"The sky is beautiful today," said Elizabeth as she set a chipped clay cup in front of her husband. "It's bluer than I've seen in a long time."

Bill grunted in answer, then told her "Thank you" as he reached for his cup. After taking a sip, he looked on out the window facing away from the canyon and smiled a little. The sky was blue, certainly, and there were soft clouds above. The air was cool, too.

"You know..." Bill stared across at his wife and felt at peace. Elizabeth was his everything: tall, smart, and she had curly blonde hair that he used to joke looked like wheat. That hair was starting to grow a little silvery, but it just made her look even prettier. God, he was glad it was Saturday finally. He was glad to have a morning at home.

"You know," he continued after a long silence, looking back toward the window, "the Assembly is looking over the response from New Mexico, and I've already dealt with the bills they pushed at me. I've already met with the presidents - all four of them - and I've kept this coming week free of speeches and meetings."

Elizabeth took a seat with her own cup of milk, reaching on over and squeezing Bill's wrist. "You actually set a week aside for us? Will the Council function without its taskmaster?"

Bill snorted. "No," he grumbled. "But it'll do them good to try."

It was then that Bill heard the chanting. It was a distant sound, but it felt like a roar. Bill stopped drinking, set his cup down, and grew a hard expression. "Elizabeth," he said in a serious tone, "get the Major."

"You don't think-?"

"I do," said Bill grimly. He grabbed his coat off the wall, then stopped and made sure his revolver was still in the inside fold. It was. "I'm going to try and talk them down."

It took a while for Bill to get on down to the ground level, his house being one of those carved into the canyon itself. He got down the steps as quick as he could, nodding to his neighbors as he went. They seemed to be content to watch the scene from afar, but not Bill.

There it was: a crowd twenty or thirty strong brandishing stones and fruit, each of them shouting "Suffer not!" at the top of their lungs. They hurled missile after missile at a pair of young people in ragged coats who tried to shield themselves with their arms as they stepped away. One tripped and fell into the dirt, sending a cloud of dust into the air, and as the other stepped over to help him up she was struck in the forehead with a stone the size of a golf ball. She staggered back with a muffled cry.

That's when Bill fired his revolver into the dirt. The whole commotion came to a stop. He took a few steps forward and looked about at the crowd, his jaw set firmly.

"Is this how we treat strangers in our city?" he demanded icily. There was no answer for several seconds.

"They're not even people!" shouted a bald man with a brown beard, stepping on out from the crowd. "They're Evols! Ain't hard to figure out, unless you're a dumbass!" One of the men beside him nudged the speaker hard with his elbow, whispering something. The bald man looked up, paled considerably, then blurted out, "Er - no disrespect, Mr. Secretary General."

Bill flicked a glance on up as well. He could see a few Council Guardsmen already perched up in the canyon. Ah, he thought. Thank you, Elizabeth.

"I'll answer the question for you," Bill rumbled, folding his arms over his chest. "This is not how we greet strangers in Canyon City. There are no laws here that say Evols aren't people. Go home."

There was an air of outrage about the crowd, but a few of them acquiesced. Others followed, and then the rest, and soon the crowd had dispersed into the streets, huddled in small groups, muttering to themselves. Regrettably, there was little Bill could do about that: while it was true that the laws didn't declare Evols to be non-human as they did in the United Pueblos, the public backlash for punishing the mob could start an outright riot.

Still, there were certain things that human decency demanded be done. Bill stepped on over to the bedraggled pair, helping the one who couldn't stand to his feet. He gave them both an appraising look: they were shaky and scared, certainly, but they didn't look violent. The girl had tusks jutting from her mouth and spikes sticking out of her skin. The boy had a sort of slime covering his skin. He looked like a fish or a frog.

"I wish I could make up for what's just happened to you two kids," Bill said earnestly, smiling at them. "How did this start?"

"We were... we were goin' through the market, lookin' for somethin' cheap to eat," said the girl carefully. Bill could tell that she wasn't telling the whole truth, but he didn't blame her. "There was some preacher with a black hat that spurred 'em on when he saw us. And before we knew it..."

Of course, thought Bill bitterly. El Padre. That man had caused Bigishie a lot of trouble, and he spouted a lot of hate in the name of peace. It bothered the Secretary General to see God's name used in that way: he always felt that name should be called on as a force of love.

"I see," the middle-aged Navajo said, tucking his gun away. "If you need food and a safe place to stay, my home is open to you. It's not much, but-"

It didn't take any further convincing to get the couple to go with him to his house.

---

---

The sun wasn't quite gone from the sky by the time the Evol couple had fallen asleep by the fireplace. They'd been awkward, nervous guests, but Bill had little complaint with them. They were generous with their thanks, that was certain, and they told him a lot about their travels westward. By the sounds of things, they'd tried eking out a living in the wild for as long as they could. They'd hoped Canyon City would be different than the other places.

They were very young - fifteen and sixteen, Bill wagered - but they'd already seen so much. He sat with his wife outside the house, staring at the stars.

"Rumors are going to spread," Elizabeth noted, chewing on her lip like a piece of gum. "You're already viewed poorly enough as it is for trying to pass that law last year. Now we're housing Evols in our own house. People will try to take advantage of this."

"They may do what they will," huffed Bill, folding his arms over his chest. "I can't just let two kids be stoned to death! I won't stand idly by when lives are at stake, Elly. You know that."

"And that's why I married you," said Elizabeth in a sharp tone, "but that doesn't make your way of taking action any less stupid."

"Stupid?" Bill snorted loudly. "What would you have me do, then?"

"I'd have you think next time you decide to put my husband in front of an angry mob!"

Bill went quiet. They both did. Minutes went by, the only sound to be heard the distant hooting of an owl. "I'm sorry," Bill said, reaching over and putting his arm over his wife's shoulder. "It's just... Sometimes I become so caught up in this... I get caught up in all of this, in my responsibilities to the nations. I forget my responsibilities to you, sometimes."

"Well," said his wife with a grin, "I don't think about you all day, either. I spend more time writing history."

The two of them sat in silence for a while longer, just watching the sky. The sun had set too low for them to enjoy the day like they'd planned. Eventually, the married couple shared a brief kiss before Elizabeth went inside to sleep.

Bill stayed outside to watch the sky turn black, but his peace was interrupted when a man in a messenger's outfit came jogging along the steps, his hand tightly clasping a satchel at his hip. He looked out of breath, but before Bill could ask him if he needed a drink, he yanked a folded paper from inside that satchel and thrust it at the Secretary General.

Bill's eyes flicked left and right rapidly as he read, widening in shock. He felt weak in his stomach.

"So," he said quietly, "it's war, then."

