck behind him. Two of the Lucky Gent's goons were already waiting outside the room with smirks on their faces. He couldn't remember their names, Tony or something like that. The mob guys always had the same damn names and goofy ass nicknames.

"Always the talker, Marston," one of them said.

"Just like daddy," the other chortled. "Always talking, talking, talking. What's wrong? Afraid of getting your hands dirty?"

Chuck stepped out into the hallway, sliding his suit jacket on over his massive arms and shoulders. Bart resisted the urge to throw a fist at the two smartass goons and instead pointed back to Chuck. "When I got a guy like that, why would I need to get my hands dirty? I'm the brains and he is the brawn."

He left Chuck behind to deal with tweedle dee and tweedle dum and made his way up to the casino floor. The Lucky Gent's motif was all Wild West. Croupiers dressed in black and white suits with waistcoats, sleeve garters, and bowlers, the cigarette girls dressed like cowgirls. The strip club in the back of the casino featured dancers wearing gold star pasties on their breasts and nothing much below it besides a gunbelt.

Bart ignored the sights and sounds of the casino and headed for the door. Nigh on midnight and the Sun City Strip was in full swing. Tourist gawked at the bright lights and big casinos while the suckers moved from joint to joint to try and hit it big. Bart got into the unmarked car he and Chuck used and got behind the wheel to await his partner's return. He hated this city. It was all bullshit with gold dust sprinkled on top. He hated it because it took people's money and left them nothing. He hated it because his father loved it so much, and he hated it because this goddamn city was his birthright.

The Marstons were one of the first families to settle in Sun City in the late 1800's. Bart's great-grandfather ran a general store, his grandfather owned a saloon and was the city's third mayor, and now his father was a United States Senator. Rod Marston wanted the same life for Bart, but he told him to go to hell and took a job with the SCSD. Even as a cop he felt his old man's presence. Bart made sergeant two years after joining the force and would have made lieutenant before he left to fight in the war. He came back and got offered a job as squad supervisor in homicide. He instead requested his current detail, working in the three-man Intelligence Unit. It was a shit job with meathead Chuck Waters as his partner and a lush like Captain Randall as supervisor.

Bart requested the post because he knew if he stayed in a regular bureau like homicide or narcotics he would rise against his will. The old man would assert pressure to see him make rank. He wasn't happy when Bart joined, but he said that if he wanted to he could be sheriff by the time he was forty. Bart didn't want that. He wasn't really sure what he wanted, but he knew what he didn't want and what he didn't want was exactly what his dad was offering. So he stayed in Intelligence and worked a dead end job with no chance of promotion just because he knew his father couldn't stand it.

Chuck got into the car and pulled out a small roll of bills. He counted off a few hundred dollar bills and tried to pass them to Bart. He shook his head and pushed the money back.

"C'mon, sarge. I feel bad about always keeping the money Frenchie gives us."

"Don't worry about it, Chuck. You got your girl and kids to think about. Besides, I'm a Marston, I'm not strapped for cash."

"Ever wonder why they bring us in to work over the card cheats?" Chuck asked as Bart passed him a cigarette. "They got their own guys who can lay out a beating, so why pay us three or four scoots when they can get an in-house guy to do a tune-up for free?"

"It's the badges," Bart said, blowing smoke out the window. "Frenchie likes letting cheats know that it's more than his guys who protect the casinos. He also does it because he's playing the long game. He'll keep us around for small stuff until we're needed for something real big. We're an investment, Chuckie. That's all."

Chuck slipped the money back into his pocket while Bart checked his watch. "Twenty after midnight. We still got three hours to kill before our shift ends. Suggestions, Deputy Waters?"

Before Chuck could answer, a roar filled the air. Two motorcycles tore down the Sun Strip at breakneck speed. The two shaggy looking men were blurs of motion, but Bart made out the logo on backs of their cutoff leather jackets. In the center was smiling, sinister-looking Mongolian on a motorcycle with a large sword raised. The patch across the top of the jacket read Horde, the patch across the bottom read California.

"Those assholes," Chuck hissed. "I thought they were warned to keep on their side of the border."

"Chalk it up to hearing loss, Chuck," Bart said as he started the car. "Those loud bikes mean they can't hear so good. Let's see what they're up to."

-----

Washington D.C.

"It is now in order to consider Appropriations Bill 2601. For what purpose does the gentleman from California seek recognition?"

Congressman Harlan Lewis cleared his throat and spoke into his lectern's microphone."Mr. Speaker, I ask the House to pass Appropriations Bill 2601 as reported favorably out of the House Appropriations Committee."

The Speaker Pro Tempore granted and asked the clerk situated below him on the triple dais to read the bill's title in full.

"Appropriations Bill 2601, a bill to appropriate monies for the purpose of foreign aid relief for the Pan-Africa Empire as it fights against the Spanish Republic."

From the press gallery above the House floor, Traci Lord watched the action with amusement. There was a debate planned, but it was going to be a short one. The days of inspiring rhetoric in this chamber or the Senate was long gone. A hundred and fifty years ago men like Daniel Webster, Clay, and Calhoun could sway hearts and minds with their stirring words and turn the fate of a bill from a doubtful passage to an easy victory. That was then. Now, while a handful of congressmen and senators stood on the floor and spoke, the real deals were going on in the cloakrooms and offices far away from the debate.

Today marked Traci's fifth day on Capitol Hill covering the foreign aid bill. Her first story had been published two days earlier to some interest among Congress and the reporters that covered the body. The first part of the series covered the background on the bill, background on Harlan Lewis, and the process of the bill moving through committee.

"Mr. Speaker," Lewis started back. "I propose this bill to Congress because now is the time to stand upon the world's stage as the beacon for freedom against oppression. Since 1776, this nation's principals..."

Traci tuned Lewis out and went back to her notebook. She'd read his full statements later in the congressional transcript and find if anything was quote worthy. Lewis was an odd case, as she discovered in her interview with him earlier that week. Congressmen from districts as safe as Lewis' often did very little besides get their districts pork barrel projects. The voters in his district didn't want pork barrel, didn't want much of anything besides keeping taxes low. It seemed to her that he was doing this simply because he could.

"Now what are you smiling at?"

Traci looked up from her notepad and saw an old, familiar face.

"Senator Dixon," she said with a grin. "Slumming it in the House are we?"

Senator Bill Dixon did a mock bow and sat down beside Traci, unbuttoning his suit coat as he sat.

"I like checking up on the House from time to time. Helps me keep the Senate in perspective, reminds me that I could have it a lot worse. What are you doing here, my dear? I thought you got out of the congressional reporting game?"

"They sent me back to cover Lewis' bill," Traci said in mock offense. "You mean to tell me you haven't read my first article on it?"

"You work for the Post?" He asked with a smirk. "That paper is part of my morning routine, nothing gets my ass clean quite like the Washington Post."

Trac couldn't help but smile. "On the record, what do you make of the bill?"

"I applaud Congressman Lewis for his bold step. For far too long, Congress has been willing to let the Executive Branch dictate the course of foreign policy. With this bill, perhaps the scales can be balanced."

"Uh-huh," she said as she wrote down his remarks. "And off the record?"

"Jackass," he replied quickly. "Did not consult anyone else on this and just moved forward, forcing Republicans into a tight spot, especially now that it looks like the White House is trying to hijack it and take credit for getting it through Congress."

"What's the Senate's strategy?" She asked. "On the record, I mean."

"The Senate will have to wait and see how the House votes before it can consider anything," Dixon said in his measured voice again. "If it passes, the margin of victory our colleagues in the House passed it by will be taken into consideration as Majority Leader Kelly puts it on the legislative calendar."

"Off the record?"

Dixon made a raspberry and did a thumbs down.

"The worst thing President Norman could have done was let it be known he was in favor of the bill. Those old goats from the Deep South are licking their chops, waiting to sink their teeth into the bill. Since Vice President Reed met with those activist in Tennesse, the Southern Caucus is going to lock that bill up tighter than a tick's ass and make sure it doesn't see the light of day until they get assurances from Norman that there will be no civil rights bill proposed by the White House."

Traci looked down at the floor of the House. A Democrat from Rhode Island was arguing against the bill purely for fiscal reasons, arguing that the money would be better spent at home than in Africa.

"This is the calm before the storm, Ms. Lord," Dixon said as he stood, buttoning his coat back. "Enjoy the civility of the House. When we get to the Senate, it's going to be a goddamn bloodbath."

-----

Chicago

Johnny Legarrio always felt like he was in a different world when he went to Bobby C's mansion. The palatial estate was far removed from Bobby's humble Southside origins. The story of Robert Colosimo's rise to the top was the stuff of mob legend. A homeless urchin brought in from the cold by Al Capone himself. He was Capone's top button man during the beer wars and the bloody aftermath. He was supposed to have killed a rival Irish bootlegger when he was just fourteen. Capone ended up going to the clink and dying after syphilis rotted his brain out. Bobby C. served the Outfit and rose through the ranks until he took control of it in the late fifties. He was an Outfit lifer then with thirty years of service and still only in his mid-forties.

Johnny stood in the foyer of the mansion with Mick Mahoney and Prussian Joe. Mick played with the loose threads on his suit while Prussian Joe folded his hands over his stomach and patiently waited. Bobby C. knew they were coming, Johnny gave him a call right after he heard Prussian Joe's pitch three days ago. Bobby said he was making a trip out of town and would be back tonight, to come by the house at around seven. It was now seven thirty.

"Gentlemen," Bobby's bodyguard Momo said as he came into the foyer. Momo wore a sweater and sports jacket, but Johnny could clearly make out the piece in the shoulder holster. "Mr. Colosimo will see you now. I'm going to have to frisk all three of you before we proceed."

Momo made a quick show of shaking down Mahoney and Prussian Joe before Johnny willingly handed over his Colt 1911 and let Momo make sure that was all he carried. When he was satisfied, Momo led the small party through the house. Mahoney's big eyes looked at everything enviously. Prussian Joe meanwhile kept up his bored look. Johnny wasn't sure what to make of the short little German. He was always cool and detached, almost to the point of being a front. Regardless Johnny knew he liked the guy, more so than Mahoney with his sycophantic behavior.

"Johnny!"

Bobby C. waited for them out on the deck facing his back yard. The old man wore a pair of swimming trunks and nothing else. He was somewhere in his early seventies and had the body of a man half his age. It was all lean and wiry. The only signs of age were the white chest hair and a long heart surgery scar that ran from the bottom of his neck down to the top of his stomach. That wasn't the only scar on his body. A long, crescent moon shape started near his left breast and went down towards his ribs. It was supposed to have been from a stabbing back in the thirties. His snowy white hair was gelled and parted immaculately.

"You look so skinny, kid. You need to eat something!"

"Me? What about you. You're like a husk."

Bobby put his arms around Johnny's shoulders and hugged him. Beneath the beaming grin, Johnny felt an overwhelming urge to snap the old man's neck. Bobby was all smiles today, a far cry from that day when he promised Johnny he would blow his brains out if he didn't come to work for him.

"It's this goddamn diet my doc put me on," Bobby bemoaned. "No salt, no pork, no cigars, nothing good. I survived everything the fucking Micks can throw at me, but in the end it's my heart that tries to clip me. Come on, follow me."

Johnny and the others followed behind Bobby as he padded through the big house. He led them into his study and motioned towards plush leather couches and chairs while he sat down at the desk and eyed Johnny's friends.

"Bobby, this is Mick Mahoney and Prussian Joe."

"Sound like a comedy duo," Bobby snickered.

The others laughed, Johnny and Prussian Joe politely while Mahoney seemed to laugh a little too hard. Bobby stared at him a beat before turning back to Johnny.

"So you said these two clowns have some score they wanna talk about? Well let's talk."

"The First National Bank, Mr. Colosimo," Prussian Joe said without preamble. "I have a plan to rob it, a robbery that could gross as much as ten million dollars."

Bobby C. let out a low whistle and laced his hands together.

"Big talk my friend, but just talk. Who are you that I should believe or trust you? Johnny vouches for you, but I don't know you."

"I have done some freelance work with some of your cohorts around the country. Perhaps reach out to the Como Family in Kansas City and ask them if they know me. I am almost certain they will deliver you a glowing appraisal of my abilities and professionalism."

Bobby stared at him for a long time before leaning back in his chair and sighing.

"You were saying about a plan?"

"Ja, I was recently imprisoned at Joliet after another score of mine was cut short thanks to an informant. Before I went away, I was scouting out the First National Bank as a potential score after the one I was on. Shortly after being released, I went back to the bank and cased it. Nothing has changed and it is ripe for the picking."

"What makes them so-- Johnny, give me a smoke would ya?"

Johnny pulled out a cigarette and lighter, passing them to Bobby. He lit up and inhaled the smoke deeply.

"I know I shouldn't," he said as he blew smoke out. "But it's so damn good. Now, what makes that bank so ripe of a target?"

"The alarm system," Prussian Joe said as he pulled out his own cigarettes. They were of some middle eastern blend that smelled foul and made Johnny crinkle his nose at the scent. "They still have a Rinco 9800. As any good bank robber, I keep up with the latest in the security trade. The 9800 was recalled six years ago because its circuit breaker and wiring is inherently flawed. A few simple wire pulls can short circuit the system and disable its overt and silent alarms. With a three man crew, I can go in there and short circuit the alarm and spend as much time as I need clean out the whole safe."

Jonny watched Bobby thinking it over. It was the same plan Prussian Joe relayed to him a few nights ago at the Cheetah Room. Johnny knew the plan was risky, but robbing a bank always run some sort of risk. Bobby was more conservative than Johnny simply due to age, but a guy doesn't get to the top of the Outfit by playing it safe.

"I want to reach out to my guys in Kansas City," Bobby said, pointing a finger at Prussian Joe. "And I want proof that they got this shitty alarm system that you say they do, and I want to read about how shitty the alarm is. You do that, you have my blessing to form a crew and hit the bank. I'll be taking twenty percent in tribute, the rest to be divided up among your crew."

Johnny felt a sense of relief pass through the other men. He also let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in.

"Good," said Prussian Joe, wiping his forehead with a pudgy hand. "As for crew, I'd like Johnny with me. Mahoney is a safecracker and I may need him. I will teach him how to short circuit the alarm so it's ready to be put out of commission before we walk into the bank. We will require a driver. A four-man crew all together should suffice."

"I want a fifth," Bobby replied. "A backup in case this thing goes sideways. I got a guy with the CPD who has been looking for work."

"You sure it's a good idea to get a cop involved?" Johnny asked.

"He ain't a cop, Johnny Boy, he's a wiseguy with a badge. He'll lay out the groundwork and keep the heat off of you if it comes to that. I want him on the job and that is non-negotiable. If you want this thing to go down, then he has to be on the job."

Johnny traded looks with Prussian Joe. The little man pressed his lips tight together and made no attempt to hide his annoyance. Johnny shrugged slightly, silently asking what could they do.

"You're the boss," Prussian Joe said with his own shrug. "Whatever you say goes."

"That's right. Don't forget it."

-----

Macon, Georgia

Macon City Police officer Fred Baker walked down the halls of the rundown motel towards 219. The hotel's night clerk walked beside him with a skeleton key in his hand. The clerk was the one to call in the noise complaint after several calls to the room weren't answered by the occupants inside.

"Goddamn music," the clerk snarled. "You can hear it even all the way down here!"

Baker heard the music alright. A loud screeching noise of horns playing together in some random cacophony. That Jazz crap, Baker thought. Jazz was the music of the coloreds and hopheads. Who else in their right mind would like shit like that with no rhythm.

"Open up," Baker shouted as he stood in front of the door. He banged on it with his nightstick hard, so hard it could be heard over the music. "Police department. Open up or I'm coming in!"

He motioned for the clerk to open the door with the skeleton key. Baker stepped back and put a hand on the butt of his holstered revolver as the door unlocked and swung open. He stepped through the door and was taken back at the sight.

The small hotel room was a mess, overturned furniture and broken mirrors and ripped pillows and sheets. A pile of brown powder he recognized as heroin sat on a dresser beside remnants of snorted lines. A record player beside the dresser belted out the horrible music. The pièce de résistance was on the bed. A chubby, middle-aged white man was passed out on the bed with two skinny and obviously underage black girls curled up beside him and as oblivious as he was. The bedcovers were pulled back, revealing their naked bodies.

"Someone had themselves a time," the night clerk said with a laugh. "Can you arrest them, officer?"

"I plan to."

Ten minutes later, Baker led all three out the hotel lobby in their underwear. They were linked together by shared handcuffs on their wrists. All three of the arrested people were drowsy and disoriented from the sudden awakening, but the white man was acting even more confused. His salt and pepper hair was all over the place and his eyes were bloodshot. Still, as shabby as he looked, Baker felt a distant recognition. Like he'd seen him before. Knowing johns and whores, Baker probably already arrested him once before.

"What's going on?" The man asked.

"You're under arrest," Baker replied as they stepped out into the humid Georgia summer night. "Possession and use of narcotics, engaging in immoral practices with minors, and violation of the state's interracial fraternization law."

Baker walked them through the parking lot towards his waiting squad car. A photographer popped up from behind it and snapped off a photo. The bright light blinded Baker for a moment. He tried to shield himself, as did the other three, but they were too slow to avoid the camera.

"Get that goddamn camera out of here," he yelled at the fleeing photographer.

"You can't do this," the dazed man said weakly. "Do you know who I am? I'm the governor."

"Sure you are," Baker said as he pushed the man and two girls into the backseat of the car. "And I'm the president. Y'all stay calm, we're heading to the station house to book you."

Baker paused as he watched a car quickly speed out the motel parking lot. He made the outline of the photographer from a distance. The guy was leaving in an awful big hurry for some reason. Baker shut the back of the squad car and bent down. He looked at the man in the back of the squad car from the side. Slowly, it dawned on him that he did look familiar... and exactly how he knew him. He'd seen his face in the newspaper and on the television, speaking about Georgia and what he planned to do to make it a better place.

"Governor Taliaferro," he said under his breath. "Shit."

Harar, Ethiopia

It felt strange. While Hassan and his small corp of officers were still dashing across the Danakil, Hassan's mind had been on military matters. He thought of tactics then; how to use his airforce, and what ways the Spanish advance could be delayed before it reached the cities and villages of highland Ethiopia.

But now he was entering Harar to visit a friend from a different time of his life, and even though Hassan still had business to attend to, his thoughts drifted back into the past, and to his early career. He remembered a stormy night at the mountain-top monastery of Debre Damo and the raid he had been a part of. They had scaled a sheer cliff with simple equipment to surprise the last few aristocratic leaders of a failed rebellion who were hiding with sympathetic monks in their amba retreat. A specific image hung at the forefront of the Ras's imagination. It was of his commander, a long-dead homeguard captain by the name of Iskander, standing among the rain-drenched corpses of a dozen priests and rebels. Ancient stone walls watched silently by, scratched by bullets and charred by bombs, as the battle-worn captain lectured a captive, held at gun point, with passages from the bible.

"The lord has said to me 'Do not fret because of evil doers, nor be envious of the workers of iniquity, for they shall soon be cut down like grass, and wither as the green herb.'"

That was the strongest memory of that day. The rest was an obscured vision of fear and blood.

In the present, Hassan sat in the front passenger's side of an armored staff car as it wove along the dirt roads of the outer city. Hassan was turned around in his seat, talking strategy with a couple of the officers of his retinue. They had a map splayed between them, balanced on an old board that they found on the ground in Dire Dawa.

"The explosion of the train station in Dire Dawa would be spectacular." said one man, Colonel Ashenafi of the 7th Sefari.

"But impractical." Pointed out the other, who's name Hassan had forgotten, though he recalled that he was from the 4th Sefari and an Aide to General Idrissa.

"Why would we save a station that we will not be using?" Ashenafi answered. "Sow the fields with salt! Leave the ferengi an empire of ash! We want every step they take to be painful for them."

"We need to save the explosives." the other officer argued. "We can't afford to waste them."

Hassan waved his hand. "Have the men take the station apart by hand then. I agree with the Colonel, let those European pigfuckers suffer." The city became denser as they went on, and they began to travel slower.

The outer city of Harar was a collection of relatively new buildings, though that did not make them modern. There were mud huts and plaster huts next to each other, some thatched and some roofed flat. With the Spanish advance coming fast toward the highlands, this place was overran by the Ethiopian military. There were vehicles parked in every empty lot. Supply officers were setting up the infrastructure that would help move men and supplies back and forth from the front. Beyond the town was the rolling hills of Hararghe, colored in a rich contrast of savanna greenery and red earth.

"Will the Shiftas raid our enemies in the night?" Ashenafi asked hopefully. By Shiftas, he meant the Ethiopian militias as well as the Afar. Both were free agents, and did not have to take orders from Hassan.

"I have asked a few of their leaders." Hassan replied. "They want blood, my friends. Just as much as we do."

The vehicle came to a stop near the city gate. Hassan leaped out, and his Palestinians came all around him to form a guard. The two officers, with no business in the walled city, went to find a way to communicate to their respective Generals.