West Koniginsberg, Northern Manitoba, Gottesland

Laying on the dirt floor of the crawlspace, James awoke. His head pounding, and his body stiff, he raised his head and looked around. Light crept in, from the floorboards above. To his left, he saw a uniformed revolutionary, with a well-trimmed beard and a joyful expression on his face.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, General", the man chuckled softly. "With how much blood you lost, we were worried."

James shifted around, and let out a low groan of severe discomfort. "What... what's the situation? Is the enemy still present?"

The man's expression grew grim. "Yes sir, they're patrolling the streets right now, rounding up our boys."

"Shit", James growled. "What about Victoria? Do they have her?"

"Sir, we're stuck in this house. We have no way of knowing what the situation is."

Letting out a grunt, James sank back to the floor. Remembering the attack, he raised one hand to his face feel the damage. His fingers rested on a firm bandage wrap, that encased his left eye. He winced, at the pain the pressure caused.

"How many men do we have here?", he wondered.

"Including you, sir, just three.", the man responded. "Although, I saw some of the others make it indoors. Don't know if any of them have been found."

"So where's our third man?"

"Up top", the man answered, giving the floorboards a light tap with is knuckles. "He's in civilian clothes, keeping the place occupied to reduce suspicion. This place is residential, after all."

"Well done", James commented. "Not much we can do for now, but wait these bastards out. Give it a day. Then, I'd like our civilian friend to go out and locate someone with medical training. I'll need proper treatment, before this gets infected. If our lady has been captured, I can't rescue her if I'm dead."

"Yes sir", the radical said, calmly.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

East Koniginsberg, Northern Manitoba, Gottesland

The Gottesland soldiers came marching down the street in orderly lines, with the appearance of a Victorian military parade. Each wore a dim metal helmet, suspiciously resembling a welding mask. It was an intimidating sight to behold.

Victoria gazed at her approaching adversaries through the gap between the cellar doors.

"If only we had armour like that", she murmured to herself, thinking out loud. "Maybe these fascists wouldn't have made it so far."

The soldiers, slowly and rhythmically, surrounded the city hall and readied their rifles. Once the building was surrounded on all sides, a four-man squadron was sent inside. They slammed through the front doors, and thundered through the building. Every closed door was knocked off its hinges, and every closet and cabinet was ripped apart. Eventually, they made their way to the back of the building, to the mayor's office. Smashing through the door, they were immediately met with gunfire, as Victoria's guards retaliated from the corners of the room. One soldier fell to the ground, dead, but the others quickly stormed in and dispatched the rebels.

Following the crackle of gunshots, Victoria heard the the three bodies strike the floor. First, the clang of the iron-clad soldier, then the muffled thumps of the two guards. A moment later, the rustling and slamming of the search resumed. The soldiers were determined to find the rebellion's leader. Anticipating a long wait, Victoria recoiled from the cellar's entrance, and began looking around for something edible.

However, as she did this, the crash of shattered wood rang behind her, and she suddenly found herself being grabbed from behind by a couple brutish Gottesland soldiers. Restraining her arms, they forcefully dragged her out of the cellar, into the blinding sunlight above. Her vision slowly returning to her, her sharp blue eyes rested upon a soldier sporting a series of medals and stripes. Removing his helmet, the officer unabashedly looked her up and down.

"And here she is!", he proclaimed, provoking several soldiers to cheer and jeer, victoriously.

Victoria responded with an insolent sneer, as her captors lifted her up by the arms, displaying her to the crowd like a trophy. This certainly wasn't a favourable position to be in.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Richmond, Metro Vancouver, British Columbia

Clad in baggy, faded radiation suits, two scavengers clamoured through the rubble-filled swamp. Overhead, partially-demolished concrete towers cast ominous shadows over them. The sickly-coloured, cloudy water was up to their knees. Even at night, and through their masks, the two men could see well enough by moonlight.

"Wie fühlen Sie sich?", one of the scavengers inquired, in a concerned tone, glancing over his shoulder to his partner.

"Nicht gut", the other responded, wearily.

Onward they trekked, their treasure-laden backpacks rattling with each step.

This was, by far, Gottesland's furthest scavenging expedition. Legends were whispered among the locals, about the unimaginable wealth of Great Vancouver, hidden deep in the radioactive ruins. The scavengers knew, that if they ever made it back home, they'd be welcomed as heroes. The first scavenger smiled to himself, beneath his plastic mask, at the idea.

Suddenly, a series of rocks tumbled down from on of the nearby towers. Several stories up, the two men heard frantic scuttling. They weren't alone...

Strange whispers echoed through the ruins. The scavengers strained their ears, attempting to comprehend it.

"Dah-jiah-yao, nee-men-gay-woah-men-nee-de... tsaoh!", the distant creatures ranted, in lispy gibberish.

Then they saw them, swinging from pieces of rebar, scuttling along the mounds of shattered concrete. Hideously deformed, completely naked, their eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. The whispering grew louder, into a cacophony of aggressive hisses.

"Woah-hueh-dah-soo-nee-jah-nah-dah-ren!"

Sand Wraiths

The world seemed to shake as something massive slammed into the ground above. Stone and sand peppered down at first, then came in a cascade behind Manuel. He swiveled about to see their escape route blocked.

"No turning back," said the sergeant, turning to face Manuel and the other three in the group. It wasn't an easy thing to do: the tunnels were small and tight. A man couldn't stand in them, but he could crawl or walk on his knees. The air was cooler than the outside, at least; a blessing Manuel was thankful for. That didn't keep his hands and face from getting sweaty.

"We have one shot at this, one. You know your jobs. The moment I give the order, we blow those raider shitheads straight to Hell. Comprenden?"

"Si, sargento!" Manuel snapped back. Everyone else did the same. His gun trembled in his hands... or were his hands trembling around his gun? No, it was definitely the gun.

The Latino sergeant flashed a huge grin, pointing up at the tunnel ceiling. "Then let's fry these bastards. Sand Wraiths, you know what to do."

They did. All of them knew what to do more than Manuel, but he knew enough. He was the group's spotter. He scuttled over to one of the trapdoors in the ceiling and took out his makeshift periscope (a tube with mirrors attached to either end) and took a deep breath. Manuel remembered which direction east was. The sun was still rising, and the last word they'd received was that the enemy was coming from the southwest. After steeling himself, he opened the trapdoor.

Wind tossed some sand into the tunnel, but not much. The top of the trapdoor was covered with an adhesive, so the sand and rocks atop it weren't going anywhere. But that wasn't important; what was important was...

"Holy shit," mumbled Manuel. "They got a tank."

"What, a Frankentank?" asked one of the guys behind him.

"No, damn it!" rasped Manuel to his squadmates. "They have a tank! I'm talking three barrels of whoop-ass on a treaded shitstick! I'm talking pre-war tank with three guns! Three guns!"

It was everything Manuel had never wanted to see. It was huge. He didn't know what kind it was or if historians could even figure that out anymore: it was just big and scary and holy shit did it look like a monster. It was the bull of all tanks, the Devil on treads, a-

"Focus!" hissed the Sergeant. "Do you see any weak points?"

Manuel took a deep breath, then did just that. He focused.

"Looks patched up," he mumbled as he saw the beast of war fire another couple of shots off to the north. "Its attention is facing north, toward the militia. Looks like it's got like five fuckers on horseback with sort'a pre-war army guns guarding it. And it's..." He paused.

"Hurry up, Manuel," growled someone.

"Th-the treads," he stammered. "If we can take out the treads, it'll be a sitting duck. And the thing's in shitty shape. If it stops moving we'll have 'em by their cajones."

"Then that's what we'll do," said the sergeant with a nod. Manuel looked behind him to see the man grabbing some red sticks off his belt. They were wrapped with a cloth that had a big, yellow smiley face plastered on them. "How many meters?"

"One hundred tops," Manuel answered.

"Good. Shoot the riders. Chelsea, you and me are gonna blow this thing up," said the sergeant firmly. "Everyone else, you just shoot anyone that tries to kill us. Tell us when to move, Manuel."

There was a stiff, heavy silence in the tunnel. Manuel watched as the tank and its guards moved a little further, and a little further still. He waited patiently, though he cringed each time it fired shots toward the militia. He knew people were dying to that thing. He had to wait just a little... longer...

"Flank's open! Go!" Manuel said. He dropped his periscope, lifted his hunting rifle, and his world became a cacophony of gunfire.

His first shot was a clear miss, whizzing way past the head of one of the guys on horseback. The man turned just in time to get a bullet to his chest, knocking him off his horse, and then his horse took a bullet to the head and fell atop him. Another rider clutched his shoulder as blood burst from it, and two raiders on foot threw themselves to the ground to avoid being made pincushions. Then came the second volley of bullets and more riders fell from their horses, screaming and shouting obscenities.

Manuel shouted at the top of his lungs. No, he screamed. He wasn't sure exactly what he screamed; it was just anger and fear all muddled up in one big mess. He looked over to his right and saw what looked like a swarm of raiders surging over the dunes at the distant palisade the militia were holed up behind. It was in shambles. He couldn't see how many bodies there were, but there were bodies, and there was smoke and fire and death. Something in Manuel was incised, and he focused his attention on the tank again.

Chelsea and the sergeant were rushing toward the tank, and Manuel understood just what sort of danger they were in when some son-of-a-bitch poked his head out from the top of the tank and grabbed the smallest of the three guns on the tank. It wasn't a cannon. Manuel wasn't sure what it was until the man started pounding the sand with rapid-fire rounds. It fired bullets faster than any weapon Manuel had ever seen, and he couldn't help but scream again as the sergeant went down in a crimson mess.

Manuel fired again twice more when the bastard with the big gun started turning his sights on him. Manuel immediately ducked back into the tunnel and slammed the trapdoor shut. He heard bullets slam against the ground and the reinforced door over his head, and he gasped for breath. Then he heard a groan, and when he looked to his left he saw one of his friends go limp inside the tunnel. He was dead.

It took everything Manuel had to shove himself back to his feet, poke his head out, and take aim at the gunner. He would've thanked God if he was thinking clearly enough to thank God. Instead, he just acted on instinct: the moment that bastard was in his ironsight, he fired. Manuel's target didn't get back up.

There was Chelsea with red sticks in her hand. She lobbed one bundle right in front of the tank's treads, then started climbing atop it. As the explosion rocked the vehicle and stopped it in its tracks, she yanked the dead body of the man Manuel had killed to the side and jumped on into the tank with another stick of dynamite. There was gunfire, and moments later there was an explosion.

The tank stopped moving.

Manuel looked to his right and noticed there were only two others left besides him that were still alive. He took a deep breath, then snapped, "Back into the tunnels! We gotta help the militia!"

Debate raged on within the Senate of the Cascades. Since the beginning of the Hochins administration little work had been done in officially colonizing and settling the British Columbian territory under Cascadian hands. The fact that scavengers and bandit gangs still had free reign over Vancouver led to political travesty for the Progressive faction of the Senate. However, a schism over the 'BC Crisis' was taking place within the conservative faction as well.

All conservative elements agreed that the overall colonization effort had failed under progressive policies, however Conservatives had long argued over how the issue would be resolved if a Conservative reached the Presidential Manor. The majority isolationist conservatives argued that the Republic would do best economically and militarily to simply pull out of the colonization effort and instead look to the more stable Idaho for expansion. The militarists, however, argued the plan should be continued under new military management, stating that the gangs would be put against the wall and scavengers sent away while the Republic's flag flew high over a 'new Vancouver'.

Within the Progressive circle the blame fell predominantly upon the lack of motivation the administration seemed to hold over British Columbia, with many Progressivists even supporting the hardline conservatives on more direct action in restoring Vancouver to her formerly glory. Thus, when the time came for a decision, it came as no surprise when the militarist elements of both parties won the majority vote on the issue.

Within a week after the vote, two Cascadian Frontier Battalions left Seattle on direct orders from High Command with the goal of 'putting down' Vancouver.



Outer Vancouver, British Columbia

"You ever been this far north boy?"

Hamilton looked up from his can of what could only be described as 'brown meat' to look to the man who addressed him. He didn't know his name but he'd seen him before, a cavalryman in the 4th Riders Regiment.

"No, you?"

"Mhm, plenty of times." The Cavalryman replied, taking a long drag from his cigarette and looking away from the campfire into the darkness. "Vancouver's an ugly place. The old men in Seattle say once upon a time it was a huge city, fancy, like in the pictures."

"You believe'em?"

"I do. You gotta trust the words of the old timers. Not too many people are still around from the before times, the ones who did see before are just about gone. You know any old timers?"

Hamilton shook his head. He hadn't directly met anyone from before the war but he had seen some. Their skin a pale white and their hair usually matted and falling out each passing day. The elderly always reminded him of the election posters he'd seen of Nathaniel Birch in Portland, though Birch looked cleaner than most of the old people he'd seen in person.

"Shame, they got some neat stories if you ever stop to listen... When I was in hospice for a leg injury I got during a skirmish on the Idaho border an old woman was my attending nurse. Medics like her are a rarity now-a-days, hell, Medics in general are a rarity. Sweet little lady, tended to my leg like I was made a' glass. Wonder whatever came of her."

The cavalryman fell silent and his head fell downward, his eyes staring absently into the flames. Hamilton finished the last few bites of his meal and tossed the can out into the darkness, the sound of the aluminum clanged against a distant tree and caused a bird to spring from its nest. Soon the silence returned, only the sounds of crackling wood and a colony of frogs bleeping to the west towards the river.