Harar Jugol was the local name for the walled city. It made up half of Harar, and it's entirety was surrounded by an aging brown stone wall. Outside of the city walls, Ethiopia stumbled awkwardly into the modern world, but inside, Harar Jugol made no such effort. These walls, raised to turn back the medieval Oromo tribes that once raided from the south, now pressed its inhabitants together in a tight space and kept them from modernizing their city. It had once been a fortress, but the modern world had turned it into a time capsule.

Hassan chose to pass through the gate on foot. It had been widened to allow for car traffic, if only down the center road. Still, Harar Jugol was old and not built with traffic in mind. Pedestrians ruled inside the walls, trickling from claustrophobic alleys into the wider market streets, and forcing cars to crawl along at a pace slower than that of the people on foot.

The gate looked more like a facade than a true gate. It had two pedestrian posterns on either side of the main entrance, and useless battlements lined the top with rounded crenels in an Islamic style. Once inside, the economy of space within the walled city became quickly apparent. Buildings and roads were constructed via a plan of tactical chaos. Every small structure seemed to hungrily swallow as much extra space as they could get away with, making an architecture defined by overhangs and zigzagging corridors. The street itself was filled with vendors selling goods from small stalls, and from the backs of trucks. Most of the people were the coffee-skinned Somali, who's garb shared similarities with the Ethiopians so that it was difficult to tell them apart. It was the women who stood out here. They wore brightly-colored dresses and head-scarves, many patterned with golden cloth.

Hassan's Palestinian guards closed in even tighter around him as the press grew thicker. It was not for want of safety that they huddled, but rather the inevitable fate of anybody in such a crowd. Hassan drank in the smell of the spices, and made a mental note of the things that were being sold in market. Most merchants sold the basics; food and clothes, more often than not. Others sold rich spices. There was plenty of green khat as well, next to stalls selling cigarettes and beat-up trucks carrying an assortment of foreign goods.

Amongst all of this, surrounded by the living history of his country, Hassan wondered what would happen to this place. Dire Dawa had replaced the ancient city as the gateway to Somalia and financial hub of the Hararghe, but Harar was still very much the beating heart of this region. It was afforded some special rights, retaining a bureaucratic independence almost similar to the free-cities of medieval Europe. And it was one of the last places governed, at least partially, by a feudal noble rather than the Emperor's national government. That noble, Ras Goliad, was of a dying breed, and he was an old acquaintance of Ras Hassan's. Unlike Hassan, Goliad's status as a Ras was more than just honorary.

As they passed further into the city, the roads became tighter. Second stories leaned over the road, trapping in the scent of human habitation. This place smelled oppressively of humanity, like a mix of spices, sweat, and dung. Here, the pedestrian traffic was less noticeable. The few walkers they ran into gave them a wide berth. Conversations died as Hassan went by. Perhaps they could identify the Ras by sight, or perhaps they just knew that a man in uniform surrounded by a number of straight-faced men also in uniform meant something serious. Groups of young women in neon-colored dresses stood and ogled, while gaunt men watched from their stoops with weary eyes.

They came across Goliad's estate quite suddenly. It could not be seen from a distance, beyond the many old mosques which dominated the city's skyline. It was a rather simple estate-house built into the side of the wall. An old turret tower along the wall seemed to dominate the estate, and Hassan noticed the barrel of an Anti-Aircraft gun poking above its crenels. Hassan realized what the house was by the anachronistic looking militiamen loitering in front of the entrance. They wore white cotton gabi's over their clothes. Some wore pelts, and others wore padded robes that hung from the neck. There were swords hanging from the belts of a few, but almost all were armed with modern rifles. When they saw Hassan, they let him in. His Palestinians waited outside.

The estate smelled like incense and cigarettes. There were rugs on the floors, and padded chairs made from hard wood. An elderly woman was sweeping the floor with a straw broom. She looked up from her work at Hassan, and the face she made when she saw him was that of uncomfortable surprise, as if a priest had just walked in on her mildly sinning. She pointed up the stairs, and Hassan followed her direction.

The staircase was thin and steep. Hassan clung to the wall as he climbed, and though he tried to take each step carefully, the wood rasped under his feet. When he came up stairs, he saw a cone-shaped shield on the wall, across from a window that looked out over the city. He heard muttering from a nearby room, accompanied by a monstrous growling, like that of several animals feeding on a fresh kill.

And so Hassan went in that room.

On the floor, bent awkwardly on one knee, the aging Ras Goliad was feeding a pair of spotted Hyenas. The animals moved with a wild strength that you do not see in dogs. Goliad held mangled strips of raw red meat in one hand and delegated whose turn it was to feed with the other. All the while, he stayed calm, and a lit cigarette dangled casually from his mouth.

"War hounds?" Hassan spoke.

Goliad sniffed and stood up. "Just pets." he replied in a raspy voice. "The Harari feed Hyena's outside their towns to keep the animals from eating their children. I started doing the same thing just as an excuse to leave the walls, but I ended up growing fond of the animals. Decided to keep a few around." Goliad whistled, and the Hyena's sat down like dutiful children in their classroom.

"It's been a couple of years." Goliad turned and smiled. "How are you? How are your friends?"

"Thanks be to Allah, I am doing well." Hassan replied politely, and the two men shook hands and embraced each other like old friends.

Ras Goliad was ten years older than Hassan. The remaining hair on his head had turned white, and it clung close to his scalp. He sported a wiry chin-curtain, though the rest of his face was clean shaven. His gabi fell over the beginnings of a pot belly, but he was of average weight, and it did not look like he had lost much of his former strength. He was simply dressed for a noble, with cotton pants and leather boots worn under a pale gabi.

"I have not seen your daughter since her coronation. Have you heard from her since they arrived in China?" Goliad asked.

"No. I have faith that they are well." Hassan answered. The question of what had happened before she arrived in China, of the crash on Socotra and the days that passed where the entire nation presumed their Queen and heir both lost, it hung over the conversation now like a dark cloud that neither man needed to speak of. Azima and Hassan had never enjoyed a warm relationship. She was his daughter by accident, and he had only adopted her at the Emperor Yohannes' request. But he did raise her. When she grew up, she became a son to him, and he had never realized how much of his legacy rested on her until she disappeared. War had occupied his life then, just as it did now, but for that short period of time she was missing, he had went to battle with the understanding that his life had produced absolutely nothing else. And when the Chinese found her, he had been truly and completely relieved. In some ways he appreciated the Communists more for that than for their declaration of war against Spain.

"And is the Emperor well?" Goliad moved the conversation. "I have not seen him for a year now, I believe. His enemy has murdered his mother. I know that must be hard."

"I have not seen him for a month now." Hassan answered. "With the Ferengi on the march, I have no time for the capital. I hear he is gathering support, in his way. His majesty is good with people. I think he is doing the best that he can considering the circumstances."

"We need to talk about the war." Ras Goliad nodded. "I want to know what you are planning. But..." Goliad pondered for a something for a moment until his droopy eyes lit up. "Come with me, I want to show you something."

They passed through several rooms until they reached a thick wooden door that Goliad struggled to push open. Once inside, Hassan realized that they had entered the tower. The walls were completely rounded, and made of very old sandstone. Fresh beams of wood criss-crossed the room and reinforced the ceiling above. The smell of cedar permeated the space, mixed with the scent of very old dust. Goliad led Hassan up a spiraling staircase until they reached the top, where the open air met them and only crenels stood between them and the precipice.

"Seventy five milometer." Goliad said, motioning toward the Anti-Aircraft gun he had installed on the tower. "Maximum range at thirteen kilometers. Auto-loader lets me fire forty five rounds a minute, and it's got a targeting system that I can sit in." Goliad said. A stray ash from his cigarette caught the wind and sparked as it blew away. "I would take it apart to see how it works. The autoloader that is. If you had given this gun to me a year ago, I would have."

Hassan smiled. "Do you use it to kill birds? You know a lot about it and there hasn't been any Spaniards this far out yet."

Goliad shrugged. "We set up some targets out in the desert." he motioned toward the empty plains north of the city. "I wanted to see how it functioned. Get comfortable with it so that when the enemy does come, this beautiful girl will be as a second arm for me. And, also, it's fun to use."

"I've never fired one of these, to be honest with you." Hassan replied.

"Really?" Goliad replied, and he seemed genuinely shocked. "Truly? I don't know how you wouldn't have, since you have direct access to our country's arsenal. I wouldn't have had the opportunity to play with this one if you hadn't given it to me."

"I gave you five." Hassan noted. "Where did the other four go? Are they in your garden?"

Goliad chuckled. "No, I have put them outside of the walls. Inside is too dense, they would make people's homes into targets. But this one... I had to have this one. If they target my home, then so be it."

Two servants brought out two thin wicker chairs and a table just then. Goliad motioned for Hassan to sit, and the two men sat down under the barrel of the Anti-Aircraft gun.

"So, how is the war going? I want all of the news." Goliad started.

"The Spaniards are still trapped in the Danakil. I don't think they completely understood the ground they chose to launch from. It is a very bad spot."

"It's a straight shot toward the capital." Goliad replied. "If they landed on the northern coast, they would have had to slog through the highlands. If they had landed in Mogadishu, that would have placed even more desert in their way."

"I think they would have done better on the northern coast." Hassan retorted. "But really, I thought they would land in multiple places at once."

Goliad sneezed. "That would have cost this Minister Sotelo quite a lot. If he is banking on one front, that means that he does not have the resources to handle the others. Tell me, have you any plans for the western border."

Hassan felt strange saying it outright, but Goliad was an old mentor and comrade in arms. "I am sending several Sefari over to try and overrun the Ivory Coast. They will be going in very soon. That will be very expensive for us, but it will mean cutting Sotelo off from some of the richest oil fields in his Empire."

Goliad nodded. "Do this soon. An oil crisis just as his armies in Ethiopia cross the hottest desert in the world. You understand war, Ras Hassan. Let nobody say otherwise. The more bogged down their supply lines in the Danakil become, the quicker their campaign will deteriorate. If they get thirsty enough, perhaps even a passing Afar salt caravan will be enough to chase them back into the sea."

"It is hopeful thinking." Hassan replied. "If Sotelo is smart, and I do not think that he isn't, then he has stored enough petroleum to dampen whatever effects an oil crisis might have on his armies. But I think it will have an effect on his people back at home. Sotelo is a Prime Minister. If they people hate him enough, they can vote his party out of government."

"That would be good too." Goliad replied. "Do not worry on that account. Our people will make this war difficult for them at every step. I have already gotten several letters from old friends in Tigray. They want to kill Spaniards, and their sons want to kill Spaniards, and none of them will let the opportunity slip. Every amba in Ethiopia has a monk on top of it praying for God to curse Spain, and ever village is filled with young boys polishing spear tips and practicing with their rifles. The people of Hararghe are whispering about a Jihad against the ferengi."

"Yes." Hassan nodded. "I know that Spain cannot win, but that does not mean we will win. I don't know what it will look like when this war is over."

Goliad sniffed. "We cannot worry about that now. Right now it is the time to just fight."

"We have to plan for the future." Hassan retorted. "For instance, what would you do if this war caused us to no longer have an Emperor? Sotelo is declaring this war on Yaqob, after all, more so than he is on Ethiopia."

"Eh, don't be foolish. He's declaring war on Africa and blaming Yaqob."

"But that does not mean Yaqob is safe." he said. "What would you do if you were made Emperor, for instance?"

Goliad sniffed. "Me? I'm in my sixties, and you remember how I spent my younger years. All of the Rases of my youth thought they would make a better Emperor than Iyasu, and so my people and your people had to die putting them back in their place. Did I ever tell you what happened when Iyasu tried the four we took on Debre Damos? I was there at their trial."

"No."

"Let's see. Iyasu tried them all himself, and everybody in the room knew that the old man was out for blood. He hated rebels with a strange passion, more than you would expect an Emperor to do, and any time they were in his presence it looked like the old man was going to bust a vein. But there we were, sitting in the hall and waiting for him to pass judgement on them one by one. First came Ras Guggsa, and he spat and cursed and said everything you could imagine to ruin his honor before the Emperor sentenced him to die. Then came Ras Aron, who was a man of few words. But still he died. And then Ras Eba was brought in front of the Emperor. He tried to reach for a weapon, but one of the Homeguard tackled him and dragged him away. Of course, he was sentenced to die, and he did. By the time they made it to Ras Petros-Menas, the poor lad was shaking in his boots so bad that he couldn't produce a word in his defense."

"He died too." Hassan recalled. Goliad nodded and confirmed it.

"I've seen what happens when people try to become Emperor when it isn't their place to do so. Menelik secured the title for his descendants, and every one of them has earned it. Sure, I am a man, and I do not bend my mind and twist my own thoughts to make them like my Emperor's. I have disagreed with all of them. Iyasu was always a little mad, and his son had a messiah complex. Yaqob means well... but he isn't really Ethiopian, he didn't spend much of his youth here, so he has too many foreign ideas. I see he means well, but... well, I am a governor, so I see what happens when his ideas are fulfilled. For instance, his agricultural policy. His crop tithe, the ten percent of the yield he takes from farmers, that might have saved us from famine and so it was a good idea, but keeping it at the same rate every year just breeds contempt. When the bad years do come, the tithe remains and the farmers who live off of their subsistence are all of a sudden required to take from the national grain dole when they could have just kept all of their produce. There is no sense in that. And the 'exchanges' where he has bureaucrats decide the price of grain? That was a bad idea entirely. The bureaucrats set the prices too low so that grain remains 'affordable' according to their standards, and the farmers react by planting Khat instead of grain. Khat isn't regulated, and it sells for much more than grain, but what is the use? Nobody can feed their family on khat, and people end up waiting around for the affordable grain."

"You sound like a man who might want to be an Emperor after all." Hassan jibed.

"No no." Goliad cut the air with his hand. "Not for me. I want to see an Emperor like from the old times. Perhaps it is good to not allow the Rases to come back to power and be able to raise soldiers, I can see why that has caused trouble for our country in the past, but his majesty should at least entrust local matters to the governors. Let us handle the issue of prices in our own regions."

"Then what about the poor? That is Yaqob's worry." Hassan retorted. He wasn't an economist, and had never worried so much about Yaqob's social policies, but he liked seeing his old friend riled up.

"There is the church." Goliad sniffed. "The Mohammedans are good when it comes to taking care of the poor, I've seen that while being the governor here. Do not get me wrong, I have no love for the Ferengi, but I think their capitalists are right. You must maintain an aristocracy, of Rases or governors or businessmen, and you must let them make the decisions for the people. It is easier to determine the prices and rules on your own land than it is to determine the same for an entire Empire. But..." the aging Ras cleared his throat. "That is enough rebellion for one afternoon. Sit here and wait, I remember I had something else that I wanted to show you.

Hassan waited alone. The sun was setting in the west, and the air was beginning to cool. Below the walls, the sound of birds and insects began to grow louder. He was facing north, toward the war, but he could not see any evidence of it. The country felt like it was at peace.

Goliad's frustration with the Emperor was not news to Hassan. Goliad and his father had been loyal to Iyasu throughout that Emperor's reign, and they had ruled from their feudal seat in Tigray while other Rases rebelled against the Emperor. It was loyalists like Goliad, combined with the support Iyasu found in Hararghe and Somalia, that had kept the Emperor on his throne. But the rebellions taught Iyasu and his descendants to distrust the traditional nobility of their own country, and they had all kept Goliad's father, and then Goliad, on a short leash. After his father's death, Goliad had been sent to govern Hararghe. The appointment was a political ploy. Hararghe was the richest part of the country, controlling all trade east of the Ethiopian highlands, so it was a lucrative prize that no man could turn down. But it was a Muslim country, and Goliad was Christian. Iyasu had given this land to Goliad hoping that the Ras would constantly be bogged down by untrusting Muslims and at all times cut off from his own people.

But that was not how it actually played out.

Goliad would never say it, but he was a deft politician. He had left much of the governance of the province the the Islamic courts, only intervening when he needed to keep the peace or maintain a facade of Imperial sovereignty. He had also maintained connections with Tigray by writing letters to old allies and their descendants, and occasionally inviting them to his estate in Harar. In this way, he cultivated the image of a fair statesman and symbol of the old world, and he kept himself out of the way of the Imperial political machine.

While Goliad was away, servants came up and deposited two bowls of tibs - meat grilled in spices - alongside a basket of hot injera. Hassan stared at the food and did not touch it, but it reminded him that he hadn't eaten since that morning. He waited patiently until Goliad returned.

"Look at this beautiful thing." Goliad beamed, carrying a rather ugly rifle with a green, misshapen stock, and an elongated scope. "I purchased it as a kit from Poland and put it together myself. Can send a seven dot sixty two millimeter cartridge about eight hundred meters. I haven't measured the distance myself, but I know I can knock a bird out of the air at about a half a kilometer away."

"You can see a bird that far off?" Hassan asked, surprised.

Goliad shrugged. "Well, something like that anyway." He shouldered the rifle, put a round in the chamber, and fired at a flock of birds in the distance."

"Food arrived." Hassan reminded.

"Oh yes." Goliad replied with all the interest of a child at an opera. He shouldered the rifle and fired again. "Go ahead and eat, I will get to it soon."

It was only when coffee arrived that Goliad placed the gun on the floor at his side and started eating. By that time, Hassan had already finished half of a bowl, and the spicy meat had caused indigestion to set in, which meant that he shunned the coffee entirely.

"Tell me." Hassan started to say. He was feeling drowsy now that the sun was setting and he was full. "Did you advise Yohannes to choose me for that mission in the Congo so many years ago?"

Goliad shook his head and swallowed what he was chewing. "No. He asked and I said you were a good soldier, but he already knew who you were before he came to me. Your grandfather's name precedes you."

"I always wondered." Hassan said. "My career has always seemed strange to me."

"The careers of successful people are always strange." Goliad said, lifting the rifle and and shouldering it to fire at another bird. The shot caused Hassan's ears to ring this time. Goliad put down the rifle and continued. "Because success doesn't happen to most people. And besides, you are really good at what you do. I would be surprised if there is a strategist equal to you within the Spanish Empire. In fact, the only person in recent memory who was a better strategist than you was the Rouge General."

"I defeated him." Hassan defended.

"You tricked him." Goliad replied. "Cutting off the arms of children? That wasn't a strategy, that was a dirty trick."

Hassan was used to this admonishment. He had heard it one hundred times from the Princess Taytu. He did not, however, expect to hear it from Goliad. "How is a dirty trick not a strategy? It was an ugly thing, but so was that war, and I ended it with just a few arms lost. The alternative was more war, more rebellion."

"Maybe it is all in degrees of horror, yes. I can see that. Maybe we have to consider what sacrifices must be made for the common good. But maybe too we all need to draw a line somewhere, say there is things we will never do. For me, torturing children seems like a good place to draw the line."

Hassan had nothing to say. He tried to look at it through Goliad's eyes, but all he saw was the end result. Marcel Hondo-Demissie was dead, his rebellion was dead, an central Africa was no longer in anarchy.

"I've heard the Spanish use gas." Goliad said, biting off the word gas. He was done eating now, and he held his rifle in his lap waiting for another bird to fly by and present itself as a target. "That poisoned gas which was used on that city in America. If they use it in Harar, I have no way to counter it. They could wipe out our entire base of operations here, and the city with it. I wish to get the people out."

"The Chinese are offering to evacuate some of our people to China so they can wait out the war there."

"No." Goliad replied. "That does not sound good to me. These people need their land. I am going to evacuate the city myself, and find villages that will house their countrymen for a little while."

"That is a good idea." Hassan said. "But you do not have to tell me. What you do with your people is your choice."

Goliad sniffed. "I know, but I need to tell somebody, because I do not think it is a good idea. It is just the only idea I have."

Whitehall, London

It was two o’clock in the morning when Joyce Campbell had woken her husband with an urgent phone call from Samuel Hobbs. Fraser had stirred for a while before taking the phone from his wife, pressing it against his ear, and muttering a barely comprehensible greeting to Hobbs. If his Director of Communications was calling him at this time of night it meant something bad had happened. Fraser shuffled upright and wiped the sleep from his eyes as he readied himself for an account of some unsuccessful operation in Cape Town. Instead Hobbs informed the Prime Minister that a police constable had been shot dead on a Brixton council estate last night. Fraser felt his blood run cold as Hobbs confirmed the shooters had been coloured. A police constable murdered by coloureds on the day he’d announced the government’s repatriation plan. The Prime Minister sighed, instructed Hobbs to set a meeting with his Home Secretary as soon as possible, and climbed from his bed to begin his morning.

It took him the best part of an hour to wash, dress, and shake off the throbbing headache that he’d woken with. It was rare that Campbell woke without them. Most nights he managed four hours sleep, sometimes five if it was a slow day in the world, and last night he’d managed a paltry two hours. Undeterred Campbell buttoned up his double-breasted suit and slipped on his thick glasses before making his way downstairs to his Downing Street office. Hobbs and Moore were already waiting for him inside. Hobbs stood as the Prime Minister entered and Fraser gestured to him to take his seat. Moore remained seated in his armchair with a sickly-sweet smile on his face.