"So, uh, where are you from?" Hamilton finally asked the Cavalryman, stirring him from his thoughts.

"Redmond, a little town not too far from the colonial border in Washington. You?"

"Portland, born and raised."

The Cavalryman gave a chuckle and nodded. "Portland's a fine town, a little too big for me though. I like the quiet life... The name's Ford, by the way."

"Hamilton, everyone calls me Hamish though." Hamilton replied, looking over Ford for a moment.

Ford was an older man, clearly a veteran of conflict. His eyes were sunken in and lines of age covered his vestige. His hair and moustache had begun to gray and his blue eyes seemed faded. Whoever Ford was, he had every look to imply a professional soldier.

"You got any family Hamish?" Ford asked as he stomped out the remnants of his cigarette in the grass.

"No, my mother died a few years ago. I, uh, never knew my dad."

Ford rose to his feet and put his hand into his jacket pocket, he leaned across the dying campfire and held out a picture to Hamilton. The picture was faded and in black and white, as most photos were. The man was definitely Ford, though his hair was slick and black and he held no facial hair. The other man in the picture was younger still, no older than his early thirties, and blonde. Both men were smiling. Ford took the photo and gently placed it back into his jacket before sitting down again,

"It might not look like it but that was me a few decades ago." He chuckled for a moment before continuing. "Jerry was my husband at the time. He ended up being a bit too energetic for my tastes though, ended up catching him with some university student from Tacoma and kicked him to the curb. Still can't believe I married him."

Hamilton nodded, his eyes looking upward towards the moon. "Our shift'll be ending soon."

"Mhm, my boys are part of the recon team heading into the city in the morning. If the reports are right it'll be hell dealing with the gangs. Every god damn street seems to have it's own wannabe warlord and none of'em take kindly to strangers in uniform."

"Well, hey, maybe I'll see you out there. Last I checked I've been drafted into the frying pan too."

Ford smiled as he rose to his feet, two more soldiers were approaching the fire. Both men seemed to be from the 23rd Mountaineers. "Well Hamish my boy, try not to die out there tomorrow. You seem like a good kid for a private."

"How'd you k-"

"I know a private when I see one. You all tend to have that 'fresh out of the training grounds' level of enthusiasm. Plus you actually talked about going into urban fighting with an eagerness." Ford said simply as he took another cigarette from his jacket and lit it with a match.

Before Hamish could say his goodbyes Ford had already begun walking back towards his company tend, illuminating a small auora of the dark with his lit cigarette as he was absorbed by the dark without a word...

Marc felt something brush against his side, he felt something brushing along his face. It was numb at first, then it came rapidly like the cold. He lazily stirred awake to stare into a clear morning sky, without a cloud in the air and basking in a soft glow of the morning sun. His entire body felt sticky, and he attempted to move, the ground underneath slurped and sucked under his shifting weight.

“You're going t' have'da stay put.” a low voice said alongside him. The entire front of his brow ached and hammered worse and sharper than any hungover. His stomach grumbled empty and sickly as he rolled his eyes to where he had heard the voice. His breath hung stiff and heavy behind his tongue as he looked over.

Leaning over him a man in a soldier's helmet leaned over his still body. He had in his ears a stethoscope and a white papery mask clung strapped over his mouth. Marc felt cold all of a sudden, as he felt the sensation to feel crawl back. He felt the cold mud that had soaked into his skin and caked his skin. He tried to stir, but the man urged him to stay still. “Don't.” he said coldly, and rose the end of the stethoscope up over Marc and placed it under his shirt.

The metal was colder than the winter snow and he flinched against it, but the army doctor simply pressed harder to compensate and pressed it against his chest. “Ya heart rate is normal.” the doctor said, “Do ya fell anythin'?”

“W-what do you mean?” Marc asked, he was beginning to feel afraid. He tried to sit up but was pushed back into the mud by the soldier, “I feel fine.”

“Are ya sure?”

“Y-yes, I'm sure!”

“What about your head?” he probed.

“Wh-” Marc began, but he was called back to that sharp hangover. His forehead felt rough, aching and sore like an iron spike had been driven clear into it, “My head fucking hurts, what happened!?” he protested.

“Then you can stand.” the doctor confirmed, rising to his feet. Lowering a hand he helped Marc up off the ground.

He staggered and shivered as the cold morning air bit his saturated clothes. It rolled over onto his back like ice off the lake, his shirt and coat betraying him to the wolves of cold northern air. Wrapping his arms around him, he fought to stay warm, and wanted to immediately dive back into the mud. At least then it was protected from the wind.

Looking up though, he forgot about the cold. Smoldering not but a few yard away a farmhouse lay smoldering, nothing but ash and twisted cinders as thin tendrils of smoke snaked their way into the cool spring sky. Out further beyond the trees the remnant columns of smoke from Escanaba proper sailed into the cold blue. A mounting feeling of dread wrapped dreadful arms around him and caught him in an embrace not so dissimilar than what he had felt when he got up. He collapsed to his feet, struck with awe and terror.

“Blanket.” the soldier requested, tossing a heavy wool shroud over Marc.

The man's boots crunched in the snow as he turned to walk away. Marc turned, shouting to him, “Wait! What happened?”

The soldier stopped and looked out at the scene around him. Faint stains of blood flecked the snow, there was a fine coat of gray ash that peppered the melting spring snow, and the air smelled sweet with char and fire. “Someone attacked.” he said simply. Shrugging apathetically.

Now that Marc had a good look at him, he realized he wasn't army. The faint blue-gray of his winter uniform said it all. He was navy. The knee-length coat he wore decorated in the regular insignia of the merchant marine, the anchor hauling gull.

“B-but, what happened?” Marc panicked, shuffling to his feet. His hands held the coat tight around his shoulders as he raced to the doctor. His legs felt numb and he staggered and limped to him, “I see something happened. B-but... Who? What?

“Whose dead, taken!?” he pleaded.

Again, the sailor shrugged. He wore a mask of naked apathy, unflinching as he turned and walked off to the next survivor, “Can you at least tell me where to go?” he asked after them, hoping to get answers. But there were none.

-------------

As Marc wandered through central Escanaba, the woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak the chaos and panic of the night before found ways to eek back into the mind. While he had awoken in numb pain and murky confusion, the dawning weight of what had occurred was coming back in. He was striken and slow as he shuffled through the middle of the street passed the late Victorian architecture of mid-town Escanaba. Windows had been shattered and gray and black smoke still rolled out from some of the windows from the attack last night. There was a sullen sadness in the air as people just sought to collect the pieces, count the wounded, and collect the dead.