Moore was the closest thing Fraser Campbell had to a nemesis. He’d had been two years ahead of Fraser at Oxford and rumour had it that he and Joyce had enjoyed a “whirlwind romance” shortly before Joyce and Fraser had met. That nugget grated on Fraser more than Moore’s attempts to undermine him during cabinet meetings or his shameless attempts to curry favour with the King behind Campbell’s back. Joyce had assured him that it had been nothing but Fraser found it hard to suppress the resentment he felt towards Moore about it. Perhaps it was because in the Home Secretary’s deep blue eyes he sensed a quiet self-congratulation. Thomas Moore was tall, in excellent shape, with a full head of bouffant blonde hair smattered with greys that was more befitting of a thespian than it was politician. Even Campbell had to admit that Moore was handsome. It had come as a shock to many that King William had passed Moore over and appointed Fraser Prime Minister two years ago. At least Fraser had that over him.

Hobbs had pleaded with the Prime Minister to remove Moore on more than a dozen occasions but Fraser dared not move against him. Despite Moore’s manifold character flaws he was adored by the British public and commanded the loyalties of a sizeable contingent of the Prime Minister’s cabinet. As with Campbell’s other great enemy he would have to bide his time before he moved on them. Until then he would hug Moore so closely to him that the Home Secretary would have next to nothing to use to differentiate himself from the Prime Minister with.

After a short briefing from Hobbs as to the particulars of PC Oldfield’s shooting Moore looked towards the Prime Minister and spoke at him with his oaky, Shakespearian voiced. “We can’t afford to look weak.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Fraser said forcefully. “I want you on the phone with every Police Commissioner in the country the second you leave here. Forget about the paperwork, for the next week I want as many able-bodied police officers out there pounding the pavement. We need to show the British people that have we have the situation under control and that there will not be a repeat of last night. Times like these require a show of force.”

Moore nodded with a well-practised nonchalance. “Agreed.”

It was clear from Sam’s expression that he detested Moore. Fraser suspected his Director of Communications might have been the only man whose hatred of Moore outweighed his own. He'd taken to looking out of the window instead of expending effort trying to suppress his dislike of the Home Secretary.

“The media are going to want a statement.”

Campbell cleared his throat. “The murder of PC James Oldfield was act of senseless violence against a public servant that had dedicated his life to protecting the British people. We’re determined to bring his killers to justice and will use every resource at our disposal to see justice done. That’s the line.”

“And on the Voluntary Repatriation Bill?” Moore asked with a smile. “You know they're going to ask given the shooter was coloured.”

The Home Secretary’s smile was thick was meaning. Moore had been the biggest advocate of the Repatriation Bill when Fraser had brought it before cabinet and had made great effort to contact every news outlet to express his unreserved support for repatriation. You wouldn’t know it from that smile. The smile said that despite supporting the policy the Home Secretary would happily see it come acropper so that the Prime Minister might end up with egg on his face. PC James Oldfield was a pawn in Moore's game. One he would seek to use to devastating effect should Fraser row back on repatriation. Fortunately Campbell had no intention of doing that.

The Prime Minister stared at Moore through his thick-lensed glasses. “It goes ahead.”

The perversity of having to defend a policy he privately abhorred was not lost on Campbell. He reminded himself of the conversation he’d had with Joyce the previous night. They were doing this for something bigger than themselves and their pride. When Fraser had enough power he was going to build a liberal, secular British republic that worked like a democracy was meant to work. A Britain where kings no longer set policy for Prime Ministers in meetings behind closed doors and every man was a king in his own right. Once he’d built that Britain maybe he could bring the economic migrants back. He smiled at the thought as Hobbs turned back from the window towards him.

“On the record we deny, deny, deny any link between the announcement of the Voluntary Repatriation Bill and last night. Off the record we brief the newspapers that PC Oldfield's murder illustrates the growing threat the immigrant fifth column in our capital poses and that it vindicates the government's decision to kickstart a discussion about repatriation. How does that sound?”

Like Hobbs, it was somehow awful and brilliant at the same time. Campbell shot his Director of Communications a laudatory smile. “It sounds like you’re worth every penny of taxpayer’s money I spend on you.”

Hobbs flashed a toothy smile back. “Was that ever in doubt?”

Moore watched on in silence from behind his interlocked fingers. He looked unimpressed by the scene. The Home Secretary let out an exasperated sigh and pulled his fingers apart. His blue eyes met with Fraser’s and he stared at the Prime Minister as if Hobbs didn't exist.

“Have you spoken to the Palace? They’re going to want to be briefed about last night.”

Campbell shook his head. “The Palace will have to wait for the time being.”

Moore raised his eyebrows at the Prime Minister’s comment and rose from his chair to walk towards the exit. “They’re not going to like that.”

The Home Secretary turned to reach for the handle of the Prime Minister's office. Whilst Moore's back was turned Hobbs pointed towards him and mimicked fellatio to make his feelings about Moore felt. Fraser smiled and turned to find Moore looking him straight in the face. There was suspicion in his eyes as he loomed over the Prime Minister in the doorway. Fraser stood his ground, placed his hand on the small of the Home Secretary's back, and ushered him through it with a polite smile.

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?”


Brixton, London

Errol Clarke had woken up later than usual that morning. By the time he was out of bed Keenan and Simone had already left. Errol cleaned up and headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea to wake himself up properly but found the fridge barren. The old man noticed a post-it note on the front of the fridge door as he shut it. On it was the word “milk” written in Simone’s handwriting and a smiley face beside it. Errol smiled and plucked the post-it note from the fridge and placed it into the pocket of his trousers. He felt his stomach rumble and decided he’d venture into Brixton to pick up a few bits and pieces, milk chief amongst them. The old man took great care as he buttoned up the black waist-coat that sat over the pink and purple shirt he wore. When he reached the door to their flat he grabbed his walking stick, pulled on his thick black overcoat, and reached for the black fedora. He’d owned the hat since 1958 and never left the hat without it. He wasn’t about to break the habit of a lifetime.

The descent down the stairs of Moorlands Estate was a steep one but Errol always opted for stairs over a lift. It was important for a man of his age to keep mobile and to boot Errol had never been a fan of confined spaces. He took the bus into Brixton and looked around the market for a time. Brixton had been torn apart by the Troubles but Brixton Market was as vibrant as it had ever been. On that little stretch of road there were foods and spices to be had from all corners of the world. After a while Errol succumbed to the hunger and stopped at a local Caribbean restaurant for something to eat. A healthy serving of curry goat, a portion rice and peas, and some macaroni cheese left the old man stuffed. Errol was so full that he almost forgot the milk on his way back.

Two stops after he’d boarded his bus home it broke down. Upon disembarking Errol remembered he was only a thirty second walk away from an old pub that he'd frequented as a much younger man. He checked his wristwatch for the time and lugged his shopping bags inside it for a Guinness for old time’s sake. A broad smile appeared on the old man’s face as he spotted cricket on the television on the corner of the pub and he set himself down in the corner with his shopping bags. Errol had considered himself a prodigious cricketing talent back in his youth. In truth he had been average at best but the love of the sport had stayed with him. Clarke was so focused on the cricket he barely touched his Guinness.

Some time afterward the doors to the pub burst open. It was a small group of teenagers. They were white, which was peculiar for Brixton, no older than seventeen or eighteen, and they all wore identical denim jackets and dark black boots. Only the finest bristles remained on their shaven heads. They shouted, threw things around, and caused enough of a commotion that Errol could barely concentrate on the cricket. When he looked over his shoulder at them he noticed one, the tallest of the group, tap his two friends on the shoulder and gesture in Errol’s direction. Clarke muttered under his breath disapprovingly and tried to turn his attention back to the cricket. It was too late by then. They had found a new target.

They set about tearing up beer mats and rolling the scraps into little balls to launch at Errol. He ignored them to begin with and tried to focus on the cricket but even he grew impatient after a while. When one landed in his Guinness as he was about to drink from it Errol drew a line in the sand. They could barely hear him speaking to them as they roared with laughter at their achievement so Errol repeated himself with a smile.

“Is there a problem?”

The laughter stopped and the three youths crossed the pub and stood by the booth that Errol was sat in. The ringleader pushed Errol in the shoulder and the two watching on laughed with him.

“You’re the problem,” the boy said with a scowl. “You and your kind.”

Errol sighed. “I think I ought to be on my way.”

He leant down to pick up his shopping bags and attempted to squeeze past the three young men. They stood in his way and with the bags in his hands and his walking stick it was near impossible to pass them. Finally the ringleader shook his head and shoved Errol as hard as he could. “Sit down, boy.”

Errol fell back into the booth but managed to grab hold of the edge of it to break his fall. It took him longer than it once might have but the old man managed to regain his balance. Once he had he shook his head in the boy’s direction and spoke in a voice as clear and as direct as he could.

“I’m not your boy.”

Clarke answering back seemed to anger him and the boy swatted what remained of Errol’s pint of Guinness onto the ground. “You’re whatever I say you are, wog.”

The landlord of the pub was watching on in silence. He was white, in his fifties, and his cheeks were gaunt. Errol made eye contact with him in the hopes that he might say something but the landlord chose instead to avert his eyes. He looked down at the glass he was pretending to clean. There was guilt in his face but he seemed more relieved that the youths had redirected their ire at someone else than anything. Errol shook his head in disapproval at the man’s cowardice.

“Like I said,” Clarke said as he attempted to pass the boys again. “I think I ought to be on my way.”

A fist came flying towards him. It was quick, too quick, and it knocked him to the ground upon making contact with his eye socket.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Errol could feel the blood rushing from a cut on his eyebrow but not much else. One of the boy’s knelt beside him and rifled through his pocket. He pulled out Errol’s wallet, took the notes from it, and then discarded it on the ground next to the old man. Clarke saw a flash of yellow as Simone’s post-it note floated down onto the floor next to him. “Milk” it read. In his periphery he saw the ringleader pull the carton of milk Errol had bought from one of the shopping bags. He unscrewed it, pulled the plastic seal from the top, and drank from it greedily. Milk poured all down the boy’s front and he roared with laughter once he was satisfied. Then his eyes met Errol there on the ground.

Clarke had managed to pull himself up and though his ears were ringing he still was attempting to stand. The ringleader gestured to the two other boys to hold him and they placed their hands around Errol’s biceps and restrained him there on his knees. The ringleader swaggered over with the carton of milk in his hand and tiltled it precariously over Errol’s head. A single drop splashed against his forehead to begin with but within seconds the whole carton had been emptied onto him. He was soaked through with milk.

“We’ve had enough of your kind,” the ringleader shouted angrily as he ran his hand through Errol’s milk-soaked hair. “You come over here, take our jobs from us, and then act like you fucking own the place. What you need to do is fuck off back to Africa and take your twenty children with you. You hear me?”

An involuntary titter escaped from Errol’s lips and the young man’s spiteful face grew twisted with rage. “What are you fucking laughing at?”

He slapped Errol across the face and it sent the old man’s ears ringing even worse. Errol spotted his walking stick just out of his reach and one of the other boy’s bent down to pick it up with a smile. He twiddled it between his fingers. The other boy reached down and picked up Errol’s hat. It had fallen from his head when the ringleader had punched Errol in the eye. The boy looked ridiculous with it on, though no more ridiculous than he already did, but Clarke figured he probably wasn’t in a position to give out sartorial advice. No matter how badly these young men needed it. He tittered again at skinhead wearing a fedora manufactured in Montego Bay and once again the ringleader’s rage bubbled.

“Having a right laugh at that policeman your boys shot last night, I bet.”

There on the ground next to Errol was Simone’s post-it note. He tried to reach out towards it but the boy with his walking stick brought it crashing down against his hand. Clarke cried out in pain and drew his hand back towards him. Before he’d had a chance to cradle it he saw a black leather boot flying towards his face. It connected with a crunch and Errol Clarke slid to the ground again. Simone’s post-it note rested inches from his face but Clarke was barely conscious, barely breathing, as boot after boot began to rain down on him. With each that connected was a sickening crunch and the milk that had pulled beneath Errol turned blood red.

Finally the barrage of kicks ended and the three boys stared down at Errol Clarke’s lifeless, battered body with triumphant smiles. The ringleader stepped across Clarke’s body and lifted his overcoat from the booth. He pulled it over his thick shoulders, gestured to the other boys that they were leaving, and then shot a menacing smile at the landlord as they moved to make their exit.

“See you around.”


Islington, London

On the small television screen in the corner of the New Jersualem’s office was Prime Minister Fraser Campbell stood in front of a lectern. Beneath him on a ticker tape football scores whirred past. Sebastian Hedland glanced down at them with a smile as he noticed Plymouth Argyle had beaten Exeter by two goals. The Prime Minister had been speaking for fifteen minutes uninterrupted about the murder of PC James Oldfield, the “robust” and “thorough” response the Metropolitan Police had planned, and the need for calm on Britain’s streets. Prime Minister Campbell wasn’t exactly the most gifted orator and he’d put half of the New Jerusalem staff to sleep after ten minutes. Fred Lambert chewed on a pen at the desk next to Seb and gestured towards the television screen with it.

“What do you think?”

Seb smiled mischievously at his Editor and spun to face him. “I think I’m awfully glad I don’t live in Brixton.”

Lambert looked unimpressed and Hedland shrugged his shoulders. “We should have gone on the Repatriation Bill. There’s no way the two aren’t related. South London’s a dump and has been for decades but since the Troubles died down even they stop short of murdering policemen. This has to be about the Repatriation Bill.”

He’d pressed Lambert on the nuclear option yesterday and his Political Editor had turned him down. Lambert was an excellent Editor and Hedland understood that he owed his career to him but the man had grown cautious in his old age. He looked at the staff of the New Jerusalem like they were his children rather than his subordinates. Seb wondered sometime what it would take to get Lambert to go public on something and break the government’s censorship laws. If the introduction of a painfully illiberal “Voluntary” Repatriation Bill wasn’t enough then Hedland wasn’t sure what would be. Lambert was critical of the government’s conduct in private, the way it interfered in everyday life without care, and sought to micro-manage every aspect of public life. Yet not once had the old man’s words found their way into the New Jerusalem.

He was as scared of Hobbs as the rest of the Political Editors even though he liked to pretend otherwise. Hedland could smell Lambert’s fear as his face twisted at the suggestion Oldfield’s murder and the repatriations announcement were somehow linked. “We can’t prove that.”

Seb pointed to the images of Brixton flashing across the television screen. “I could go down there and see what I could find out.”

“You’re not going to get anything of worth,” Lambert said with a shake of his head. “The Met are going to have Brixton locked down and word has come on down from Downing Street they won’t tolerate any attempt to link the two. It’s not worth the time.”

There it was. When Lambert said “Downing Street” had sent word it almost always meant Hobbs. On a few very rare occasions it meant the Director of Communication’s second-in-command Dominic Hewitt. Seb had met Hewitt a few times and found him to be agreeable enough, if a little self-regarding, but he was certainly the lesser of two evils compared to Samuel Hobbs.

Hedland let out an exasperated sigh and rested his hands on the back of his head. “This is the biggest story in years, Fred. We have to run something.”

Lambert nodded. “That’s exactly why we’re not going to waste our time with it. If you think they’re not going to handwrite our editorial for this thing you have another thing coming.”

Fred used his feet to propel his office chair from his desk towards Seb’s and slapped a newspaper cutting down next to his protégé. It was a small story from the Liverpool Echo bearing a picture of some workers stood beside their machinery with proud smiles on their faces. One of Lambert’s chubby fingers tapped the picture of the men as he muttered to Hedland.

“I’m hearing rumblings out of Liverpool about something interesting happening up there. Talk of some workers in a sugar refinery up there forming a co-operative. We might even be able to get out ahead of Downing Street this time.”

“A co-operative,” Hedland said, his voice thick with surprise. “What next? Unions? I didn’t even realise co-operatives were still legal.”

Trade unions had been outlawed decades ago. They had stood with the anarchists after the murder of the British Royal Family during the Troubles. That had signed their death warrant. Once the Armed Forces managed to secure control over Britain and the fighting had stopped anything remotely linked to them was outlawed. The days of organised labour were long gone and the government cracked down hard on the occasional attempt at recreating them under a different name. It meant working conditions in factories and shop floors were dreadful but it was a price worth paying to safeguard Britain’s future. At least that’s what the government said.

“So do you want in? Or should I send you down to Brixton to get stonewalled by the Met all afternoon?”

Hedland thought about it for a while. The Home Secretary gave a short statement after the Prime Minister finished speaking and announced that tens of thousands of police officers would walk London’s streets tonight. As much as he wanted to cover Oldfield’s murder he couldn’t help but begrudgingly agree with Lambert that the story had gone as far as it could. Nothing more of interest was going to happen in Brixton today with such a strong police presence there.

“Liverpool it is then.”


Streatham, London

Keenan Gayle muttered an obscenity under his breath as he surveyed the traffic on the road ahead of him. Driving through Streatham at this time of day was a nightmare. Keenan’s tired old Vauxhall Viva was caught in both the school rush and people driving home from work. The only silver lining to all the traffic was that Gayle’s tired muscles seemed thankful for the rest. He’d been hard at work on a building site all through the morning and afternoon. In the passenger seat of Keenan’s Vauxhall was his hard hat and a few tools. In the back his daughter Simone sat and stared out of the window whilst flicking through a book she’d taken out of the school library. Keenan looked at in his rearview mirror and smiled. His daughter was his world. She was the reason he woke up early in the mornings and put his body through hell. He hoped one day she’d be a doctor or a lawyer so that they’d have to treat her with the respect they denied him. That was if the government hadn’t sent them home by then.

“Tell me what you learned about today.”

Simone looked up from her book and shrugged her shoulders. “The Romans.”

“The Romans, eh?” Keenan said with a curious smile. “Tell me about the Romans.”

His daughter paused for a few seconds and then muttered uncertainly at Keenan. “They built the… roads?”

He had no idea whether it was true or not. Keenan had barely gone to school as a child and once he’d finally been enrolled in one he was so far behind that he mostly tried to avoid being called on. It was why his nine year old daughter would often correct his spelling or have to read letters that arrived for him. Keenan was trying to fix that though, with Errol’s help, and he’d been saving up the money he made on building sites around London to pay for schooling. Then maybe he’d be able to take books out of the library himself and teach Simone about the Romans instead of the other way around.

For the time being he feigned an impressed face at his daughter. “What else?”

“I think… I think that’s it.”

“Well, roads are important,” Keenan said with an encouraging smile. “How would the cars know where to go without them? And how would I pick you up from school if there weren’t any roads? I’d have to drive through the woods, wouldn’t I?”

His daughter looked back at him with an unimpressed face. “That would be stupid. You’d get a puncture.”

After sitting in gridlock for another twenty minutes they finally managed to make a little progress and passed through into Brixton. There were policemen everywhere. Keenan figured it was about the police officer that had been shot dead on Angell Town estate the night before. It was all over the newspapers and on every radio station. He’d even heard some of the guys on the site this morning speculating that it had something to do with the repatriations thing the government had announced. Keenan wasn’t sure about all that. All he knew was that whoever had done it was really stupid and that they’d made every coloured person in Brixton and elsewhere a little less safe. The police had been quick to target coloureds before. Now they’d be out for blood.

Simone noticed some of the police officers and looked to Keenan with a frown. “Why are there so many police officers?”

Keenan should his head. “I don’t know.”

After they’d driven a way down the road Keenan spotted a road cordoned off by the police and several people crowded round it. He rolled down his window to take a look but couldn’t make out much. A man in the crowd made eye contact with Keenan and Keenan pointed towards the police cordon.

The man approached the Vauxhall and rested his arm on its roof whilst Keenan asked. “What’s going on?”

“A bunch of kids attacked some old man.”

Keenan’s eyes widened and he gestured towards Simone in the back seat as if to suggest the man use more tact. The man nodded and reached into the inside of the burgundy leather jacket he was wearing. From it he plucked a loose cigarette and placed it between his lips whilst Keenan and he watched the crowd gathered around the cordon.

“Is he going to be okay?”

The coloured man shrugged whilst he lit up. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

It was one thing after another in this bloody place. Brixton hadn’t been a utopia to begin with if Errol’s stories were to be believed but now it was even worse. There was still colour and life here but the events of the previous night had shown how dangerous Brixton could be after dark. People round here knew not to leave their homes at night. They knew it wasn’t safe. This was something else though. An old man attacked in the middle of the day? The day was sacred. The day was meant to be safe. Keenan sighed and looked at his daughter in his rear view mirror again. She was oblivious to it all. He hoped to keep her that way for as long as he could.

“We’d better get home,” Keenan said with a warm smile. “Uncle Errol is going to be wondering where we’ve gotten to.”


Brixton, London

Ray Newman’s face grew purpler by the second as he listened to Chief Superintendent Christopher Walsh speak. Walsh was leant against his desk explaining to Newman that he was to be placed on leave. It was apparently standard protocol but given that a police officer hadn’t been murdered in London since shortly after the Troubles he had no idea whether that was true. All he knew was that he’d spent the past ten years of his life patrolling London’s streets and he had no interest in doing anything but that. Walsh had been kind to Newman over the years. He’d stuck by Ray through several accusations of mispractise and had even turned a blind eye when Newman had totaled his car after he’d been on the booze a few years back. Now though Ray could tell that Walsh was speaking to him as Chief Superintendent rather than Chris. Newman wasn’t going to wriggle out of this one by paying for a few rounds.