Marc tried to rationalize it, and to try and remember what had happened. He was at the bar last night, drinking and looking for someone. And he was seated with and talking with a stranger when everything suddenly went quiet. Then he – everyone – heard the explosions as something, or someone attacked. In a shaken way he wished he had gotten drunk enough now to not have to remember the details. That as he wandered down the main drag from the highway that it was all just some thing he would catch up on later, after waking up half on the floor and half in a bed.

But no, it was too real as he passed by a metal-framed cart, draped over with a fraying tarp. A still life-less hand hung out the back that he beheld with lifeless, child-like wonder and horror. But he wasn't quite panicked, not as he shuffled along.

From a side-street a man stepped out, his face pale and eyes wide with terror, a concern greater than any storm cloud to threaten over the horizon. “Rebecca!?” he called out into the still afterglow air, “REBECCA!?” he shouted, dragging his hands through thinning brown hair.

“Rebecca?” Marc asked in a low asking voice. A part of him hung on the unknown plight of this man. As a parent, and a once married man.

“Rebecca, my daughter. Have you seen her?” the man pleaded, wide-eyed with terror. He shook and quivered as he wrapped an arm around himself, like he was naked and defenseless. The way he looked on at Marc hopefully and chewed his nail was beyond the want and need for confirmation. He was a child again wrapped up in something striking and...

Marc stopped, that last bolt of a thought shooting back to him. Hitting his head like a twenty pound sledge and he felt a sensation of terrified hopeless gnaw his feet and numb his mouth. “Shit.” he muttered to himself and began to race off, shuffling more at first before it turned into a run.

“Wait! Do you know!?” the man called back after him, but stopped in his own chase of Marc after a few steps of his own and shuffled back into town.

Ellie. Marc had almost forgot about Ellie. He would kick himself, but he was running. The blanket coat dragged along behind him until he simply let-go and fly off behind him. He raced off down the side-streets, through neighborhoods long abandoned with their old century old houses beginning to show for their weight in time and age. In the stillness of the air's breath his feet echoed from the faces and empty windows of these abandoned shacks as he scrambled for the lake.

The streets that had been so familiar seemed no longer so much so as he ran to the ranch house he called home. The door to the road had been torn off, the glass shattered and broken. Someone had fired arrows and bolts into the mildew covered white aluminum siding and a dead dog lay out beside the stoop.

Even the trees in the yard and alongside seemed unforgiving and defiled in the way they bowed over as Marc ran to the empty, darkened house. The panic was set deep in his heart, burrowed in like a gopher. He bound up the steps, simply jumping over several and into the door.

Mud caked the carpet and the furniture was a mess. Marc felt his chest pound with terror as he cried, “Ellie!” he roared.

No response came.

Marc dashed down the main hall, tearing to the rooms at the far side, hoping to find his girl still hiding. But the doubt grew stronger as he lay eyes on the door-frames with the doors hewn clean off the hinges. Deep gouges hit the wooden frames almost strategically. And without obstruction Marc stood in the passage to his daughter's bedroom looking at the chaos and disorder that now reigned there.

A bed upturned, dressed thrown against the floor, clothes and broken glass littered the floor along with the splinters and remains of the hollow door that had hung between her room and the hall. A defiling stench hung in the air, a mingling stench of sweat, blood, and terror. It was hard to tell who had hurt who, holes in the dry-wall, blood on the floor. Someone had tried to fight. But there was no body, no one had died.

Marc fell on the floor weeping, someone had taken his daughter.

-------------

By noon there was anger in the air. The town gathered at the town hall, or rather the old Secretary of State building. For the anger and fear in the community, there wasn't any location big enough to support all the people who had come forward, desperately seeking answers from somebody. Anybody who might know what had happened.

But even then, the state office's lobby was too small all the same and people had packed in asses to elbows. Their voices joined into a sea of chatter in the closed space. Along the edge of the room, battered and injured city police and the few odd militia who had managed to respond leaned on the wall or sat slumped in rusting metal chairs. They traded looks of concern between themselves and the townsfolk they were sword to protect. Some look even more frightened of the people here than what it was they had to respond to, after all: in this moment, all it needed was a particularly angry individual to cause a riot and take their rage out on them.

They weren't ready for that sort of thing, no one was.

Through the dense crowd Marc managed to push himself up to the front, squeezing against the chest high counter that half a century ago clerks would have processed state driving and boat licenses. But the world no longer needed such things to the sort of scale that had existed before, the office had since become empty and almost half-forgotten. Only woken up for emergency situations such as this.

Behind the desks the mayor and marshal of Escanaba nervously talked with the commander of the city's militia, a navy captain, and a familiar look ranger. They shot occasional looks to the murmuring crowd, afraid to approach them. Marc could see their looks of despair here, they probably had as little information of what had happened as they did.

It was chaos, there was in the room a high expectant energy. The air became tepid and tense as the town's mayor, a large middle aged man climbed atop the counter. Addressing the large congregation woefully he began with truth, “I am as shocked as you all are.” he started, “There is no amount of words I can offer to describe what had happened in our fair town. We had for over a decade now thought we were at peace at last and could go about our lives without fear of assault, of attack. But clearly, it was not a verdant peace as we hoped.

“I'm not going into the specifics about last night. By now we all know. We were attacked by an unknown assailant who left us as quickly as they had come.” his words were tense and measured. Every time he finished a sentence he looked down into the crowd with the sort of tense expression given when expecting a punch. So far, the mob looked up at him silent and taking in what he was saying. With heavy breaths he continued on, “After last night's raid, we have counted the unfortunate dead to be at forty-five individuals.” a murmur lit through the room, “Many had been caught in their homes, or in the streets, and down-town has been ransacked.

“But what is truly shocking about all this is not the dead, but the missing. Our best head count of individuals declared missing is one-hundred thirty four individuals, mostly female.” another rippling wave of concerned tearful murmuring shifted through the room.

“What about my daughter, Ellie McTarson?” Marc could feel himself shiver and shack. So many emotions were wrapping him in a stranglehold. Rage. Fear. Despair. So many feelings and conflict burning within him.

The mayor looked down at him with pity in his eyes. He looked behind him to the small group of city officials who hung back in the old staff area. A young secretary thumbed through a registry, scanning the pages quickly. Looking up she gave a silent shake of her head.

“One-hundred forty-five individuals!” the mayor declared, correcting the count with the addition of Marc's girl. Again there was a wave of sympathetic chatter through the room.

Marc felt numb. He leaned against the desk as the mayor went on, before offering his soap-box of a desk to the captain who had sailed into town. He explained that he and his men came to investigate when they saw the smoke in the early morning light and that their assailants had already passed by the time he came. But he promised he would go to Lansing and personally put in a request for a regular garrison.

The exact words he used and those promises he made feel deaf on Marc who wrapped himself up into his own world. Shivering with so many feelings, absolutely numb to the world and frozen within himself. His Ellie, and over a hundred others.