Once Walsh had finished speaking Ray shook his head with an angry frown. “I need to be out there on the street taking the fight to the people that killed James.”

“You’re too close to it,” Walsh sighed with a sympathetic smile. “You know that.”

“That’s why it has to be me.”

Walsh let out a pained sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, arguing isn’t going to do you any good this time, Ray, word’s come down from upstairs that you’re to go on administrative leave and that’s what’s going to happen. If it were up to me I’d have you out there in the field but it’s out of my hands. There’s nothing I can do on this one.’”

Newman looked down at his calloused hands. “But what am I meant to do?”

“You’re married, aren’t you? Spend some time with the wife.”

Ray fiddled with the ring on his finger with an embarrassed smile. “Yvette and I separated last September.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chris muttered. “Just… find something to pass the time with away from all of this, some hobbies or something. You might not be able to see it now but this time is going to be good for you. Trust me.”

Newman sat in silence and stared into the distance. There was nothing Ray could do to change Walsh’s mind but outside of the police Ray had nothing left. Yvette had left him when his drinking had got out of hand, his children were away at university and even if they weren’t wouldn’t want anything to do with him, and all of his friends were here. Ray had no hobbies. The thought of spending his days alone in his lonely little flat scared him. Every time he shut his eyes he saw James bleeding out on the ground. He didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts but that was all he had left without his work.

He cleared his throat and stood up from his seat. Walsh extended a hand to him and Ray shook it. He did his best to hide his disappointment as he left Walsh’s office and made his way across the station. It was almost entirely empty now that the Prime Minister had demanded a strong police presence on the streets. The Home Secretary had leant on the Commissioner who had in turned leant on the bosses. Everyone was to be out on the streets today, tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after that. They’d be out there until people forgot about James Oldfield.

A hand on Ray’s shoulder made him jump and he turned to see a familiar face looking back. “I’m sorry about what happened to James.”

It was Paul Winters. Winters was a member of Ray’s darts team. He was a decade older than Newman, maybe more, and his hair had been completely white for as long as Ray had known him. He was a slim man, always excellent turned out, and today he wore a tailored navy suit with a light blue shirt and a navy tie. Winters could afford fancy suits. He was CID.

“Thanks,” Newman said as he gestured to the file beneath Paul’s arm. “What do they have you doing?”

“Some old fart was beaten to death this afternoon in Brixton. Poor sod. Two hours later and the whole bloody borough would have been swarming with police officers. Guess it wasn’t his day.”

Ray’s ears pricked up at the mention of Brixton. “Coloured?”

Winters nodded.

“Fuck him then," Ray placed one of his hairy hands around Paul’s arm and pulled him close to him. “We shouldn’t be wasting time chasing after their kind given it was one of them that did James in.”

“I hear you,” Winters smiled wryly as he tapped the file. “Administrative errors are wont to happen from time to time.”

Newman let go of Paul's arm and patted him on the back with a supportive smile. They stood and shot the shit for a few minutes more, mostly about Ray's impending administrative leave, but Winters had to leave to visit the scene of the crime in Brixton. He had to make it look right if he was going to fudge it. Ray walked out with him and took slightly more comfort from briefly extending the time he spent in Winters company as he knew his lonely flat awaited him once they parted. At least he'd have the knowledge that all across Britain the police would be giving hell to the people that had put James in the ground. That would get him through the first night at least.


Garrett's Green, Birmingham

Honor Clarke and Conrad Murray climbed the stairs of their apartment building hand in hand. Conrad was meant to be running an after school club for some of the boys this evening Neil offered to cover for him. Honor had given a speech at a local university in the wake of James Oldfield’s murder that had been well received by the students there. She stressed the importance of civil disobedience, the staggering number of coloured deaths in police custody, and the inequality of access to health insurance between whites and coloured. It all added up, Clarke argued, and the government’s Voluntary Repatriations Bill would only worsen matters. Protesters had waiting for Honor as she left, as they often did when she invited to speak somewhere, but the receptiveness of the students to Honor’s argument left her in high spirits nonetheless. The romantic dinner she shared with Conrad only served to raise her spirits even more. She was looking forward to getting him home and feeling his skin against hers. What with her work and Conrad’s teaching schedule it had been too long.

As the pair reached the door to their apartment Conrad stopped dead in his tracks. He pulled Honor behind him forcefully and pointed towards the door that was slightly ajar and broken at the hinges. There were noises coming from inside, human noises, whoever had broken into their home was still inside.

The teacher crept towards the door and looked towards Honor with a stern look. “Stay behind me.”

Honor scoffed at the comment. “Stay behind you? It’s 1980, Conrad, not 1908.”

She overtook her boyfriend and pushed the door open. It creaked the entire way as it swung over and revealed the inside of Conrad and Honor’s flat. Their belongings were strewn all over the floor. Honor’s books were scattered around with pages torn out, glasses had been pulled from the kitchen cupboard and smashed on the ground, and even the windows of the flat had been broken. None of this deterred Clarke as she stepped through the doorway without a second’s hesitation.

“We know you’re in there,” Honour shouted into the flat. “Come out now or we’re calling the police.”

Conrad pulled his keys from his pockets and pushed them through the gaps in his fingers. He’d never been in a fight before, he’d never needed to be in one, but if he was about to enter into one he was going to make sure he won it. The sound of footsteps crunching along broken glass made his heart pound a little faster and a chubby bald man in a lime green polo shirt appeared. It was one of their neighbours.

He smiled at them as if he realised he’d erred in not announcing his presence. “I’m afraid that’s not going to do you much good.”

“Jesus, Zach, you scared the life out of me,” Conrad said as he slipped his keys back into the pocket of his trousers. “What on Earth happened here?”

“It was the police,” Zach sighed as he walked towards Honor and Conrad. “There must have been at least half a dozen of them. Jane saw them kick your door in through the hole in the front door but she was too scared to come out.”

Jane was Zach’s wife. As far as the law was concerned Zachariah Cherney was a happily married man. Zach was a homosexual. On top of that he happened to be Jewish. Both were considered undesirable although only one of them was outlawed. The close relationship that Jews had with the labour movement in Britain and their supposed intellectual sympathy with social democracy had lead to their internment for several years after the Troubles had ended. They were released once the Armed Forces had secured Britain and restored order but being Jewish in Britain meant having to constantly affirm one’s loyalty to King and country. His “wife” Jane was an older woman, Jewish also, though cripplingly shy and entirely disinterested in sex with either men or women. Their marriage served both of them well.

They had been good neighbours to Conrad and Honor since they had moved to Birmingham. Conrad even noticed that Zach had begun making some attempt to clean the place up before they’d arrived. It wasn’t much, the place was still a mess, but the little gestures like that made Conrad certain there was something wrong with Britain if they thought men like Zach were somehow dangerous.

Murray pointed about the flat. “Where they looking for something?”

Zach shook his head. “No, she said the were just trashing the place, I think they wanted to send a message of some sort.”

Honor bent down and picked up a copy of “The Souls of Black Folks” by W. E. B Du Bois that’d had most of its pages torn out and flicked through it in silence. She shut her eyes and nodded. “Message received.”

“Honor?” Conrad called out to his girlfriend. “I know that face. What are you thinking?”

“I think it’s about time I sent them a message of my own.”

Holhol, Pan-African Empire

From up here, the Afar Desert looked like the surface of the Moon. A desolate and utterly barren stretch of of the world that stretched out for seemingly ever. Even from the air, not a single speck of green life was to be seen. All the way to the knobby sierras on the distant horizon, all that could be seen was a worthless realm of rocks, hills, and fissures. A realm that the Third Mechanized Infantry of the Ejercito Español had come to dominate; a realm that General Victor Ponferrada knew had been bought in the blood of too many of his men.

General Ponferrada watched idly as the shadow of the Barracuda undulated over the ridges and washes of the desert as his gunship flew across the dusty wasteland. The chopper's seemingly-tiny shadow shifting across the terrain below was the only reference for just how vast and empty this place was, aside from the craters that appeared every so often - another feature that imparted a lunar aspect to the Afar Desert. A cluster of these craters came into view from the Barracuda's cockpit, concentrated around an outcropping of volcanic rock. Ethiopian snipers had probably holed up in the crags of the outcropping, harrying the advance of Spanish infantry until a howitzer was moved in to demolish the hiding spot. Ponferrada had already seen these tactics employed all across the Afar front.

Little wonder then that the Spanish advance into the Ethiopian heartland had proved so ploddingly slow. Back in Spain, jingoistic articles about the invasion expected the fall of Addis Ababa within a week of landing in Africa. But the disaster at Djibouti - which not even the Spanish military leadership nor intelligence apparatus could have predicted - portended a more difficult campaign awaiting the Ejercito in Ethiopia. Immediately after fanning out into the Afar, the Spanish officer corps learned that they were in fact fighting against two enemies: the Ethiopian army and the heat of the desert, an alliance the soldiers under Ras Hassan had taken full advantage of. Constant resupply was required to keep the Spanish war machine turning in this environment, not because the men were exhausting their munitions, but their water and vehicle coolant.

Early in the Afar offensive, General Ponferrada had been issued a report concerning one platoon that had been cut off from the rest of the front. Either by design or accident, the Ethiopians had drawn this unit out into a low-lying area and surrounded it during a counteroffensive. By the time reinforcements drove the African forces away and reached the embattled platoon five days later, over half the platoon had been killed. Most of the casualties had been due to dehydration. While that had been happening, General Ponferrada had drafted a request to Madrid for lip balm, as his lips were drying out in the arid desert air.

Ponferrada produced a small tin with crema para labios resecos printed on its lid and dabbed a fingertip full of the the pungent-smelling salve onto his lips. He rolled his lips about, tingling from the freshly-applied salve and placed the tin back in the breast pocket of his epaulet-festooned overcoast - a thoroughly miserable thing to wear in nigh-equatorial Africa. The satiny black uniform soaked up the Sun's heat like a sponge and generated pools of sweat under his arms that were thankfully difficult to see on the account of the black fabric. He was a general in the the Spanish Army, appointed to lead the invasion of Ethiopia by Alfonso Sotelo himself. Ponferrada had every intent to look the part no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

Even over the rhythmic drone of the chopper blades, Ponferrada could hear the diesely roar of engines below. A caravan of steel passed by through the general's window: four halftracks carrying about a platoon's worth of infantry down the gravel path that passed for a road in this part of the world. A vanguard of armored vehicles Ponferrada didn't recognize led the convoy across the desert highway. The blue-white triband on their armor plating gave them away; this was an Argentine platoon, a part of the Brigada Interacional.

The International Brigade, cobbled together by the Argentine government as a demonstration of solidarity with the Spanish Republic's African campaign, was composed of volunteers from Argentina, Venezuela, Colombia, and the Spanish African provinces. Some had come to lend their aid to Sotelo's mission of ousting the socialist-aligned Pan-African Empire from the continent, and some - mostly those from Spanish Africa - sought a path to Spanish citizenship by assisting in their invasion. In any case, High Commander Velazquez and General Ponferrada were unsure of what to make of this unsolicited force of foreigners. Dubious of their combat efficacy, Ponferrada elected to use International Brigade forces as the rear guard of his invasion force. The foreigners, he estimated, were better suited to protecting the supply routes between the front and the beachhead at the ruins of Djibouti. Letting the rabble soak up the bullets of African militias and commandos meant more Spaniards on the frontlines where they belonged.

But perhaps he had underestimated them. Not long ago, Ponferrada had been informed that regulars from the Ejercito Argentino serving with the International Brigade had managed to capture a substantial number of enemy combatants near the town of Holhol. When the Argentines asked General Ponferrada what he wished to be done with them, the Spanish commander requested they be held at Holhol until he arrived. The Spanish commander had been waiting for this since Djibouti.

Not long after passing the International Brigade convoy, the gravel road came to bisect a desert town situated on the banks of a dry arroyo. Clusters of blackened artillery craters suggested that some fighting had taken place here. The twisted remnants of a trestle bridge laid in the arroyo channel - a disappointing sight to be sure; a functional railway inland from the coast would have been a boon for resupply efforts.

"This is the place," the Barracuda's pilot reported over the roar of the propellers. The gunship eased into a hover over a half-demolished railway station and lowered onto the ground in a maelstrom of dust. Before all of Ponferrada's lackies had even disembarked from the Barracuda, the general was approached by five men clad in battle dress that did correspond to that of the Spanish forces. Argentines, the Spanish commander assumed. He patted propeller dust off of his overcoat and made his way to address the Argentine soldiers.

The Argentine officer was a short, swarthy man with huge swaggering shoulders draped with bullet-laden bandoliers. The stub of a mostly-smoked cigar hung below a large blocky nose that reminded General Ponferrada of the Italians he had fought during his time fighting in their civil war. Like his compatriots, his combat uniform was patterned in dark green camouflage that might have matched the lush Pampas of Argentina, but stuck out against the yellow-brown of the Afar Desert like a sore thumb.

"I am glad you could come to visit us, General Ponferrada," the Argentine officer acknowledged, taking one final draw from his stump of a cigar before flicking it aside - his only demonstration of subordination to the Spanish commander. "Lieutenant Cagnolo, at your command." Under any other circumstances, Ponferrada would have been infuriated by such casual behavior from his orderlies. But right now, he was concerned with only one thing.

"I understand your men were able to capture some enemy combatants." The Argentine officer gave a wide, toothy grin.

"Right this way."

The Argentine squad led General Ponferrada and his staff over through the deserted village. On their way, Lieutenant Cagnolo noticed one of the general's men carrying a wooden crate with airholes poked in the side. Something within grunted every few steps.

"What's in that there box?" The Argentine asked. The Spanish commander ignored him and continued on his way.

General Ponferrada and his entourage came upon a bombed-out structure where two other squads of Argentine soldiers were milling about, none of whom stood at attention for the Spanish general. Against one of the remaining plaster facades of the ruined building, several dozen Africans were bound by the wrists and ankles with zip-ties.

"Ta-da!" Cagnolo announced, gesturing to the weary-eyed captives with a flourish of the hands. "Forty three enemy soldiers."

The General approached the captured fighters and inspected them. They were a people with coffee-colored skin. Their faces were long and gaunt - almost gnathic, their hair was as knappy and wild as it was long though they were all were devoid of any facial hair. Unlike the sambo-esque stereotype of Subsaharans that prevailed in Spain, these men had thin noses. These were Afar, not Ethiopians; and as far as Ponferrada was concerned, they were barely human - more like rats than anything.

"They're not Ethiopian regulars," Ponferrada concluded. That much was apparent just by their dress. From what Ponferrada had seen of enemy soldiers killed on the battlefield, the Ethiopian army did not seem able to properly outfit their soldiers. Even so, their commanders tried to establish a standard uniform for their fighters. These people had been captured in their traditional robes or whatever else was comfortable to wear in this detestable heat. "They look local."

"Same difference," Cagnolo contested. "Caught these ones trying to ambush fuel trucks coming in from the sea, they use the same guns the Ethiopians do. I figure the enemy gave the locals a bunch of gear before they buggered off, hoping guys like these would cause mischief behind your lines." Cagnola playfully slapped the temple of an Afar fighter who didn't look to be any older than sixteen. "Guess going up against real soldiers didn't figure into the equation."

"So then, General, what would you have us do with them?"

"I intend to make an example of them," said Ponferrada. "Open the crate."

One of the Spaniards took a crowbar to the grunting crate and pried off the airhole-riddled top. Inside, rooting about in a thin bed of straw and filth, was a young pink hog mottled with several black spots. The pig yelped as the Spaniard seized it in his arms, drawing perplexed stares from the Argentines along with worried Afar eyes.

One of the Spaniards said something to the the Afar captives in Amharic - thereby identifying himself as one of the handful of Amharic interpreters available to the Spanish Ejercito. The Spanish had few interpreters capable of speaking the exotic language of Ethiopia, most of those few were embedded throughout the Pan-African Empire as part of the Spanish spy network. And though the Spanish armed forces were mostly uninterested with what their enemy had to say, General Ponferrada had a handful of interpreters available to him for interrogation and similar purposes.

"I am Victor Ponferrada, know my name and despair, because I have come to bring justice to this backward place," he said to the Afar captives, giving his interpreter a brief moment to transmit his Castillian to Amharic. He heard his name spoken between strings of unintelligible Amharic syllables and continued.

"Let me speak plainly: for your transgressions against my soldiers, I have elected to destroy you and make an example of your transgressions. But you will find no solace in the beyond. The enormity of your sins will bar your entry from cherished Jannah." Ponferrada gestured for the Spaniard holding the wriggling pig in his arms to come forward.

"In your Koran, is it not written that those who have touched the flesh of the swine, those who have felt its blood have committed a heinous crime in the eyes of your Prophet? Those who have been stained by its uncleanliness should only expect damnation. For your crimes, you have all been so damned."

Ponferrada pointed to the ground, instructing his orderly to hold the pig down on the ground as he took a bayonet-fixed rifle from the arms of one of the Argentines. With a grimace of determination, the general placed his boot down against the hog's head and plunged the bayonet into the hog's back. The Afar began to struggle furiously against their binds as Ponferrada repeatedly plunged the bayonet into the squealing animal. With a deft stab through the neck, he finally silenced its squeals. A thick pool of bloody mud had formed around the quivering carcass, through which Ponferrada dredged the bayonet edge.

"Ensure each one gets his share of swine," the general instructed as he made his way to the wall. There the Afar were flailing and writhing against their bindings in a futile bid to escape. One had tried desperately to inch away from the impending slaughter, but he did not get remotely far enough before Ponferrada descended upon him. A deft jab of the bloodied bayonet into the captive's back brought his struggle to an end. A dozen of the Argentine soldiers sullied their own bayonets in the pig carcass before issuing the rest of the executions. The lamentations of the Afar captives were silenced one by one.

Ponferrada had watched as two of the Afar inched on their stomachs away from the massacre, but did nothing to stop them. Even as they ground their way to the corner of the building and ground their zip tie bindings furiously against the jagged edge of broken plaster, Ponferrada watched idly as the pair attempted their escape. The Argentine soldiers, too busy with the other captives, had seemingly missed them. When one of them escaped from their binds and sprinted away into the desert, the soldiers finally seemed to notice.

"Shit, they're getting away!"

"Just drop them already," Lieutenant Cagnolo commanded. Several Argentine soldiers leveled their blood-drenched rifles at the escaping Afar and made ready to fire upon them. Ponferrada calmly tipped the barrels of their rifles aside.

"Let them go," the General ordered, watching the two escapees flee into the desert for their very souls.

"General Ponferrada, if they escape-"

"They'll tell their countrymen what happened here? I'm counting on it. Every fighter in league with the Ethiopians will know what took place here. And they will understand that there will be no martyrs in this war."

Boston

The Boston Hall of Records sat right in the middle of Charlestown. The mid-afternoon sun in the sky cast a shadow on the building thanks to the tall obelisk that next door to the building. The large monument was erected and dedicated to those that fought and died in the Battle of Bunker Hill. Elliot Shaw watched traffic that drove past the Hall from his car. He looked for any signs that he'd been followed on his route here.

Jane Wilson was still at Helena's apartment with Helena herself watching overt the girl. He hated leaving the two of them alone, but after Helena's bombshell he had to confirm what she told him. He carried a single paper from Jane's cache of incriminating documents. When he was satisfied, Elliot stepped out into the street and went inside the Hall.

The antechamber just inside the front door had a receptionist at a desk. The young woman pointed him towards the land transactions section near the back of the main room. Through the antechamber he came out into a long, wide room that looked like a library. Instead of a wide selection of books, every item on the shelf was a large, thick leather bound book. It was big because the Hall was one of the oldest such buildings in America. It held copies of records dating back to the early 1600's when the city was founded. He was one of a dozen or so people seeking information that day. After watching to make sure he wasn't being watched by any of his fellow researchers, he made a beeline for the land transfer records.

The records were listed chronologically starting at 1630 and going all the way up to last week. Shaw found all the books for late 1979 through early July 1980. All told it was six of the thick books. He managed to get his arms around all of them and carry them to a nearby table. Shaw took out a notepad and pencil along with the folded up paper in his jacket. The geological study Elliot hadn't bothered to really read had been read thoroughly by Helena and explained to him in detail by her. He was a good cop, but he'd never been to college and didn't know much that wasn't covered outside of high school. By contrast, Helena was going to BU Med to be a doctor. The call girl shtick was putting her through med school.

Elliot went through the ledgers in search of records containing the land mentioned on the sheet. He found it slowly but surely. A corporation named Bunker Hill Land Management had been buying up land in and around the Boston marshes for pennies on the dollar. It made sense since the land was still swampy. What confirmed Helena's explanation was the size of the land purchases. The proposed land development outlined in the memos Jane stole had been bought by South Boston Construction, Big Jim Dwyer's construction firm. All but the land bought by Bunker Hill was owned by SBC. Bunker Hill had to be Dwyer and Liam Kane's company, used to undercut SBC and the other big investors buying into the marsh development deal. Elliot couldn't figure out exactly why Kane and Dwyer wanted to sabotage the development deal until Helena brought the survey back up.

In the process of examining the marshes for construction feasibility, the geological study had discovered something big just below the surface. A massive pocket of petroleum rested down under the marshes. That was why Kane and Dwyer wanted to fuck over their partners and buy up the land themselves. Why make a million dollars on construction deal when you could make a hundred million dollars selling it all to Dixon Oil? Big money was at stake here, bigger than Elliot could fathom. It was so much money that it was worth snuffing out a quasi-hooker and Mick PI.

He quickly put the books back up and headed outside. He found a pay phone down the block from the Hall and dialed Helena's number. There was no answer from her phone. He dialed again and waited five more minutes. Cursing, Elliot hung the phone up and ran towards his car. He felt his heart racing as he sped off and hurried towards Helena's place.

-----

Vancouver

Mark Echols hobbled through the crime scene. Crime scene tape had the street blocked off while uniformed police officers kept traffic diverted from the area. A small army of technicians covered the crime scene looking for clues. A medical examiner took photos of the body laid out in the backseat of the taxi cab.

In Echols' hands was the note found beside the body of Peter Leigh, leader of the territory's legislature. The note was inside a plastic bag to preserve any evidence or fingerprints on the surface. The lab had managed to lift a right index finger off the paper and were running it to the crime lab as quick as possible. While the note was spattered in Leigh's blood, it was perfectly legible:

Death to traitors. The price for collaboration is death. Soon we will reap the seeds of discontent that were sewn during the war. Long live the Northwest Coalition.
-- The Friends.

After months of minor crimes and bombings that resulted in no casualties, the Friends had taken their first life and it was a big one. The US government was already foaming at the mouth to get these people, now assassinating a government official would kick it into overdrive. Echols knew just how bad they wanted the Friends. They dispatched a special forces team to deal with the terrorist. Echols' fed partner Simpson tried to track down the man Echols knew as Crystal but was stonewalled by the Army.

Officially, a man known as Master Sergeant Silas Crystal served at Fort Bragg in North Carolina as a drill sergeant. He was on leave to his hometown back in Texas to deal with a sickly family member. No, the Army had no way of contacting him and would not worry about it until he was due to report back to duty whenever that was.

He thought back to the night he met Crystal. The waning days of the war, when the Eighth Army Group was pushing through NWC/Canadian territory towards Vancouver. The gassing of Seattle tore the fledgling country in two, Echols siding with the side against the gassing. He and a group of four MPs rendezvoused near Surrey with an A-Team of Army Rangers led by Crystal. The Rangers were gathering intelligence and laying down the groundwork for a full-on invasion of Vancouver. The mission went sideways and Echols lost his kneecap after a grenade exploded beside him. He would have lost more than that if not for the gruff Ranger pushing him out the way just in time. Echols passed out and woke up in a daze the next day, in a US infirmary with the news that the invasion was on. He never saw Crystal or his group of soldiers again...

Until the other day when he saw Crystal fleeing from a place where a weapons dealer who worked for the Friends was supposed to be but wasn't. Echols eyed the letter again, looking at the taxi and then back at the letter. Crystal, the terrorists, the missing Reg Boland, even the dead Army sergeant Brian Shea. It was all connected. Echols could feel the threads of inference tieing them all together into one case, one giant spiderweb he was tangled in.

"Inspector," one of the uniformed cops said as he came under the crime tape. "The uniformed canvas turned up something. Apparently, Leigh left a nearby hotel with a redhead on his arm. Eyewitnesses say she was a total knockout. Hooker?"

"Could explain why she's not here," said Echols. "Afraid of getting in trouble. But what about the taxi driver? Where did he go?"

One word played in Echols' brain. Bait. Leigh had a reputation as a womanizer and a boozer. A honeytrap at the right time and place would leave him wide open. A quick search of stolen cars would reveal the cab had been stolen within the last few days. He played it through his mind. Get Leigh drunk and promise him sex, get him in a cab and ambush him.

"Inspector," a crime tech called from the car. "We got a print on the steering wheel. Doesn't match the others..."

"Rush it back to headquarters," he ordered. "Priority analyst, along with that other print we recovered. It's to be run it through all our criminal, civlian, and military records."

"Now?"

"Now, goddammit," Echols snapped.

For the first time he was aware that the investigation was becoming a race. Whatever Crystal was doing in Vancouver, he was not bound by the same rules and regulations as Echols. The Rangers could be several steps ahead of him and preparing to close in on whoever these people were. He had to beat them and stop the Friends before whatever they were planning came next.

-----

The thing on Arthur Stewart's bench didn't look like much. Wires were strewn across the surface, wires that soldered to a circuit board. To Arthur's right was the small crate with the biohazard sign on it. He'd opened the crate just one to look inside. The dull gray canister betrayed the deadliness of the contents inside. The new device he created for the nerve gas would work via radio controls. The circuit board and wires would activate the pinhole openings inside the canister and let the VX seep out into the open air.

Arthur sighed and put down his soldering iron. He kept seeing Peter Leigh's dead body every time he closed his eyes. His blood was up when he committed the deed, and now a few days removed he felt a sense of numbness. He'd taken a life that night. Peter Leigh was a horrible person and a traitor, but who was Arthur to decide his death? Who were Alex or the rest of the Friends for that matter? Did Leigh truly deserve to die?

"Hey, guy."

Arthur looked up at the basement stairs. Chris was coming down into Arthur's work area with two cans of beer in his hands. He tossed on Arthur's way and popped his own top, pulling up a stool to sit beside the work bench. Arthur popped his own can and took a sip of the beer.

"Alex wanted me to come down here and talk to you. He says you've been acting in a funk lately. I think I know why."

"Enlighten me."

"What you did the other night. You did something that you can't go back from."

Arthur nodded and took another sip of his beer. Chris' eyes wandered towards his work bench. He took a few big gulps of beer and nodded towards the wires and circuits.

"What we do next is going to be what happened with Leigh times a thousand. It's only natural for you have doubts. But I need to know you're going to be able to see it through."

"It's just... the people. This is going to kill so many people and I'm not sure if I can handle that many innocent people."

Chris finished off his beer and crushed the man with his bare hands, tossing it behind his back and onto the concrete floor. "I don't talk about this much, but I served in the war. I was a private in the NWC Army and stayed loyal right until the end. I saw plenty of innocent people die in the crossfire. After Seattle, the US Army didn't give a shit about innocent people."

"They used this on Seattle and they took our country. If we do this now, what will they take?"

"What's left to take?" Chris asked, taking Arthur's mostly full beer and drinking it himself. "There's no land to conquer or no armies to surrender. There's nothing but ideas now. And they can kill us, they can kill half of Vancouver, but they can't kill ideas. This is a war, Artie, a war that we didn't start and we didn't ask for but we got anyway. And if we want to win this war we gotta do whatever it takes, this is part of that."

Chris stared intently at Arthur with unblinking angry eyes. He kept staring as he finished the second beer and crushed the can as easily as he crushed the last one.

"We've gone too far to go back now, Artie. You've come too far. Either you're with us or you're against us. Understand?"

Arthur understood Chris' visit down here now. Joanna was the carrot and Chris was the stick. They'd been using the carrot so long and it hadn't proved a good enough incentive. Now, Chris with his big frame and hard stare was laying it out in no uncertain terms.

"I understand," Arthur whispered. "Perfectly."

"Good."

Chris' large hand slapped Arthur on the shoulder. His hostile look was gone, replaced by a wide grin and a playful laugh.

"Good to hear it. I need to go sleep it off, so don't let me keep you from getting back to work."

Chris went back up the stairs, pausing just once to look back at him before disappearing back into the house. Arthur turned back to his unfinished device and stared down at it. For the first time since joining the Friends, he was having doubts. The way in which Chris went from friendly to angry and back again unnerved him. It made him wonder just what was real with these people? Was Alex's friendly nature a front? What about Joanna's love? If she was the carrot, was she acting as one on her own accord or under orders?

Arthur wiped a small bead of sweat dripping from his hairline and picked up his soldering iron. Chris was right about one thing, he was in too deep to pull out now. If he wanted to live, he had to complete the delivery system for the VX. The Friends promised upheaval and death to traitors, and they were forcing Arthur to uphold that promise.

-----

Natchez, Mississippi

"Denied."

James Calhoun furrowed his brow at Alex Miller. The banker shrugged at him and shuffled James' loan application into the trash can beside his desk. They were in Miller's corner office on the second floor of the Natchez Savings & Loans. James struggled to find the words while Miller went about straightening other things on his desk and not meeting James' eye.

"Why, Mr. Miller?" He finally managed to ask. "For twenty years you haven't had a problem with approving the loan."

"That was then and this is now."

James leaned forward and put his arms on the desk. "You know I need that money. We still got a couple of months before the harvest can come in and that money is gonna see me and my family through. I always pay it back with interest, sir. Have been for twenty years now."

Miller sniffed and shook his head impassively. "If you really cared about that farm, Mr. Calhoun--" Not James like had been for years and years-- "You'd be working it and not running around the country demonstrating, getting people all riled up."

James felt his stomach go cold, as cold as the stare Miller was giving him at that moment. So that was it then. He knew something like this would be coming, but he expected it from the rednecks and peckerwoods. Alex Miller was well-educated and was very friendly to the negro community in Adams County. His bank helped many black families down on their luck with low-interest loans they were patient on calling on.

"So that's it, Mr. Miller?" James asked. "I'm a trouble maker? I don't know my place."

"Uppity. That's the word they've been using around town, Mr. Calhoun."

James stood and looked down at the man he considered something resembling a friend for so long. Now he saw him for what he was: Just another racist white man who saw anything like equality as a threat to white dominance of the South.

"'Know your place'," James said softly. "That's the motto of the White South when it comes to us. When you all were in danger of losing your slaves and property, you sure as hell didn't know your place. You resisted and rebelled and said it was your god given right to protest and disagree. So where is my god given right to protest, Mr. Miller? All men are created equal, isn't that what this country is founded upon? But my 'place' is subservient to white people, no rights and no chance to vote to change that fact."

"Leave," Miller said quickly. "Right now before I call the sheriff's department and they finish where they left off with your jaw."

James stalked out the office and the bank in a huff. He came out onto the sidewalk in downtown Natchez. Not a lot of traffic on the mid-afternoon street, but the people that were there were staring at him. Angry, hostile, white eyes focused on him. Every other business on the street except the bank had their 'Whites Only, Colored Entrance in Rear' signs displayed prominently by the front door. James put his hands in his pockets to hide his balled-up fist and walked down the street towards his truck. The sound of an idling engine made him stop and turn around. A dirty white pick-up truck slowly cruised down the street behind him. Two mean looking white boys sat in the cab, eyeballing James. The front license plate of the truck had stars and bars Confederate Flag mounted on it.

He stared straight ahead and met the boys' stares head on. He didn't show anger or fear, just boredom as they passed by. The driver of the truck rolled down the window and spat, a glob of brown tobacco juice landing right in front of James' boots. Still he held his ground and watched the truck go on past. One of them yelled 'jigaboo' in a thick Mississippi drawl as the truck sped off down the street. His own pick-up truck had been vandalized while he was in the back. The front window was cracked near the middle and long tendrils of fractured glass spread across the windshield. Someone had scratched the words NIGER NO YOU'RE PLACE down the driver's side. The fucking crackers couldn't even spell the word right.

These people with their hateful hearts and their ignorance. These people who got liquored up and beat their wives and kids and raped and murdered and lynched black people by the dozens these... fucking animals. All his life he'd been taught that they were superior to him in every other way, they were smarter and knew better and were more moral and could do things he could never do. He was taught to never look a white woman in the eye and never under any circumstances say anything but "suh" to a white man, didn't matter if he was eight or eighty. He and every other black person across the South had been taught that they were not equals not overtly, but whenever the sheriff of Adams County dealt with a negro killing he never serious investigated it, the registrars at the Adams County voter's office used every trick in the book to deny them the right to vote.

And now that James was trying to make a stand all that covert racism was swept away in place of out and out intimidation and threats of violence. They threatened his livelihood, his family's safety, and even his own life. James turned away from the truck and looked back towards downtown. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to do something. Anything. But... he couldn't. Crying would show them that they were winning, anger would give them an excuse to arrest him or kill him outright. He could take their provocation, he knew he could. The movement was growing day by day, both blacks and whites were coming to their side. He could not act rash or do anything that might jeopardize the movement here in Mississippi.

These white people were on the wrong side of history just as they had been over a hundred and fifty years ago. It took a war to prove them wrong, and if it took a war to prove them wrong again so be it. There were more than a few white eyes still watching James as he got into his truck and headed back home to his farm. He knew they thought they had won some victory today and taught him a lesson. They were partially right. He'd learned a lesson about how far they would go to keep James and his people down, but the victory was his because he knew how to take the fight right back to them.


-----

Chicago

Nate Parker slipped the headphones off his ears and sighed. The conversation in the headphones kept going but he stopped listening. He took out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He smoked in silence while the two voices kept talking. He knew the two men talking and he knew what they were saying. It was the same thing they always talked about.

Nate hated his job. It wouldn't be so bad if he did something worth a damn, but his current assignment was a horrible one. The entire eighteenth floor of the Murray Building in downtown Chicago served as the midwestern headquarters for the Federal Crime Bureau. There were other smaller offices in adjacent states, but the chain of command ran from Washington to Chicago down to those offices. The eighteenth floor buzzed with investigations into kidnapping, bank robbery, racketeering, and domestic terrorism. All those things were part of the FCB's mandate.

And what was Nate doing? Sitting in a moldy backroom transcribing a conversation from a wiretap. Ever since the country's political realignment away from socialism, the FCB made investigation into radical and subversive ideas a top priority. That was why they were working hard to crack down on the violence going on in Vancouver. It was also why the FCB had a network of sub rosa wiretaps installed across the country. It was also why they were illegally surveilling the burgeoning civil rights movement happening in the south.

Sidney Siegel and Anthony Rosenbaum were members of the Chicago Communist Party, Siegel serving as president and Rosenbaum as secretary. As of January 1 1980, the Party in Chicago had a whopping fifteen registered members. The two men spoke on the phone every few days about the direction of the party. It always ended with them getting drunk and maudlin and decrying the state of politics in America today. The nation's pivot towards socialism was part of the Marxist theory. Pure communism was to follow after the socialist turn... but it never came. Their revolution had been denied and the forces of reaction and capitalism had taken the country back.

Nate hated listening to their talks. They were sob sisters if the word ever existed, but they were harmless. They weren't plotting insurrection or mass violence. They got drunk and cried to each other. Nate wasn't sure what disgusted him more, their pathetic weeping or the fact the Bureau considered this a priority. Guys like Bobby Colosimo filled the midwest with drugs and destroyed lives in the name of profit, but to the FCB guys like Siegel and Rosenbaum were the real terrorists. He'd give anything to go after guys like Bobby C., either the mob or go out west and work on finding those radicals in Vancouver. Real bad guys and not imaginary ones the Bureau dreamed up.

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the ashtray on his desk. He knew why he was in the backroom and not out in the field. As the country purged any socialist influences, they also purged socialist leanings. Nate was what they called a bleeding heart liberal and in the new order of the country, he didn't fit. Plenty of agents with questionable views had been forced to resign or sent to shit locations and assignments like Nate's. As bad as things were, he was at least in Chicago. Something might happen that would get him out of the backroom. The Bureau had a memory, but it wasn't a long one. They were chewing, but they'd spit him back out eventually.

Nate picked the headphones back up and slipped them on. Rosenbaum was in the middle of a drunken rant about the contradictions and hypocrisies of the country's sacred founding fathers and how these bigoted, wealthy bourgeoises were seen as beacons of liberty. He finished his work transcribing the conversation and writing up an accompanying report. He submitted the papers to his supervisor's inbox and headed for the elevator. Most of the eighteenth floor was busy was some activity or another, reminding Nate just how much he was missing out on.

He slipped into a bar two blocks away from the Murray Building and got a beer. He and his wife divorced three years ago, their only daughter away at Northwestern studying pre-law. She was following in Nate's footsteps by getting a law degree. There was nobody for him to go home to, nothing to do but get drunk and sleep it off before he had to show up to work the next day.

Part of the reason his marriage collapsed was because of the job. Edith wanted Nate to leave the FCB and practice law. She knew about his desire to help people and correct wrongs, something he could never really do as a federal agent. Nate still refused to leave the job and Mara lost her patience with him. He knew she was right. Nate stood at the bar with his beer and said a silent prayer for the two communists and their hopeless quest. He was a practicing catholic, something else that didn't fit in with the country's new day, and he believed firmly in the church's dogma. His current situation was purgatory, a temporary way station until whatever came next. There was a good chance it would be hell, but he still held out hope it'd be paradise.

Mitcham, London

The alarm clock beside Ray Newman’s bed sounded and shook Newman from his sleep. It was five-thirty in the morning. His eyes opened and he wiped at them with one of his hands before sitting upright. Newman’s bed was a mattress on the middle of the floor of his small, empty flat. He’d been meaning to buy a bedframe for a while but there was still a part of him that hoped Yvette might take him back. The rest of Newman knew that wasn’t going to happen. She’d moved on. He on the other hand had thrown himself into his work more than ever before. He’d never bothered to decorate the place because he only came back here to sleep. When he wasn’t sleeping he was out on those streets, at the station, or in a pub somewhere drowning his sorrows. Every two weeks his dart met and Ray would pretend to have a life. He’d tell stories about wild nights out with friends where he’d ended up sleeping with a girl half his age. None of them were true. The truth of it was that outside of his work Ray had nothing. Sat there on his mattress in a stained vest and a pair of too tight briefs that was clearer than ever before.

He wanted to go back to sleep but his body was used to waking up this early to prepare for work. He could drink until he could barely stand but every morning without fail Ray Newman would be up before six. The alarm was a precaution. Finally Newman’s stomach rumbled loudly and he pushed himself to his feet and made his way across his flat to the fridge. It was empty but for a few beers and a half-eaten pack of ham that he’d opened a week before. Newman lifted the beers out of the fridge, balancing the ham on top of it, and carried it back over to his mattress. He popped open a can and took a hearty mouthful of beer in his mouth. He sighed with contentment upon swallowing it and pulled a piece of ham free from the packet. He sniffed it once, curled up his nose slightly, and then scarfed it down anyway with a shrug of his shoulders.

There beside him was a remote control to a television in the corner of his room. It was old, Newman had picked it up at a charity shop around the corner, but it seemed to work well enough as long as you didn’t mind black and white television. The television sat atop a pair of stepladders that Newman had brought with him from the old house. He used the remote to turn the television on and smiled warmly as he saw the scenes on the news from Liverpool, Manchester, Cornwall, Belfast, Edinburgh, and even Sheffield of hundreds of police officers lining the streets. This is what Britain needed. Not half-hearted “Voluntary” Repatriation Bills but a real show of force. Newman chuckled as he saw some coloured getting cracked over the head with a baton by a police officer in Bradford.

Then something caught his attention. Footsteps to begin with. The walls in this crappy building were so thin you could hear it whenever someone moved in the corridors outside. The footsteps were slight, like someone trying not to be heard, but Newman heard them all the same. A shadow appeared through the slit underneath the door to Newman’s flat and Ray reached for the knife he kept beside his mattress. Slowly a piece of paper slid beneath Newman’s door and the shadow disappeared.

Newman held the knife by his side as he waddled across his flat in his underwear towards the piece of paper that had been delivered. On the front of it was a Union Flag with the letters “NF” in the centre of it within a white circle. National Front it read at the top and beneath were the details of a public meeting that evening. The tagline to the public meeting was “Britain for the British” and someone by the name of Edgar Francis. Newman had never heard of the man or the National Front. He folded the leaflet and placed it atop the television with a sigh before returning to the mattress. He placed the knife down, turned up the television, and reached for another slice of out of date ham with a smirk.

It wasn’t like he had anything better to do that evening.


Whitehall, London

It was eight o’clock and already Downing Street was abuzz with noise. The Prime Minister and his wife had left for Dorset first thing this morning and several other cabinet ministers were out at events of their own. Samuel Hobbs and Dominic Hewitt had been left to man the ship until Campbell returned. Hobbs took to the responsibility far more naturally than Hewitt and seemed in his element amongst the ever-increasing wall of noise. Phones rang endlessly and Downing Street staffers bustled around in a tizzy but Hobbs was an ocean of calm. At least until more bad news from South Africa had come through on the wire. The Geordie had spent the past twenty minutes berating the Secretary State of Defence for refusing to return to London in light of the news. The Defence Minister was one of Thomas Moore’s men and was as committed to passively undermining Fraser Campbell’s authority at every turn. It wasn’t until Hobbs threatened to reveal the minister's second family to his wife that he finally agreed.

Hobbs slammed the phone down and Dominic Hewitt looked at him with a bemused smile. “I’m going for a cigarette.”

The well-groomed young Press Officer sauntered out of the room and left Hobbs on his own. Hobbs was still breathing heavily as he eyed the phone he'd slammed down. It had been a busy week for the government and Hobbs had been worked to the bone. Worse of all, he’d had to put up with Thomas Moore’s smug face everywhere he looked ever since Oldfield’s murder had been announced. The Home Secretary never wasted a crisis, no matter how pressing, and he’d certainly made the most of this one. Hobbs would have admired it if Moore wasn’t always such a self-satisfied twat.