He needed a drink. He needed one bad.

Major Bennet Maceedoe sat in his refurbished office, overlooking the current map of the local region. He sighed, drinking from his coffee cup. The rebels had dug into the ruins of Beale AFB, and were refusing to surrender, not that he thought they would. Typical freedom fighting bastards, defiant to the very end. The light dimmed for a moment, no doubt the generators being switched over. He brushed some dust from his desk, before turning back to his work. He had perhaps three thousand troops at his disposal, with another two thousand five hundred reservists that had been called up to active duty for this operation. Command called in Operation Green Eclipse, and their plans were very clear, punish these separatists with extreme prejudice.

His coffee tasted good, if not a bit cold to his liking, but such things could not always be helped. He grumbled to himself, commenting that he needed to get a small Bunsen burner for his desk, so he could keep his coffee warm at all times. The small luxuries in life, oh how they were so preciously loved, even in times of war. Bennet coughed into his arm, as he stood up to relay his plans to the local ground commanders, knowing that the attack would begin at dawn. War, war never changes, even in this hell left behind from the failures of the old world.

The bunker was cold, perhaps it was from the setting sun, or perhaps other things, but Major Maceedoe bundled his jacket tightly about himself as he came out into the courtyard that dominated the mountain-top. Small campfires dotted the encampment, keeping the troops warm, and cooking their food that was greatly appreciated. A supply convoy had arrived the previous day, restocking the army units with precious ammo, food stuffs, and luxuries, such as coffee and chocolate. The small things, how long ago had it been when such trivial things were common place and in every store? He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and made his way to the motor pool, where the battalion gear heads were working hard to finish last minute repairs and routine maintenance on the scarce few vehicles that could be spared to the Sutter Buttes Redoubt.

They'd come in handy, no doubt, able to carry supplies, and field the few heavy munitions as well. Funny how the weapons of the old world, from before the 21st century were still working, still sending people to the grave, even when they'd been considered obsolete. Perhaps it was a great divine irony, but either way, Major Maceedoe took these small things as a gift, and cherished them greatly. He turned away from the Motor Pool, and made his way to the radio tent, where his comm troops worked away at decipher dispatches from headquarters, and send out relays to other units and High Command. He smiled to himself, how long had it been since he was a little old lieutenant, in charge of a signal corps unit, relaying messages from the coast to the valley. So long ago, yet at times, it seemed like yesterday.

Major Maceedoe yawned, and left the men to work. There would be time recollect on the past tomorrow, time to think about anything and everything. But for now, he needed to sleep, and get some rest. A major operation was going to happen at dawn, and he needed to be well rested in order to command his troops to victory. War, war never changes.

Bittersweet

The morning sun crept back into the air. If the sun could think, it most surely would have mourned.

The first gleaming rays kissed a broken city and red dunes covered in the dead. Some were from Los Pueblos Unidos. Some were militiamen. Some were soldiers sent by the Security Council to protect the town. Before them lay smoking heaps of wreckage and the lifeless bodies of the invading army that had beset the Hopi Nation.

Diane leaned on her rifle, staring across that deathly valley. The wind tossed sand over those brave men and women on both sides who'd sacrificed themselves for this... this...

"We won," said someone behind her. Diane turned her head and saw the tired, smiling face of a young man. Diane didn't know his name. He was wrong, though: it wasn't victory to have your own city pummeled into dust by cannon fire. It wasn't victory to lose so many people, nor to have to kill so many people. And it wasn't victory for your best friend to...

Diane turned away from him. She looked out over the rubble that remained of the wall and back at the field of bodies.

"Yes," she answered. "We won."

---

The victory wasn't complete, however. The Huachua had taken over five towns in the Hopi nation and destroyed another two, and they had fortified their positions well. There were rumors that more of these invaders were coming, too; and although most of northern Arizona was still securely in Hopi hands, the Huachua threat showed weaknesses in the League and in the border defenses.

There was considerable debate among the Security Council over how best to deal with the threat. The prevailing attitudes were to either strike back as hard as possible against the Huachua or to enter negotiations immediately. Secretary General Bigishie presented a plan that truly embraced "big stick" diplomacy: he suggested taking the army and surrounding the captured towns, besieging them for a few days, then approaching the Huachua for negotiations. Presumably, the threat of facing the combined strength of the Council Guard, the militia, and the national armies would be enough to pressure the Huachua into revealing what they wanted and into surrender. After much debate, the plan was approved.

Good news arrived from the north. First, the expedition sent north finally returned, and it bore the fruits of successful negotiation: heaps of grains were loaded onto horse-drawn wagons, and word was that Gottesland was open to consistent trade.

The sudden influx of food supplies was exactly what was needed to begin the process of securing the Free People of New Mexico's membership in the League. The process was far from over; there were still details that needed to be hammered out. However, being able to offer both an immediate and consistent supply of rations meant that the prospect of inducting all of New Mexico into the League was suddenly a very real possibility.

A caravan was assembled once more, this one with spare fuel for the trip back to the League, laden with metals and coal for trade with Gottesland. Their orders were very explicit: do not let the Gotteslanders confiscate the vehicles. Bring back more food. The Council hoped this would begin a good, steady relationship of trade. They did not know about the revolution happening in the land they were starting trade with.

---

A considerable force was arrayed around the occupied town of Kayenta. The Navajo and Hopi Nations provided most of the manpower, their soldiers stationed behind sandbags to provide them some protection from the superior weapons of the Huachua. There was a general hullabaloo as reinforcements came in. Occasional spurts of rifle fire came from the town toward the encamped soldiers around Kayenta, but these merely interspersed long stretches of silence and waiting. Nothing much was happening. There was a standstill and a large, empty field between the town and the surrounding army.

A truck started rolling out from the larger army, a white flag of truce held aloft. Inside were a few soldiers, yes, and an officer as well, but also Ambassador Sabrina Wallace. The fifty five year old woman sat in the back of the truck with her suitcase on her lap. She defined calm: she was composed, sat with poise, and didn't show a hint of nervousness. Her confidence had already infected the others in the vehicle, veterans and greenhorns alike. They exuded airs that could make a grizzly bear think they were in charge.

The truck stopped short of the town, and out stepped Ambassador Wallace. She brushed her gray hair back and stepped on forward, escorted by five Council Guardsmen. It was then that someone called out from behind the walls, "What do you want?" At least a dozen visible guns, probably many more unseen, were pointing down at the small group standing in the open.

"We're here to negotiate," the Ambassador called back crisply. "Take us to your leader."