Across the room on Dominic Hewitt’s desk a phone rang. Hobbs sighed and lifted the receiver of the phone to his face. “What? What the fuck do you want?”

On the other end was a grave voice that Hobbs didn’t recognise. He could tell from the tone of the voice that it belonged to a police officer. Long before Hobbs was Fraser Campbell’s Director of Communications he’d been a working-class boy from Newcastle. He knew how to spot a police officer from a mile away and he knew what they sounded like. The man asked to be put through to the Prime Minister and Hobbs shook his head.

“No, the PM's in Bournemouth at the moment,” Hobbs said as he stared out at Hewitt smoking in the garden. “Who am I speaking to?”

It was the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service. Hobbs listened in silence as the Commissioner described a vicious attack on an old coloured man in Brixton the morning after PC James Oldfield had been killed. His face soured as he learned the murder had taken place hours after the Prime Minister had gone on live television and called for peace on Britain’s streets. The government’s week had gone from bad to worse. In conjunction with South Africa and Oldfield’s murder this was the kind of thing that could bring governments down. He spotted Hewitt in the garden chatting with a pretty Downing Street staffer and gritted his teeth.

“You have to bury this in a whole so deep no one on Earth will ever find it. Do you hear me? No one can know about it. If you don’t make this thing go away we could have race riots on our hands. You do whatever you need to do to make this thing go away at least until things have cooled down. This is non-fucking-negotiable. The Prime Minister needs this swept under the largest, heaviest rug that the Metropolitan Police Service has at its disposal.”

He would be damned if the entire government was going to collapse on his watch. Hobbs had come too far and worked too hard for that. His father and his father’s father had been welders. Samuel Hobbs was the first member of his family to ever attend university and now he had the ear of one of the most powerful men in Britain. His family had lived through the Troubles, they’d it when so many in Newcastle had been devoured by it, and that journey wasn’t about to come to an end because of one old man in Brixton.

He caught the end of a question leave the Commissioner’s mouth and as if by instinct Hobbs blurted out. “Yes, I am speaking on behalf of the Prime Minister on this.”

The second the words had left his mouth his face had twisted with regret. Hobbs placed one of his pale hands against his mouth as he felt a cold sweat coming on. To the public Hobbs and the Prime Minister seemed as one but not even he had the authority to speak for Fraser Campbell. He wanted to take the words back but realised he was past the point of no return. His hand shook violently as he reached for the edge of the table in front of him to calm his shakes. On the other side of the phone the Commissioner asked who he was speaking to.

Hewitt waved up at Hobbs from the Downing Street garden and Hobbs found himself mouthing the young Press Officer's name before he knew what was happening.

“Dominic Hewitt.”

The Commissioner assured Hobbs that the brakes could be hit on the murder investigation and intimated that the Met would want something in return. Hobbs had done this song and dance a million times before. He assured the Commissioner that the Prime Minister would remember the favour the Metropolitan Police had done him come the next round of spending and the Commissioner seemed pleased enough at that. In the garden Hewitt flicked his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his foot.

“Oh, and is there any chance we could keep this conversation between the two of us? You know, for security purposes.”

Hobbs could hear the bemusement in the Commissioner’s voice at the request but he agreed. Hobbs said his goodbyes and pressed the phone down. He stood with his hand still resting over the phone and his eyes shut guiltily when he heard Hewitt enter the room again.

Hewitt smiled and pointed towards the phone. “Who was that?”

“Nothing,” Hobbs muttered solemnly as a half-hearted smile appeared on his face. “Fat Pat from the Treasury offering me another candlelight dinner followed by a soapy tit wank.”

The young Press Officer laughed and Hobbs felt a second wave of guilt hit him. Hewitt was many things but Hobbs would never wish misfortune on the young man. Yet moments before he’d thrown Hewitt’s entire career up in the air by using his name instead of his own. Hobbs tried to swallow to push the knot from his throat but it remained there. He smiled at Hewitt then reached for his own phone and dialled the number of Charlie Whitebread from the Guardian with shaking fingers. He needed to shout at someone.

Shouting at someone would make this all seem okay.


Brixton, London

It was six hours after Keenan had arrived home last night that he'd found out about what had happened to Errol. Given that Errol wasn’t a blood relation of his he’d not been contacted by either the hospital or the police. He had to hear about it from the street. The man that had raised Keenan Gayle as his own was dead and Keenan was to last to find out about it. Apparently Errol had been attacked at a pub barely fifteen minutes from here. It turned Keenan’s stomach to imagine his surrogate father bleeding out on the floor of a pub alone. Even more so when he realised he’d driven past it not long after it happened. Were it not for Simone he’d be minded to do something about it. He’d spent all night fantasizing about tracking the people responsible down and murdering them until it dawned on him that Simone would be left on her own if he went through with it. That thought brought an abrupt end to his fantasies.

He let Simone sleep in that morning and called ahead to her school to tell them she wouldn’t be in. Keenan had no idea how to break the news to Simone. She was innocent and quick to cry at the best of times. Usually her “Uncle” Errol was there to make her laugh. This time Keenan would be on his own once the tears started. Uncle Errol was gone. There’d be no one there to stop Simone crying or to help Keenan with his reading. Keenan and Simone were on their own.

He’d made sure to cook his daughter’s favourite breakfast. Bacon, scrambled eggs, tinned spaghetti, mushrooms, and hash browns. It wasn’t exactly the healthiest meal for a nine year old girl to eat but Simone had acquired a taste for it after trying her father's breakfast one morning. She seemed confused upon waking up four hours later than usual but whatever curiosity it aroused disappeared quickly upon noticing her favourite breakfast on the table. Once she was done Keenan did the washing up and tried desperately to think of some way to tell his daughter about what had happened. After about ten minutes of unproductive thought he announced they’d be going to the cinema. At the very least the cinema would buy him more time to think.

They took Keenan’s old Vauxhall Viva down to the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton. They had passed the pub where Errol had been murdered on the way there and it had taken everything Keenan had not to break down. He’d gripped at his steering wheel so tightly that at one point his calloused hands cramped up whilst he was driving. He’d even had to pull over and take a moment. Now the father and daughter stood in the lobby of the Ritzy in front of several posters for films that were showing that afternoon. One in particular caught Simone’s interest. It was awash with reds, yellows, and blacks and there was a blonde-haired man in a tight red vest holding a golden sword.

“Flash Gordon,” Keenan said as he pointed to the poster on the cinema wall. “What does it mean?”

Simone rolled her eyes at the comment. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s his name, Dad.”

“I see,” Keenan said as he attempted to balance the large box of popcorn in his hands. “This is the one you want to see? Are you sure?”

Simone had insisted that they buy popcorn. Before they’d even chosen what film they were watching she had rushed towards the popcorn with beaming eyes. It brought a smile to his face to see his daughter so full of joy. She oohed and ahhed her way through Flash Gordon whilst munching on it. Even amidst all the bright colours and the flashy special effects Keenan could find no respite. His thoughts were still with Errol. Keenan thought about Errol’s daughter Honor and wondered whether the news had reached her yet. He had no idea where she was, neither had Errol, but he hoped she found out from a friend rather than reading it in a newspaper or hearing about it on the television.

As they left the cinema he’d knelt in front of Simone and prepared to break the news to her but the words didn’t come. Instead he'd cleaned a crumb of popcorn from her face and asked her what she wanted for tea. Each time he tried to tell her and failed it felt like a betrayal. It was sat in Wimpy whilst they ate that Keenan next convinced himself he was going to say something.

“You know, when I was little we still couldn’t get movies like that over here. We’d have to watch old black and white films about the Great War instead. Can you imagine that? Flash Gordon in black and white? That would have really been something.”

His daughter looked despondent as she chewed on her food. On her plate was Wimpy’s world-famous “Bender in a Bun” and a portion of chips. All the joy that Simone had displayed earlier seemed to have been sapped from her as pushed her chips around her plates with her fork.

Keenan frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Uncle Errol, Dad?” Simone said as she looked up at Keenan. “Did something bad happen to him?”

The words knocked him for six. Keenan looked down at his own food and pushed it around a little as he tried to formulate a response. It was in moments like these that Keenan remembered how young he was. He’d been sixteen when Simone was born and there were times when he still felt sixteen. Errol would have known what to say in this moment, he would have told Keenan was to say, but now he'd have to think for himself.

“Uncle Errol died yesterday afternoon. He was attacked on the way back from Brixton. Some bad people hurt him. They hurt him bad. The nurses and doctors couldn’t make him better again. So he died.”

Simone nodded dispassionately and then started to eat her food again. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Keenan’s eyes widened with shock. “That’s it? You don’t want to talk about it?”

His nine year old daughter opened her mouth wide, took a large bite out of her Bender in a Bun, and then set it back down on the plate. She covered her mouth with one of her small hands so as not to display her mouthful of food as she spoke. “It’s fine, Dad, I understand. Uncle Errol was old. He died. That’s what old people do.”

Keenan shook his head angrily as he played out how the attack had happened in his mind. “He didn’t die, Simone, he was killed. People killed him. Bad people. Uncle Errol would still be alive if those people hadn’t hurt him like that.”

Still Simone’s face remained expressionless as she chewed on her food. Keenan didn’t get his head around how his daughter had reacted. He watched the gears in his nine-year-old daughter’s mind whirring around as she ate her food and then finally opened her mouth to speak. Before the words had left it Keenan lifted his hand in the air and shook his head gently with a sigh.

His daughter look deflated by the gesture but Keenan shook his head again and then pointed to Simone’s plate. “Just eat your food, okay?”


Garrett's Green, Birmingham

Outside of Garrett’s Green Police Station was a group forty strong of students, academics, and intellectuals. At their centre was Honor Clarke. Clarke was wearing a Baja hoodie and cut-off denim shorts. A bandana bearing the Union Jack held back her thick black dreadlocks and they hung over the back of her hoodie. Birmingham had been one of the many cities across Britain that had seen a spike in police presence on their streets. It turned out that Honor hadn’t been the only one the police had targeted last night. Across the city there had been similar accounts of raids on people’s homes and arrests based on trumped up charges. It hadn’t taken much for Honor to rally a group together that wanted to send a message of their own. They sat with their arms interlocked in the middle of the road in front of the Police Station and sang protest songs at the top of their voices. It didn’t take long for it to provoke a response.

Between fifteen and twenty West Midlands Police officers appeared from within the station. Most were clad in ordinary black police uniforms and unarmed but Honor spotted several with batons and pepper spray primed for use. As they approached Honor and her crowd of peaceful protestors one of the police officers trotted out ahead of the group. They group booed at his approach and the officer’s face turned red with embarrassment.

“We’re asking you nicely,” Officer Johns said with a smile. “Please disperse.”

From the crowd an elderly white woman shouted towards him. “We aren’t going to do that.”

Johns sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then looked back towards the group with eyes that were thick with exasperation. “Disperse or we’ll make you disperse.”

“We shall not,” Honor sang at the top of her voice as she looked to the other members of the group. “We shall not be moved.”

The other protestors joined her in song and the young officer shook his head and gestured to the large group of his colleagues towards the protestors. The police officers approached, some drawing their batons and others reaching for pepper spray, and Honor squeezed the young woman next to her whose harms were locked with hers. An elderly white professor reminded the group to remain calm and peaceful so as not to give the officers an excuse and then rejoined the group in song. Their voices grew in strength as the West Midlands Police officers drew down on them with their weapons drawn.


Westbourne, Bournemouth

The veteran’s home burst into applause as Fraser Campbell's name was read out. The Prime Minister stood up from his seat, planted a kiss on his wife Joyce’s cheek, and walked up to the stage with a warm smile to the crowd. It was the sixtieth anniversary of the last stand of the Westbourne Hundred. During the height of the Troubles the city of Bournemouth had resisted the allure of the anarchists even when all those around it had surrendered. When the anarchists finally launched a full scale offensive on it a hundred men set up shop in an old school building in Westbourne and resisted thousands of anarchists for four straight days. It was one of many feats of bravery from loyalists in the South during the course of the Troubles but this one especially had captured the imagination of the British people.

Joyce Campbell had convinced her husband to attend the sixtieth anniversary service to bolster his popularity amidst all that was happened that week. He had agreed on condition that she come with him and help him plan his speech. She sat in the front row looking radiant in a light pink dress. Fraser gestured to the crowd to bring an end to their applause and they did so dutifully to allow him to speak.

“It’s an absolute pleasure to be here in Westbourne. Our great country owes a profound debt of gratitude to the people of Westbourne, Bournemouth, and Dorset as a whole for its sacrifice during the Troubles. To put it bluntly there would be no Great Britain were it not for the fighting spirit of Dorset and the resolve it showed under indescribable pressure. It’s only right then that we come together today to mark the sacrifice of the Westbourne Hundred and all those that gave their lives to restore peace and sanity to our nation.”

The room burst into spontaneous applause and Fraser smiled modestly and pushed his thick lenses glasses further up his nose. In the crowd were the children and grandchildren of the Westbourne Hundred. They were young and old, rich and poor, but overwhelmingly white. Fraser noticed that most of all as he moved to speak once more. His wife smiled at him supportively and Fraser felt his heart swell with pride.

There was a long standing ovation once the Prime Minister finished speaking and Joyce joined him on stage for a few moments. Fraser placed a gentle kiss on his wife’s cheek and they waved to the people in the packed room. For a second Fraser forgot all about the mess in South Africa, repatriations, and murdered policemen as he stared out into the crowd.

Joyce leant into him and whispered. “Someone has a spring in their step this morning.”

He smiled and led her down from the stage by the hand. The Prime Minister’s staffers and security staff formed a waiting cavalcade but Fraser gestured them away for a few seconds. He led Joyce into the crowd and shook a few hands before an insistent staffer lead the Prime Minister away from the crowd. The muscle-bound men in black suits that made up the Prime Minister’s security team lead Campbell out of the building and towards the exit. They passed through the front doors to where a black Rolls Royce awaited the Prime Minister and his wife.

“Prime Minister,” a voice called from behind them. “Excuse me, Prime Minister, a word if you would.”

Fraser looked over his shoulder and spotted an elderly white man approaching him from within the veteran’s home. “I’m sorry, sir, we really have to get going.”

The Prime Minister’s security team moved towards the man and within seconds he had several pairs of hands on him. From within their hands he managed to shout to Campbell. “It’s about the Voluntary Repatriation Bill.”

Fraser stopped in his tracks and then gestured to his security team to let the man loose. He apologized to him and then let a sigh slip through his lips. He’d grown sick of defending a policy that he hated with every inch of his body and that the Palace had forced on him. He tried to silently formulate some defence for repatriating British citizens. There was no defence for it. Yet the Palace had demanded it and the Palace always got what it wanted. That much had been made clear to Fraser the day he’d been appointed. He wanted to savage the policy but he knew that wasn’t an option. Fraser could never do anything in public that might tip his hand to the cause he'd kept hidden for decades.

Fraser swallowed his pride, apologized again to the man for his having been manhandled, and turned to the issue he'd raised. “Listen, I understand that people are going to feel very strongly on the issue of repatriation but I don’t think it’s the time or the place for a discussion about it. We’re here to commemorate the sacrifice of the Westbourne Hundred.”

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that,” the old man said with a shake of his head. “I just want to thank you, Prime Minister, for having the bravery to do the right thing. The South didn't fight and die for the Crown during the Troubles to see our country overrun by coloureds. It’s good to finally have someone in Downing Street that’s not afraid to stand up for the British people.”

He extended his hand towards the Prime Minister and Fraser turned to his wife with a confused look. She nodded him on in encouragement. He took the old man’s hand and shook it. “Thank you.”

As Campbell took to the car with his wife he sat in silence and pondered the exchange he'd just had. Since the Palace had suggested the Voluntary Repatriation Bill he'd acted under the presumption that the British public would revile it every bit as much as he did behind closed doors. He hoped they would consider it a niche issue like universal healthcare or Northern independence. Yet the further he travelled from London the more support for the policy he found and that worried him.

He knew could count on the North. Though they denied it there was still support for the old cause there. Yet Fraser would have to carry the South if he was to liberate this damned country and from what he'd seen this afternoon they weren't going to go without a fight.


Vauxhall, Liverpool

The North. Sebastian Hedland hated the North. It wasn’t that the North was a hotbed of closeted anarchist sympathisers and socialists, though that was part of it, for the most part his hatred for it came from its dreariness. It was dull, drab to look at, and the weather was somehow even worse than the weather in the South. Once upon a time the New Jerusalem had been the leading social democratic magazine in Britain, it had even published articles in support of the anarchists at the very beginning of the Troubles, but it had renounced its support for them when murder and political kidnapping became their tool of choice. The trade unions in the North had stood with them until the end. It was why the labour movement was dead and why there were no more trade unions and co-operatives.

Or at least that was what Seb had thought. He’d taken a train to Liverpool on Fred Lambert’s advice to speak to the workers at the Daley’s Sugar Refinery that had allegedly set up a cooperative. He wanted to find out whether there was any truth to it, how the hell it worked, and whether they were worried the government might crack down on them. First though Seb needed to find the man that “ran” the cooperative. He’d taken a taxi from Liverpool Station to the Daley’s Sugar Refinery and was loitering outside of it trying to find an entrance when he bumped into a young man on his way inside.

Hedland approached him anxiously and pointed at the picture clipped from the Liverpool Echo. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Richard Short.”

The young man eyed him from head to toe with a suspicious glare. His Liverpudlian drawl was so heavy that Hedland could barely understand him but clued out what the man had said from the context. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Sebastian Hedland,” Seb said with a nervous smile as he patted down his pockets in search of a card. “I’m from the New Jerusalem.”

The man looked unimpressed. “The new what?”

“The New Jerusalem,” Hedland said with a smile as he finally located a card and handed it to the man. “It’s a politics magazine.”

The man took the card and looked at it for a few seconds before handing it back to Seb. “Right, right, well… Ricky’s not here at the moment but if you follow me you can take a seat inside and I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him when he gets back. He shouldn’t be too long. He only popped to the offie round the corner to buy some ciggies.”

Half of what the man had said had missed him but Hedland saw the man gesture towards the entrance of Daley’s Sugar Refinery and nodded at him. “Sure.”

Seb followed the gruff, short Liverpudlian and took a seat on a wooden bench near the entrance. He watched as people walked up and down the refinery’s aisles and occasionally smiled at the workers when they looked at him. There was something in their eyes that Hedland didn’t like. They seemed suspicious, untrusting even, as if Hedland had come to make trouble. Ten minutes turned to twenty turned to forty-five that turned to an hour and as Sebastian took to his feet to leave the entrance to the refinery opened. Through it walked a man with shoulder length brown hair with thick, bushy black eyebrows, and long unkempt sideburns. He pushed a cigarette box into the top pocket of his baggy white shirt and Hedland glanced at him searchingly.

“Richard?” Hedland called out to him. “Richard Short?”

“Call me Ricky,” Short said as he shook Seb’s hand. “If these bastards hear you calling me my Christian name they’ll never let me hear the end of it. You’re that journo from London, I gather?”

Seb smiled. “What gave me away?”

“There’s not a Scouser on Earth that would be caught dead dressed in that clobber,” Short said with a chuckle as he gestured to the floral shirt that Seb was wearing beneath his grey suit. “Why don’t I show you round the place?”

Under any other circumstances Seb might have been offended but after waiting for nearly an hour he was just glad that Short had finally arrived. He seemed amiable enough compared to some of his colleagues and was quick to crack wise with both passing workers and Hedland as they walked around. Despite his long hair and ill-fitting clothing Ricky seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of the refinery’s history and how it worked. It was when Seb asked Short how Daley’s had survived the Troubles when so many other businesses had been destroyed that Short got particularly animated.

“We looked after one another,” Ricky said as he leant over some metal railings. “That’s what we do in Liverpool see, it’s not like London up here. Everyone knows everyone. Old man Daley looked after his workers and then when the Troubles came they looked after this place. After he died he left the factory to his son, John, who left it to us when he died six months ago. That’s that stuff karma at work, I reckon. Isn’t that what they call it? Karma?”

Hedland smiled and then pointed down at some of Ricky’s colleagues walking underneath them. “How does it work? Who’s in charge here?”

“We’re all in charge,” Short said as he gestured his arms around the refinery with a proud expression. “If we need to make a decision about the place’s future we take a vote on it.”

Hedland had thought of a dozen practical follow up questions before Short had even finished speaking but Seb hadn’t travelled across the country to ask about the practical. It was the ideas that interested him, it was the ideas that had always interested him, and the idea at the heart of cooperatives was a familiar one. It was not one that was often spoken about in polite company because of its affiliation with the Troubles.

Seb looked up from his notepad with a grin. “This all sounds an awful lot like socialism.”

Within seconds Ricky Short’s genial face became red with rage. “It’s not socialism to look after one another, mate, it’s common sense. Plenty of ours died fighting those so-called “socialists” that tried to burn our city to the ground during the Troubles. So I’ll be fucked if some twat from London tries to tar us with the same brush as those bastards. Please excuse my French.”