No matter how deep the well went, the guilt and loathing could not be drowned out. Shots of whiskey and glasses of beer could not bury the terrible feeling the welled in his gut as Marc dropped his head against the rough wooden bar. It was the same place he had been the following night, it was also the loneliest. That afternoon there was only the bartender who solemnly went about his work, pouring Marc quiet glasses of pity when the drunk needed it.

In his sorrow, pity he hadn't found the bottom to escape out of. The residual fear and dumb-struck panic rang in his head like a bell and no amount of alcohol dulled its ringing. It if anything sharpened the sound, echoing in his ears as the last shrill fight he had with Ellie. She wasn't home now to greet him in the morning. Something had come to take her away. Take his daughter from him like had happened with his wife.

He blamed himself. Hammering his head against the wood he sought to hammer out of himself every sin he had committed that warranted everything to now be stolen away. There wasn't light anymore, just dull gray stormclouds. In the emptiness of the bar his forehead echoed like a lone drummer. He hated himself. He had this country. He hated the circumstances that lead to it. His legacy, this alcohol.

He downed another pint of thick dark beer. The unfiltered slosh washed his tongue in sharp heavy bitterness. The foam clung to an unshaven mustache and beard. He felt dirty inside and out, and all he could think to do – all he knew to do – was drink. Despite all the hate for it and himself he felt now. Maybe he could drink his liver into submission and die in some numb coma.

What a suicide that would be. One to put in the books for Marquette or Grand Rapids.

He lay his head back down and felt the warm tears run down his cheek. The bartender poured him another glass and left. Marc didn't take it. The numbing buzz was coming on, and soon he would be staggering out in a monster blackout. Maybe his inebriated self would walk into the lake.

The door opened, jostling Marc picked his head up sharply from the bar. The world swam at once, a wave of consciousness poured across him and he felt the world shift as he looked up and over.

The ranger from earlier had stepped in. Running his hands across his fingers he worked his leather gloves off as he walked to the bar keep.

“Afternoon.” he said, “Sorry about last night.” he mumbled apologetically, in almost the same empty comfort a man gives another when his father has just passed away.

“We'll recover.” the barman replied with a long sigh, “Don't know about how many others, d'ough.” he added. Marc couldn't help but feel as if they were talking about him. He lay his head back down and tried to drift back off into his own melancholy.

“One of my men told he found the tracks, looks like they're going in the general direction we're headed so. Maybe we'll catch up with the attackers, bring the town girls back. The captain's sending an envoy to Lansing, you'll hear back from them within the next week or so I imagine.”

“We're fringe now, even for da Upper Peninsula. I don't image d'ey'll do much.”

“Unless the lumber barons protest.” the ranger said. There was a heavy pause, “You have the supplies I purchased?”

“Yea, sure. I have a crate in da back. After me.” the bartender invited. Marc listened to the sound of the two pairs of footsteps trail across the bare naked cement floor of the bar into the back. Even his mind full of slush he could pick out who was who. The ranger's foot falls were the heaviest.

Minutes passed in silence with the two men in the back. The moment of solitude left Marc to himself. And he began to wonder. For once, could he make good on his fuck-ups and fix them? Groggily he picked himself up and starred at the bare and cracked door to the bar's back room. He thought about it. How much could he do? Could he keep up with rangers?

Were they taking on a posse?

The ranger man emerged first from the back, a crate of full bottles hoisted up atop his shoulder. Exchanging pleasantries and courteous handshakes he headed for the door. If he left, Marc would be resigning himself to drowning himself in booze and debt to the bar. He sprung. “H-hey!” he shouted, his voice boomed in the empty bar-room, freezing the ranger.

He looked up at him first bewildered, almost offended. Then he recognized his face. “I recognize you, last night.” he said, “Do you live here or something?”

Marc shook his head, clumsily scrubbing out his eyes with the flesh of his palm he mumbled, “You takin' on?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” the ranger asked.

“Y-you takin' on. For -ah a possie or somethin'.” he grumbled the words almost dismissively. “I ca- can help ya.” he nodded.

The ranger looked over at the barman, then at Marc. Shrugging he looked to the bartender and asked: “You know much about him?”

“Sure dh'ing, he's a regular lush. By day he chops tree in da woods for da Company. He goes by Marc.”

“Wymint Lumber Company?” the Ranger asked.

The barman nodded.

“Say Marc, can you shoot?” the ranger asked.

An obvious question in the north. Marc nodded, fumbling his fingers along the rim of his glass of beer.

“Can you stay sober.”

Marc froze. Could he really do that? Had there been a time he was ever. If he wanted to save Ellie... “Yeah.” he answered. But it was a half-hearted answer. He wasn't even sure if he could. He wasn't sure if it was the truth either, he could be lying to the ranger and himself. But the alcohol was talking now, the words sounded as good as the poor choices to Marc.

The Ranger shifted the crate atop his shoulder, thinking. “You can surely swing an ax.” he mused to himself, “Do you own a gun?”

“I got a crossbow at home, if it ain' gone now.”

The ranger nodded, jostling the crate off his shoulder he held it out to Marc, “You carry this, you lead the way.”

------------

The way Marc felt, he was surprised that he had made it home without stumbling. The glass bottles in the crate had clattered and tapped together in an uncoordinated song. And the weight of the contents dragged his arms down from his shoulders. By the time he had reached home he had lost sensation in his shoulders from the numbing weight of the oak crate laden with full bottles.

It was closed, so he didn't know with what.

But now at home, he had slid it onto his kitchen table and lead the ranger into the basement. By lantern light he had led him through the controlled chaos that was the basement to the moldy box where he kept his crossbow.

The weapon wasn't formal, it wasn't workshop made in some southern town or from St Ignace. It was hand made, from the patience and dexterity of a single man throwing mismatched parts together to make a cohesive weapon. Bolted onto a wooden stock the spoked wheels from off a bike ran a chain into a mechanism to draw back the string. Worn, dry, and without a protective finish it was as crude as it could be. But in the wild over-engineering in places and apparent under-engineering in others it functioned.

Marc leaned against a shelving unit holding up the lantern as the ranger looked the weapon over. Sighting down at and giving it puzzled examination. The look in his wild face said he had not seen a tool like it before. He was surprised as much as he was horrified.

“Who made this?” he asked as he held it up to his shoulder and looked down the length. The relaxed arms of the weapon were plated with metal that had been riveted on, some sort of copper plating to reinforce the wooden arms. Further reinforcement had been made with rings of riveted iron that further braced the plates to it.

“I don' know. It was my dad's.” Marc shrugged, “A lot of this stuff was.” he mumbled, looking out over the chaos. “I think he had someone make it for him when the bombs fell and the wars came.”

“So you wouldn't know what this did?” the ranger asked.

“No, he only told me how to use it.”

“So you can fire it?”

Marc nodded, it felt like he had answered this question before, “I use it to hunt.”

“How often do you do that?”

“Once every other week.”