Hedland had barely opened his mouth to respond when the doors to the refinery burst open. There was shouting from the lower level and Ricky ran towards it. Seb tucked his notepad into his suit trousers and followed after him as they saw the source of the commotion. Through the entrance of Daley’s Sugar Refinery were pouring a dozen men in black military uniforms without markings. They had assault rifles in their arms and levelled the butts of their rifles against any of the Daley employees within arms reach.

A ginger-haired man with slick-back hair and a thick moustache was screaming at the top of his voice. “On the fucking ground.”

Ricky placed his hands in the air and approached the men. “What’s going on here? Who are you people?”

The man smashed the butt of his rifle against the back of Ricky Short’s head and he fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Once he was satisfied Ricky was unconscious he looked up at Hedland who was frozen stiff with fright. “Get on the fucking ground.”

“I’m a journalist,” Hedland said as he lifted his hands up. “I work for the New Jerusalem.”

The ginger-haired man shook his head angrily and started to pace towards Hedland. He had to be six foot two at the least and Seb could tell from the way the man walked that he was made of pure muscle. He had a crazed, murderous look in his eye as he bore down on Hedland.

“I’m not one of them. Why aren’t you listening to me? I’m a jour-”

There was a loud crack and Hedland’s world went black for a second. He fell to his knees at the man’s feet and felt blood trickle from the back of his head along his neck and down his shoulders. Seb’s ears were ringing and his whole world seemed to spun as he clutched onto the man’s feet to keep himself upright. He felt the man’s hand grab a hold of a handful of his curly black hair and saw his spiteful face smirk at him as he sent his knee hurtling towards Hedland’s face.

Sevan, Armenia

The training exercise had been almost routine. Almost. For several hours, the instructors and the students exchanged rubber bullets on the steep hills of Sevan Island. Abbasian, undermanned and under-equipped, led his team through a flanking maneuver that seemed all too elementary to be predicted. On the other end of the maneuver was a small element of leftovers. Carrying machineguns and as much spare ammunition as they could carry, Sulayev and about three others shrewdly tricked the instructors into believing that he had taken his entire team up the beach into the predicted killzone. With all the machineguns turned on the instructors, they believed that they were facing at least half a company. When Sulayev was pinned by enemy fire, the instructors began their attempt to rout C Company. But as they filed into a firing line on a rock outcropping looking down onto the beach, Abbasian came in to eliminate them. The eastern flank collapsed, allowing for the students' other companies to flood the gap and fill in through holes left in the defenses. When the instructor teams began to notice, they pulled in tighter. Some units had to be shifted from west to east to fill in: a prime opportunity for the westernmost student companies to rally and shoot them in their backs.

On the hill, the fortress didn't last long. An hour-long lull in the fighting provided an opportunity for the students - missing vital radio links from breakages or "deaths" - to regroup and hit the outpost as planned. Most of the scouting forces had been obliterated during the confusion of C Company's beach run, leaving only a small unit of defenders on the fortress. They fought for as long as they could, yet the elements were against them. It was a heroic charge from A Company that pushed up and over the sandbag fortifications and into the trenches. Moments later, a young Officer Candidate singlehandedly ripped down the guidon from its posting at the center of the base. The exercise had ended: the students had won their right to graduate. Exhausted, grimy, and still anxious, the Candidates flooded onto the provided riverine boats to be steamed back to the waiting docks. They came in slow as the sun set behind them, casting a shimmering orange light on the harbor. Lining the piers were soldiers and airmen, all watching their new officers arrive. There was no jubilant celebration or victory music. The boats crept in ominously while the Candidates looked out and over. Their faces had long since been turned into grimy murals of streaked facepaint, carbon, dirt, and sometimes blood. Their uniforms were more brown than olive.

A returning Candidate's eyes seemed apathetic - dead, almost. He stared his soldiers in the eyes, too tired to avert his gaze once locked. Some slunk low below the gunwales to sleep, avoiding the matter altogether. They were awoken by the bump of the craft against the dock, the riverine-men tying their ropes to cleats on the wooden platforms. Quietly, they were ushered out of the boats and onto waiting trucks. Their rucksacks were hastily thrown onboard, followed by their rifles. The men clambered aboard last. They drove the rest of the way to the dingy, cinderblock bays that sat low in the shaded training retreat of Joint Base Sevan Lake. Surrounded by a prison-like chainlink fence and barbed wire, these had been home for the past seven - almost eight now - weeks. The sun had set already by the time the Candidates had dragged their soaked, dirty gear into their cots. Wordlessly, they stripped without any sense of shame or modesty. The few who felt motivated enough went to go take cold showers in the communal bathroom, but most instantly curled up on their bunks and fell fast asleep. Almost taking pity on these young Officer Candidates, the instructors allowed them to sleep in an extra hour the next morning before waking them up with the traditional morning doorkicking.

OCS was over. The graduation ceremony took place in the same parade ground that they had entered into so many days ago on a moonlit night. Many recalled being forced off the bus at gunpoint in the middle of the night, forced to recover their belongings after having their bags dumped out in a ditch beside the dilapidated asphalt road. Dressed in clean uniforms, they stood at attention for a half hour listening to a speech from an officer that they didn't particularly know nor care about. The head instructor, too, gave his own speech. He ran through what was the standard par for the course at that point: how motivated and dedicated to success the young officers were. How they withstood challenges for the Fatherland, how they stood up to the occasion when nobody else would. Officers, by very definition, were volunteers. A far cry from the two-year conscript forced on border guard duty. These were just words. The officers said words without meaning. Each one of the new officers had their own reasons to be there. Fervent patriotism wasn't the only thing that drove them. Tradition marched some along, as it had their fathers and grandfathers. Money motivated others, or the promise of a secure career. Many simply wanted to put their skills as university graduates to work and train up before they left their service term. Some others wanted back in because they had gotten bored with civilian life.

That was something that bothered Abbasian as he said his goodbyes and left for the train station with Sulayev. Both of them, with their insignia newly pinned upon their collars, walked the boulevard casually. He turned to his Yazidi friend, lit a cigarette, and rummaged around in his pocket for something that he wasn't sure he was even looking for. "I can't go back to the real world," the dark-skinned Lieutenant admitted. His brown eyes scanned the mountains above the train tracks before he stopped himself. The thrumming of propellers in the distance wasn't a threat.

"You can't? What did your family think?" Sulayev responded as he bummed a cigarette himself.

"They were disappointed that I left home again. I told them I couldn't work at that damn logging company for another day. I wanted to do an actual job."

"That is an actual job," the Yazidi argued. "We need lumber."

"I wanted to do something again. I got bored. I... I missed the war. I sound like a fucking psycho, I know."

Sulayev sighed deeply, almost mournfully. He stopped in his tracks and put his duffel down onto the sidewalk. Abbasian, still ahead of him, turned again.

"I know what you mean," Suleyev admitted simply. "I want the high back. War's a terrible thing but I want more. The entire time I wanted to leave but now I can't stop thinking about going back."

Abbasian's friend, a stone pillar of stoicism, sat atop his bag and looked down at his boots. The Armenian edged forward before dropping his bag next to him. Sulayev's shoulders drooped as he ran a hand over his still-shaved scalp.

"I watched so many people die. I saw a kid barely younger than me get his arm blown off when he tried to man a gun in a trench. I was about to take it. That could've been me. Then I got on the gun anyways and I hosed down an advancing squad. I cut them down like they cut that kid down... I liked it. I felt good. I'm not supposed to feel like that. I'm not supposed to want more. My family doesn't fucking know. My girlfriend wouldn't understand. Fuck, she even left me halfway through OCS. I got the letter."

"What'd you do with it?"

"I crumpled it up and tucked it behind the spoon of a hand grenade on range day."

Abbasian raised his eyebrow but remained silent. The deep remorse, infectious and downing, was starting to get to him as well. He thought of his own personal conflicts. He had seen war just as Sulayev had, although maybe not as badly through the lens of a spotter's binoculars. He had his moments as well: he recalled a time after his first deployment where he had kicked through the drywall in his basement when he was drunk and consumed with grief. He had spiraled into a drinking cycle after that as he thought that he could chase the demons away with alcohol. He had nightmares, and every once in a while he couldn't sleep. Abbasian would lie atop his bed, staring at the ceiling as he heard the sounds of urban warfare echo through his head. One phrase in particular - "Holy shit, man! How are you alive?" - repeated itself over and over. He had just crouched down behind an overturned dumpster before an artillery explosion sent a piece of concrete flying through his manpack radio. It missed him by centimeters. Life and death were, for him, so closely related in the fields of Erzurum that he no longer thought about it. A body became a body: an object, not a person. Sulayev must have felt the same resignation, albeit much more guiltily.

"Who the fuck would care if I died?" Sulayev moaned, burying his face in his hands. He sobbed like a child, broken down almost completely. "Maybe my parents but they don't fucking count, man. I don't have any kids, any brothers."

Abbasian looked around, then down. Stirred by the sudden outburst of emotion, he sat down as well. He remained silent, hand around Sulayev's shoulders and patting his back paternally.

And so the penitent soldiers comforted each other on the side of the road until they were galvanized to action by the sound of a train horn. They picked their bags up and straightened their uniforms. With a final check of composure, they walked side by side, out of Sevan.

Yerevan, Armenia

The cool morning air reminded Assanian of his time in the military: early wakeups, early physical training, and early marches on the road. His service as a pathfinder in the Armenian Regiments of the Ottoman Empire had been rather fruitful and part of him appreciated the opportunities for development even if he had been capped at an arbitrary limit by Ottoman military higher-ups. After all, it was his training that allowed him to escape Nor Yerzenka with his life during the early stages of the Revolution. He had to put off getting his law degree in Yerevan until after his service was up, but he appreciated that as well. He spent the 1950s partying and running around with his hair on fire until he realized that it was time to mellow out and get his future in order. He still served out a full career, retiring at age 40, but that was only because he had nowhere else to go. Unmarried with parents lost to cancer in his 30s, Assanian was alone in the world. Some of his peers would notice his introversion and distance as he fell into a depression before deciding to leave the military. After 1968 and his retirement, he was left to his own devices. He began to teach law and realized that the Armenian Regiments had done more good than harm. His opinion of military service lightened, perhaps as nostalgia took over as the years went by.

The door of the black staff car was slammed shut by an Army honor guardsmen as Assanian exited. It sped off down the road, kicking up exhaust as it went. Assanian grumbled something about Polish engines while he straightened his tie and walked up through the gardens to the Government House. Designed by Armenian architects shortly after independence, the beautiful and immaculately landscaped gardens were an attempt to demonstrate sovereignty. Cutting through the middle was a walkway patterned after an Armenian carpet, watched over on both sides by statues of Fedayeen on horseback. A stairway led up to a patio, beyond which was the door to the Parliamentary chamber. Inside of the building was a labyrinth of offices. Assanian, of course, was heading down to the basement. The Minister of War, Jordan Ivakon, was present in a meeting room alongside the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Alongside them were the recent evacuees from the Istanbul embassy and the Greek and Istanbul military liaisons. Assanian was ushered through by the Army guards who clutched rifles and wore web belts saddled down by ammunition pouches over their service uniforms. Hidden underneath their jackets were concealed flak vests. They looked fairly strange kitted down in battle gear atop their khaki uniforms and blaze orange berets. Assanian didn't have time to question the decision making process of the Army.

The Government House was not usually a center of cabinet meeting, but circumstances dictated it. The grey area of the Istanbul Crisis needed both civil and military inputs: Assanian was trying to handle the Ottoman attempts at revenge without shattering the fragile peace that he had brokered merely months before. Istanbul's revolt and transition to a cosmopolitan city-state had been a black eye for the Ottomans' pride. Armenia was a humiliation of the greatest sort and the rest of the Empire's dissolution was just as so, but Istanbul was the crown jewel of their state. The fact that the Istanbulite government leaned towards Greece and Armenia as protectors instead of the Ottomans was a slap in the face to the Sultanate still reeling from the death of Suleiman at the hands of spies: Ethiopians, no less! As a force of Armenian naval assets bore down on the city straits, they were fully prepared to launch ground forces in support of a Greek column that had parked itself to the west of the city in occupied territory. The Ottomans had been probing the City Guard for days now and flying reconnaissance missions over the Armenian flotilla. Political factions from both sides such as the embassy and the NSS had been evacuated from the city.

Assanian swept through several metal doors in the concrete basement of the Government House. The harsh, Spartan decor was enough to remind him that these had been constructed as an air-raid shelter for Armenian government personnel. Luckily, air defense artillerymen and the Air Force had prevented most of the heavier attempts at raiding through: as was explained to Assanian by the chief of the anti-aircraft branch, there was a huge disparity between technology on the ground and in the air. The development of land-based rotary cannons spitting 20mm shells in an endless stream would simply tear up strategic bombers. Flak systems on the ground were still immensely popular, shredding through airborne objects with ease. Fighters were harder to hit but could still be taken down. There were rumors of Polish aircraft utilizing jets and rockets operating at an experimental level, but Assanian's requests for information were denied even if it meant that the Poles could use their experimental airframes in actual combat to see the results firsthand. Operation Beta could only go so far.

A familiar dramatic scene awaited Assanian in the briefing room selected for that day's meeting. Briefcases, documents, photographs, censored pages of dossiers and observations, and anything else that could possibly be relevant covered the paper. Jordan Ivakon, the hard-charging combat veteran from Russia, held a cigarette loosely in his mouth while he ran a hand through his thick, curly hair. He sported a pair of clear, rimless glasses similar to the ones aviators wore with swagger. The Minister's coat - a wool sweater with a distinctly militaristic feel - was tossed haphazardly onto a coat rack in the corner. On the other side of the table was the Minister of Foreign Affairs: he was an older man by the name of Ibrahim Krikorian. Also bespectacled but distinctly lacking the "cool" factor, he was a bit more heavy-set and walked slowly with a limp. Assanian's neutral, almost plain self fit right in the middle of these two characters. All three of them exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, asking about families and wives. They sat down to work quickly enough, anxiously knowing that time was scarce.

Ivakon dramatically stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray near his hand before reaching into his pocket and tossing a few photographs out onto the table. They were aerial reconnaissance photos taken by a plane equipped with a high-power camera. An Ottoman equipment yard on the north shore of the peninsula appeared in these blurry, black and white stills. They were curiously empty of all materiel that had been parked there only a month or so ago.

"This," Ivakon said, pointing to the photos, "is a reservist equipment yard belonging to the 45th Home Guard. Whenever the Turks buy new tanks, the old ones get put here so the reserve units have something to play with. They were, as of last month, packed with all manner of trucks and tanks and anything else under the sun... Last week, they were gone."

He motioned in to another photograph that appeared distinctly different from the others, taken by a cameraman on the ground. The NSS often paid off locals to take pictures of equipment yards, so this was probably a destitute farmer who lived nearby taking a few shots to get a generous payoff. The image showed a row of older tanks behind a barbed-wire fence, each with a white triangle and the numbers "45/2" on the turret.

"Now if you see here in our reports," the War Minister pointed out as he shuffled through an envelope of official papers, "some spotters have observed tanks with the very same identification outside of Istanbul. Usually, Ottoman battle doctrine doesn't pull reservists out to battle until things got desperate, which is why we only saw them at the end of the war... The fact that they're putting them on the frontlines with regular combat troops proves that the Turks are planning something big."

"Big enough that they want to throw everything they've got at it," added Krikorian. He pushed up his glasses and continued: "The Greeks are getting antsy. The Istanbul city government has ordered them to stay outside of the city limit unless the Ottomans directly invade. They have assurances from us and the Greeks already that we'll respect their independence but they're frantically working it out with the Turkish provisional government in Ankara. Recently intercepted communications have revealed that these talks are breaking down in a rapid manner... The Turks are frustrated and ready to do something rash."

"As of right now, we need a policy put in public," Ivakon stated seriously. He leaned down over the table, looking his President in the eye. "This goes one of two ways, from what we've determined. We continue to provide an unofficial posture against the Turks and they invade. If we state in public that we will defend Istanbul, they may not."

"May?" scoffed Assanian. He straightened out his tie, trying to maintain his composure.

"The Turks want revenge. Their empire just fell apart and they're humiliated. They might not listen to us anyways... With the amount of forces they're putting on the Istanbul border, they're probably preparing to fight us anyways. Our own border is relatively stagnant, I doubt we'll be doing any DMZ smashing in the near future what with many of our forces engaged with Istanbul. They feel the same way."

"We'll still expect conflict," piped up the portly Krikorian again, waving his hand in front of his face clumsily as if trying to articulate his point further.

"Our border forces are more than ready to handle a few weeks of conflict at least... Especially since we pulled more of them from Georgia's borders and left local police forces in charge of arresting the druggies that try to cross the border with meth," retorted Ivakon as he shot a glance over at Krikorian.

The Foreign Minister shrugged. "Whoever gets past the reigning warlord in those mountain passes these days anyways... Some hardliner religious fellow who crucifies drug traffickers in some sort of theocracy. But that's none of my business."

Assanian leaned back with a sigh. He had a habit of playing with button on his breast pocket, opening and closing it absentmindedly while he thought. "The plan we talked about last week is still in effect, right?"

"Our newest batch of officers just came out of training and are being put into their units as we speak. Paratrooper detachments from the 1st and 2nd Regiments as well as the Foreign Legion," replied back the Russian, cocking his head to the side. "Airmobile infantry are prepared on the decks of our transport ships ready to land at designated high-value locations to secure them before the paratroopers can come in with better numbers and equipment. The Greeks will do the brunt of the fighting. We just hold the line and get what we need."

Assanian nodded understandingly. "I see nothing has really changed."

"Situation remains the same," muttered Krikorian, quoting an old military adage.

Another round of silent nods. Assanian looked back at the door and the coat rack before hastily throwing his coat around his shoulders. "Call me if it changes," remarked the President. He walked out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. The ministers inside sat in silence until Ivakon packed up his intelligence and bid farewell to his colleagues. Back to the office for him. Krikorian would do the same.

Istanbul

The Istanbul city militiaman stubbed out his cigarette on a clay ashtray sitting on a windowsill. He was tired, having reached the tail end of his night shift. A rifle was slung around his shoulder and body armor hung loosely off of his broad shoulders. A thick mustache adorned his dark face. The sun cast its reddish rays on the desolate outskirts of the east side of Istanbul, past abandoned industrial buildings and lots filled with nothing. The man put his rifle down as he reached for another cigarette. His lighter came to his face and he lit it with a palm cupped over the flame. The rumbling of something in the distance wasn't an immediate concern for him until he noticed that it was approaching ever more quickly. A dozen black dots in the distance grew rapidly, soon enough revealing themselves as sturdy propeller driven attack aircraft. They zoomed by low and fast before the militiaman could react: seconds later, explosions boomed in the cityscape behind him.

Another wave of aircraft passed overhead. Another salvo of bombs hit targets located all over the city. An ammunition dump on the riverside exploded, shattering windows and blowing debris across the urban maze of Istanbul. The militiaman dropped to the ground just moments before a cannon opened up on his guard position, tearing away the flimsy brick wall to his left. His heart beat through his chest and his breath became rapid and shallow: he grabbed his rifle and let loose a burst towards the sky in a vain attempt to fight back. A second airstrike blew him away completely, leaving nothing left except a bloodied stub of leg and a boot that came to a rest a quarter of a kilometer down the road.

Over the radio, still squawking in the corner, an Istanbul commander called his men to arms. The war had begun again.

Stirring in the sheets, Mei slowly came to. On a breath of soft static crackling voices spoke low and soft in the room she awoken to find herself in. Her head felt muddled and slow from last night's acid and the colors and the light of the room felt more vibrant than they should be as she awoken. She was at first groggy, then a spike of terror drove into her heart as her thoughts collected. She sprang upright, gasping for air as she clutched the coarse bare-threaded sheers of the bed up to her breasts, she wrapped her free arm around her legs and gasped for shivering breaths as she turned her frightened watch to the source of the subdued noise.

For her modesty though, she was not naked. But she was frightened and confused and that made her feel all the more exposed.

The room was small and mostly barren. She sat atop of a sparse cot and a drawn sheet afforded some minutia privacy. But in the sliver of an opening where the sheet met the wall she could deduce all she needed. She was in some small apartment, the walls were blue; vibrant or dull blue she couldn't tell. A single large window produced much of the light and in the far corner a pair of elderly couples sat at a small table playing a game of mahjong each as a large, old wood-paneled radio crackled nearby with some subdued radio news show, she didn't recognize it as the one that often played in the streets of Hong Kong; it must be out of Macau.

Sitting up in her bed she tried to remember what had happen and to find some reason why she was there. The memories were ghostly. They escaped like a cloud of steam through her fingers as she reached out to grab them. What was there was a lost and fleeting image and broken pieces of something. She could remember specks, hardly a peep into what happened last night. There was colors, laughing, and light. Then screams, darkness, and the world feeling like it was melting. The later came onto her with the force of a bucket of cold water and her skull throbbed like beetles were eating her from the inside out. She curled up, resting her face on her knees as the pain subsided. Whatever had happened, it was a terrible trip. A part of her asked her to not take it again, to cut it out. And maybe she could.

She sat up in that strange bed, the curtains still drawn out of fear. Cold shivers ran up and down her spine like uninvited fingers. Beyond the curtain the slow purposeful clacking and snapping of the mahjong dominoes on the table continued their measured song. The radio continued to spill softly spoken words through a veneer of white noise. There was a stillness.

Until the door opened.

The sudden tick of the deadbolt threw Mei upright when the mysterious door swung open. There was light footsteps and a boy's voice spoke out, “Good morning Pa, Nana, Grandma, Grandpa.” he greeted in a friendly voice, it was Yan Cong.

Was she at Yan Cong's? How'd she end up here? Mei's head raced with questions and it again tried to pull for wispy memories. There was a distinct smell of fried rice and dumplings that hit her nose, but she couldn't place the reasoning. Angry and disgruntled she threw her head down into her hands and moaned. She could feel tears building in behind her eyes.

“I think your friend is awake.” croaked one of the seniors in the corner, her voice dry and raspy and heavy with an old accent.

There was the sound of anxious footfalls. Two, three, four, and five strides, then peeking in through the curtains was Yan Cong.

Mei looked down at him with a confused worried look. She rested her chin on her crossed arms. But there wasn't any pride in her look as she looked down at him. She felt ashamed, and she turned to look away. Her heart sank low. She could patch together what had happened from there.

Cong looked up at her as he stood on the bunk below. The weight of his body pulled on his fingers and he felt the hard corners of the bed frame dig into the joints of his fingers. It wasn't soft, and it was far from comfortable for him.

“Are you alright?” he asked. He didn't try to hide it, he was concerned. Mei had ran out into the middle of the market late last night screaming nonsense. And it was far from a normal thing. A heavy stone sat at the bottom of his stomach. If Tui wasn't there with him, would the police had got to the young girl before either of her friends?

Mei kept her head turned against the wall. A pitiful sorrow hang over her head and she kept a monastic silence.

“Oh the poor girl, I know the feeling. My sister, the war-” began the same old woman from before.

“Please my flower, not while a guest is here.” cautioned her husband, and a tense silence came again.

“I should just say: my dad will be coming home from the factory soon.” warned Cong, “Mom just left... Just... Just so you know.” he said cautiously in a low voice. Gingerly, he lowered himself and his face disappeared from her hiding spot.

There was an uneasy sense of some impending threat in Cong's warning. Although for sure not intended to be a ultimatum, it hanged the cost of frightful negligence over her head. She waited for a time after her friend had departed from the room and the sounds of the ancient game of domino continued to on the far-side of the tiny apartment. But as the seconds dragged to minutes, she slid herself off of the raised bunk and came to a delicate thud on floor; Yan Cong at least would be able to protect her more than his parents.

The living quarters afforded on the Yans was tiny, hardly a parcel larger than her family room. In a tight space all the necessities were packed together; kitchen and dining, sitting room and bedroom. Only a single door for a bathroom along side the exterior wall behind his grandparents signaled the only other room the family had.

She nervously smiled, wrapped her arms around her as she nodded to the elders sitting at the table and dashed out of the apartment. She met Cong in the hallway.

“So, ah-...” she hesitated, “Your grandparents?” she asked laconically.

Cong shot a look to his apartment's door. The hallway it occupied was dry and sparse, a gun-metal gray corridor with a browning red carpet. “They won't do anything.” he assured her. He turned to walk down the hall, plodding slowly.

“Oh...” Mei mumbled, following her friend as they strolled through the apartment, “So your parents won't know I was here?”

“They won't.” he comforted in a low voice, “They'll get engrossed in their game, tell mom or dad about the scores when they get back home. Dad'll pass out to sleep, and mom will busy herself with dinner. The topic shouldn't arise.”

“But if it does?” Mei asked. She was afraid. She nervously watched the solid-color walls as they walked. A tinge of paranoia crawled in her gut, afraid some misshapen form would melt into view from the blurred intermingling of cracks, shadows, and the soft yellow light. In subdued dred she watched thin hair-line cracks ripple gently and she wondered if the drug was still in her system.

She was also hungry. Terribly hungry.

“I'll figure something out.” Cong said, passing along unsure assurances by loyalty of friendship, “I'll make something up.”

Mei smiled nervously and laughed. But it felt empty and she bowed her head as they came around to the stairwell.

“Do- can I get something to eat?” she asked. The request felt shamefully selfish. “I mean, could we?” she corrected herself desperately, trying to not be self-centered with Cong.

He turned to look back at her as she started to climb down the stairs. “I guess.” he answered.

“Oh, thank you.”

Walking down the narrow cement stairwell the two held a silence between each other. It wasn't until they walked out into the bright mid-morning sunlight of Hong Kong that conversation was re-ignited. “So, what happened last night?” Mei asked. To a point, last night was a blur. She remembered being at the Catrina Madrid, having their local special. Then it became a mess of sounds, images, and smells. It felt as wet as the memories were in her grasp.

“We – Pui Tui and I - found you at the night market.” Cong began, “You were acting terrified, and screaming about animals and horses. Tui had the bright idea of pulling you out, you were acting like you were in a nightmare.

“Between there and his truck you passed out. I offered to keep you, Pui's parents can be too nosey.”

“So... I-...” she started, a sudden chilling dawning crept over her. But she held her tongue.

“You what?” Cong asked, looking up at her.

“Oh, nothing.” she stuttered nervously. She chewed her lips as they slowly strolled down the side-walk. Traffic bustled past them as the walked down the narrow streets of Tai Po. They passed under the shade of phoenix and banyan trees cluttered with colorful song birds. Cast-iron fences covered with flaking green-paint divided the side-walk from over-grown parkways or the untended back corners of apartment plazas. Cyclists competed with small cars and trucks for control of the urban streets.

Cong nodded, tepidly dismissing his line of questioning for now. He could see she was not in the mind or enthusiasm for pressing it and let it by the way-side.

“Cong.” Mei spoke up, “I never noticed until now: but you walk so slow.” she observed.

He looked over and up at her, a prying how-did-you-not-know expression on his face. “I mean,” she stammered apologetically, “I always thought it was Tui that walked slow, and we all walked at his pace if we were together.” she explained.

“Oh!” Cong exclaimed, “No, he's not slow. He's actually a fast walker.” he expressed dispassionately. “I can't run, or rather I don't.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I'm just... I'm runtish.” he explained, holding out his arms, “You know, like that.” there was a look of self pity in his long face, and he immediately dropped his eyes from Mei to the ground in front of them.

“I've been this way always,” he said with a long sigh, “they said if I don't do anything about it I may be in leg braces and with a cane when I hit thirty. An- and yeah, I do. But I won't be anything more than a lanky, weak runt of a man.”

“Oh? But I've watched you play with Tui at the Center, after school. You never seemed that way at all.” she comforted supportivly, “Lin and I, we didn't think you were anything but a skinny awkward kid that liked to hang out with Tui.”

“Well thanks, but no I don't play games or anything like other guys would...” his voiced lowered pitifully, “I wish I could, but if I don't I'd probably be in worse shape than I am now.”

“How so?” asked Mei.

“I was diagnosed as being atrophic since I was a kid.” Cong explained, “Like, my muscles will waste away if I don't do anything. They can't do anything about it, only tell me to keep busy. It isn't hard to do, but I don't try to do anything more than keep moving.

“Understand Mei, I don't think I can ever be as good as Tui at American basket ball, I won't keep up in ping pong, and I can't do Wushu beyond maybe basic t'ai chi ch'uan. I'm afraid I could hurt myself.”

“Oh Cong, I'm sorry.” she expressed, “I didn't know...”

“Tui's always known, and he's been there to help me out.” smiled Cong, “He's been a good friend.”

“He has.” admitted Mei. She wondered if this was Cong's way of paying it forward, or the sort of loyalty they – she, Cong, Tui, and Lin – had together. It brought a sense of remorse over her infrequent forays to the Cantina Madrid over her, and the world seemed to darken some.

Crossing onto a bridge over the Shing Mun river they found a food vendor parked on the far-side. The sweet smell of pork dumplings mingled with the smell of rumbling trucks as they cross over the shallow murky water of the river in its shallow concrete and gravel bed, literally re-carved to accommodate the city at its banks. “I think we found dim sum.” Cong pointed out, “I'll treat.”

“Thanks.” Mei smiled.




“Where is our guest of honor?” a man demanded, thick and heavy. Large hands hovered besides a blue porcelain plate devoid of any contents. But his heavy dish-pan face was full of anxious hunger. His narrow brown eyes scanned the others present in the room.

“He will arrive, Inshallah.” offered his neighbor across from him. A younger man by his years, but baked in the desert sun and turned over in the military had made a strange sort of young wise man that was shone in the delicate wrinkles left in his squinted eyes by the desert heat. He was perhaps in his mid thirties. A thin pointed beard as well grew in a downward curl from his chin.

A long dinner table was set up in the middle of an empty room. Black and white photos and ink portraits hung from silk scrolls from the walls. It was a public space, filled in all by twenty men. Contained in closed wicker baskets the spread of the day waited being served. Though they kept the food arm, it did not help in retaining the smells.

Drifting out from the fibrous containers the rich, succulent smells of camel, mutton, and goat whetted the mouths of all present. Subtle fruity hints of rich fruit as well swam in the warm fan-churned air of a fry southern summer. Hidden among the baskets, maize and rice sat idly steaming themselves in patient waiting. There was a bowl of uncovered raisins, and another of stacked naan bread. It was a dinner in waiting, and it was lorded over by hungry wolves. Though some showed it more so than others.

“Perhaps he got arrested again?” asked a young man at the table. He was just barely a man, his face still boyish and clean, unshaven or withered by the sun. A thick head of dirty blonde hair sat atop his head and hung down before his narrow brow. He was Uyghur.

“Patience Burhan.” the old military vet cautioned, “If that were to happen we would have all heard by now.”

“And what use would the government have in holding Hua He?” the hungry impatient wolf of a Mongolian laughed, “He is a driver.”

“What reason would they even have in arresting Erkin Amas?” questioned another, “I was sure that era would be over.”

“I would not bet that in the end someone will charge a man such as he with something trivial.” someone laughed.

“Let's not dwell on it comrades, all the same. Let us return to waiting.” said the old veteran.

“Waiting will have us all killed.” commented the wider one with sharpened hungry wit.

“You expect that because we do nothing the Spanish will simply fly their airplanes this far east to strike this building?” joked the veteran, “Please Tomorbaatar, there are worse fates to be a part of than being hungry.”

“Would they do that?” asked the youth.

“Of course not.” the veteran consoled, “It's impossible.”

“Quiet, both of you. He's coming.”

The room went tense. A pair of heavy footfalls could be heard from behind a simple door behind the head of the table. All eyes turned to watch who came in as the door opened slowly, allowing in two men. The men rose from their seats and bowed to the new guests.

One was a short gaunt man. His face blemished with moles and a thin beard and mustache growth. He was dwarfed by the much taller man at his side, who wearing a trimly cut suit provided a much more regal and fairer purpose. A simple light-blue knitted Taqiyah crowned his head, covering his combed back, dusty brown hair.

Pausing in the door the taller figure stopped and smiled, and returned the bow. “My friends!” he beamed with a smile, “How fairs?” he asked as he walked to take his seat at the table.

“All is well, Hua He.” Tomorbaatar declared eagerly, “Now, may we eat?”

Hua He took his seat at the head of the table, nearest the Mongol and his veteran friend. A nearby empty seat was taken by He's friend. “You may.” he bid.

Tomorbaatar eagerly reached out to the middle of the table, and flipped the wicker lid off of one of the baskets before him. Digging his fingers into the dumplings within, he withdrew a few finger fulls of the golden-browned delicacies and placed them on his plate before assembling the rest of the lunch onto his plate. The others did likewise the sweet aromas of the meal was released in full as lids and covers were removed.

“So how does life fair, comrade?” asked the veteran across from Tomorbaatar.

“It does well for me, my son is to turn eighteen in the coming weeks and I feel he may follow his father's footsteps into the military.” He smiled, “Inshallah, his service is fruitful and honorable. And you, Ching Wa?”

“Well.” Wa replied simply, “That is all.”

“Nothing then?” He inquired as he piled a modest clump of rice onto his plate.

“To be truthful, hardly. I go out every morning with my family and neighbors and see to the fields. As it has been since I left the army.”

“To be honest comrade,” Tomorbaatar spoke as he began to pick through his plate, which had become a banquet in its own right, “I was beginning to suspect you may have been arrested again.”

Hue He smiled, “No, hardly. I think enough have recognized there's no use in arresting a retired general such as myself anymore.”

“I would not be so sure, we did not after all expect them to arrest anyone after Hajj some seven years ago.” a man from the middle of the table said, leaning over his plate to address Hua He. He was middle-aged, pale in his complexion. “So enemies, you are still not short of.”

“Don't remind me, Laquan.” Han Hue remarked bitterly.

“We shouldn't dwell too much on back then, we have a future to look towards.” Ching Wa remarked with a brimming smile, “Word has it that the proposals for Xinjiang being recognized as Uyghur territory has arrived to Beijing, and there's multiple considerations for Hui regions.” he declared.

“Mhm, yes.” He acknowledged, “A little recognition between out people can go a long way. Even if not much.”

“Besides that though, it's hardly as if it will grant us any new power over our homes!” Laquan decried, “What can our autonomous councils do that won't be overridden by Beijing?”

“Complain, officially.” Tomorbaatar said through stuffed cheeks, “And loudly.”

“Can I ask a question, uncle?” the youth pipped up.

“Sure.” He invited, hovering a few grains of rice in front of his face with his chopsticks.

“Can the Spanish reach us?” he asked.

He cracked a humored smile, “No, they can't Gang.”

“Will you go to fight them?” he asked.

Hua He looked down, at his plate as he contemplatively chewed his rice, “We will need to find out.” he answered simply.




At a park-bench in the shade of lush green trees Jun watched a man walk down the side-walk. Limping, he walked on a waxy, ebony cane. A worn-out business suit hung from his shoulders. He looked to be the age of Jun. The limp wasn't of age, but of injury. His leg was lifted with care as if it were fragile, and the weight of his step was carried through the cane. It wasn't there to prop up on imbalance, but to supplement for lost ability.

Having entered Volgograd, the Chinese agent had to find some sort of source of information to continue on. He had no leads on the location of anyone who might know where the Chinese expat community was, just that it was down river from Volgograd. But the Volga river opened into a wide and twisting delta that was too large to search. It was a great loss that Shu could not have provided more exact direction, and there was no way he could contact him again.

So now in the shade of the trees he fell back to the basic tricks he put to practice in Tibet ten years ago. To infiltrate a community and seek out anyone who might have leads, then case them to learn if they might be trusted; who they knew, where they went, and how much a political affiliation they had. And if they could not turn up information on some quarry on direct confrontation, then simply watching would help.

But so far he hadn't crossed any Chinese in Volgograd. But there were other curious persons. Potential Mafiya soldiers, Turkish mercenaries, and this individual.

As jaded it would seem, the demeanor of the man Jun was casing was something like someone who was going into money. His prime shaved face was that of an individual groomed to interact with others. Between his small townhouse and the building which he worked out of there was a considerable degree of traffic. There was no shortage in visitors and transport that worked out of his warehouse in the middle of the town.

Passing the hidden seat Jun watched him from the man passed out of his line of sight and kept down the side-walk. Jun stood up from his bench and turned to follow his path. So far he could believe his affiliations with anyone was minimal. He had not seen any horse masks around him, nor had he seen soldiers or police. So he followed.

Where Jun identified the man to work was a simple redbrick building, trimmed at the corners and around the windows in the vibrant and complex trimming and decoration of the late 19th century. High on the walls, narrow tall windows looked out onto the street while dark curtains prevented onlookers from peering inside. Jun watched from the street corner as he carefully climbed up the stairs and to the front door. Pulling keys out of his pocket he fumbled with the lock before gaining entry.

With the streets clear, and the man inside he took the opportunity to approach him, and followed him inside.

The air was heavy with the smell of malt and fermentation. Standing in the doorway Jun was hit with the sharp crisp, earthly aromas of brewing. It dominated the air and bubbled in his nose. The smell of fermenting grains, tubers, fruits, and berries was heavy in the halls.

There was a pervasive absence of sound, or that of habitation other than the distant sounds of furnaces. The naked hardwood floors groaned heavily under Jun's weight, and even timid careful steps could not muffle the admonishing groans of the old wood.

Reaching out a hand Jun pushed open a door at the far end of the main hallway. It swung gently on its hinges, revealing a vast room of copper pots and vats gentle bubbling away, the aromatic streams of steam that billowed from under the lids and from valves revealed the building to be what it's for: a brewery.

In the middle of the chamber, his target stood alone inspecting the contents of the middle-most vat. He rose in his hand a glass half-full of frothy golden-yellow beer, inspecting its very glow and foam with keen eyes. As he rose it to his lips to drink, Jun spoke: “I did not think the Turks would have allowed this.” he said in a low hostile voice.

The man jumped into a panic, dropping the glass and it shattered on the flagstone flooring. His heart in a panic in tore about in a sharp 180 degree, stumbling against the still and limping on his bum leg. “Verdammt!” he screamed, panicking.

“Who are you? What the fuck do you want!?” he bellowed, his voice was heavy with an accent. Not Russian, German. But his Russian was clear and exact, he was well mannered to the language.

Jun walked into the room. He cast a passing look over the rows and rows of massive copper tubs. They were well kept, like a mirror they reflected the room clearly on their golden-red hulls. “You work alone?” Jun asked.

“S-s-shit. Do you want money? Is that what you want!? I don't got any!” the fearful, crippled German cried.

“No.” Jun responded.

“If this is employment then you have terrible manners asking for a job, you fucking chink.” the German continued to rave. He grasped the head on his cane in both hands, and with a swift whoosh of metal he unsheathed a dagger from the walking stick. He held it out before him, waving it nervously. But his leg was still bum.

Jun looked at the knife with a look of surprise but little more. He had not expected it, but between it and its wielder there wasn't much threat to it. “Put it away before you hurt yourself.” he demanded in a cold dispassionate tone.

“I'll gut you like a pig if you get closer!” the German sneered, his voice was shaking. And the threat was a failed pass at intimidation to the agent. Reaching into his tattered black coat he withdrew the pistol given to him from Shu. Seeing the gray steel flash in the warm light of the brewery forced the German to reconsider.

“I- ah, uhm...” he mumbled, the weight of gun-point diplomacy reaching that of reality, “Ok, I guess we can make a deal.” he said sourly.

“Thank you.” sneered Jun, tucking the revolver away, “I'm a little lost, and new to the area. I need directions.”

“I don't get around enough, Comrade Hou. I hope you can see that through those squinting eyes of yours. What could you possible need me for?”

“Your a man of many contacts. I've been watching.” Jun answered. He was willing to let the taunting slide, he needed him. But it did not quench the brief disgusting turn in his gut, “There's a community of my countrymen in this part of the country. Where is it?”

“Sorry, I don't work with the Chinese.” the man sneered, returning his blade back to his cane. He turned back to his vats and hobbled among them. Jun followed.

“Not asking that you do or don't, just if you know where they are.” Jun continued to press. The man had a lying air to him. He felt he knew something, but he wasn't giving it up.

“I don't know.” snapped the brew master, growing clearly tired from the line of investigation, “You can come back home to Peking, any time.”

“I'm not about to be turned away, I want to know where they are.” the agent continued to demand, “But what if I offered something in return?”

“What could you possibly give me?” the German inquired. He was still mad, but for a brief second his rage subdued itself. It passed into the realm of curiosity.

“You look like your short on help. You trying to manage this on your own?”

The German furrowed his brows and shot a spiteful look at Jun. “Fine.” he said, “I do have problems, and maybe you can help.”

Jun nodded. Folding his arms in front of him he waited.

“I don't know if you witnessed it or not, but several days ago so thugs visited by enterprise here. They demanded protection money, and I said I won't pay it. I didn't believe they could do much, they were scrappy and confused pieces of shit. They're not the big mafiya or the Cossacks out west. So they left,

“Come back tomorrow, and it seems they drove off my employees.” there was bitterness in his voice, “I can manage it on my own for a while and my brother won't notice. But he has most of the muscle. I could call for him, but last I heard he was north in Tyumen.”

“Why Tyumen?” Jun inquired.

“I tried to tell him to not get in the way of you fucking Chinese, but he insisted. But I don't see the difference now: you're here. So all might well be lost.” he turned from a vat, scowling. Jun was still in the dark as to what he meant so he elaborated: “He believed serving the front of a war with whatever alcohol they wanted without affiliation would be a good business model.” he elaborated dryly, “Free market adventurism he called it. As if Russia wasn't an adventure already.”

“And you can't import your own into the country?”

“Would you want to try?” the German shot, “The price jumps exorbitantly, no one wants to take the risk to move it in. And neither he or I are in a position to manage the supply into the country ourselves. Russian home-brew after the Tzar already took a big hit, so we figured there was a lack for quality and we moved in.

“But now we might be shut down, and I can't find willing help. Someone keeps murdering anyone who comes in for work and I think I'm marked.

“Take care of this, and I'll tell you where your Orientals are.”

“Fine.” Jun said, “So who am I looking for?”

“The Italian, I think.” the German muttered uncertainly, “And as if to spite me, he and his fucking bunch are down in Old Sarepta.”