The ranger nodded and lowered the weapon, looking down at it. “I've had it throw a bolt clear through a deer's chest once.” he pointed out.

The ranger nodded approvingly. “So it can.”

He handed the thing to Marc, “You're not trained to fight so I'm not going to ask you to do any hard combat. But if you have to you will. I don't know who or what we're chasing yet, so be aware of that. Until we finish what I came to do you can come back and settle back here in town, or do whatever the hell you want.

“I'm not taking you in on salary though, if you want to come along I want something out of this. An untrained person is a liability, understand?” pressed the ranger.

“I understand.” Marc acknowledged.

Nodding, the ranger looked over at the collection of stuff left to mold in the basement. “Do you know what your father left you?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

The ranger nodded, “We'll work it out after we're done. But I'd like to take some pickings of what you got when this is all said in done. That is if you can't pay in cash.”

“Go ahead and take what you want.” Marc grumbled.

“Then we'll discuss that when we're through. Now get the bolts for your crossbow, I'm taking you to our camp.”

Gottesland

Lajord Hutterite Colony, Central Saskatchewan

The sky was a bright, vibrant blue, interrupted by only the occasional cloud. A gentle breeze russled through the endless golden wheat-fields. Pat MacFearghus-Koln walked calmly down a well maintained dirt road, dressed in a sharp black suit, King James Bible tucked under his right arm. Just ahead, he could see the crowds of people, all dressed in identical black coats and hats, assembling for the morning service. To his left walked the abnormally tall Johan Huber, his personal bodyguard. To his right, Victoria Albertasdottir, the manacles around her wrists softly rattling and clanging as she stepped onward.

"What is the point of this ridiculous pomp and pretense?", Victoria spat. "If you're going to kill me, and attempt to crush my rebellion, do it already."

"And make you a martyr?", Pat inquired. "My lady, that's the last thing this country needs. No, today is the Lord's day, and a special one at that."

"Special?", she sneered. "This is a daily ritual for you German primitives. The process couldn't be more meaningless."

"German? Hah!", Pat exclaimed. "I'm pure Scottish. I took 'Koln' from my wife. I wouldn't have had a hope of getting elected, were it not for her."

"How very progressive, for someone living in the Dark Ages.", Victoria mocked.

"Indeed it is.", Pat agreed. "But regardless, today is special. Today we pray for our troops."

"You mean the ones that just massacred my entire town?" she hissed in response.

"Not exactly.", Pat dismissed, gesturing to the crowd ahead of them.

As the church doors swung open, the congregation didn't enter. Instead, they stood to either side, leaving an opening through the middle of the crowd. Out of a neighbouring building, six men emerged, carrying a large coffin, followed by another six, and third group, each hoisting their own casket.

"These men were shot down by your sharpshooters, before the battle even began.", Pat explained. "One of them wasn't even a soldier. He was a pastor, from this village. It was decided that the funeral would be held just before the regular service."

Victoria stood silent, the sneer stalwartly clinging to her face. As the procession carried the three coffins into the tabernacle, the large crowd began singing an English hymn.

"My latest sun is sinking fast,
My race is nearly run,
My strongest trials now are past,
My triumph has begun.

Oh come, angel band,
Come and, around me stand,
Oh bare me away on your snow white wings,
To my immortal home.
Oh bare me away on your snow white wings,
To my immortal home."

As the last coffin entered the church, the congregation began shuffling inside, followed by MacFearghus and his two companions.

"What do you expect to achieve, with this emotional garbage?" Victoria inquired. "Are you expecting some tearful confession? Some repentance, for opposing fascists?"

"No", Pat answered calmly. "It is simply the way of these people. At the end of the day, I'm still a servant to the Gottesleut. And while I'd rather fight fire with fire, it's their way to meet hatred with love. They won the World War, after all. The meek inherited the Earth. The rest of us are just their servants, whether we know it or not."

"Nonsense", Victoria concluded, under her breath.

As they made their way inside the dimly lit building, the chorus continued.

"Oh come! Angel band!
Come and, around me stand!
Oh bare me away on your snow white wings,
To my immortal home.

Oh bare me away on your snow white wings,
To my immortal home."

As the song died down, the preacher made his way to the podium.

"Meinen Freunden, heute ist einen frohen Tag."

"Oh for crying out loud.", Victoria mumbled to herself. The sermon was going to be entirely in German. Thankfully, for her, it was a brief sermon, followed by more songs in English. The congregation, that had packed the church from wall to wall, exploded in melodic unity. Their voices rang all around her, in two-part harmony, with the beauty and structure of a professional choir.

"I will meet you in the morning (meet you in the morning),
Meet you in the morning,
With the smiles that I wear (that I wear),
Smiles that I wear,
And we'll sit down by the river (sit down by the river),
Sit down by the river,
In a city (in a city),
In a city build for squares."

Victoria rolled her eyes, and yet, the music was soothing. They didn't have choirs like this in the English colonies. In fact, they hardly had music at all.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

East Koniginsberg, Northern Manitoba

Days had passed, and James Painter was recovering at an alarming pace. As the sun set, and the city's curfew came into effect, the streets outside emptied, leaving only the occasional patrolling soldier. Now was the time to escape.

"Alright boys", Painter whispered. "This is it. Got everything? If you leave it behind, it's lost for good."

"Sir", the two men responded.

Glancing out the front window, James saw a flicker of light from a shop across the street. That was the signal that the coast was clear. The three of them shuffled out the front door, onto the main street, and gave a frantic look around. Not an enemy in sight. Up ahead, they saw the silhouettes of their comrades dashing along the rooftops. This was it. They'd made contact with two dozen survivors throughout the city, and were prepared to begin their rescue operation.

"This way", Painter muttered, dashing down a side street.

His men quickly followed behind him. Their shoes softly pattered on the stone-laden ground, as they made their way outside the city limits. Moments later, they were out, skulking through the surrounding farmland. Behind them, one after another, assembled the other rebels, dashing through the wheat, corn, and overgrown grass. They continued at this pace until they over the hill, no longer visible from town. Once all twenty-four men had made it, James began his address.

"Well done, men. You've done your people proud. With your bravery, we will see the rise of the British Empire yet again. But first, we must save our queen. She is the face of our restoration. So now we head south, to the heart of this wicked dictatorship. I have no doubt they've got her locked up at the capital, and I dread to think of the squalor they may be keeping her in."

The men murmured and grunted with anger and distaste.

At a Hutterite general meeting, in one of Gottesland's few capitalist colonies.

A young woman sat, talking to an older one, as the men around them concerned themselves with the prospect of building a new barn.

"All these men around", the young woman grumbled."With their freedoms, and their institutional power."

"What on earth are you talking about, child?", the older woman inquired.

"These men", the first spat, "get to stay out later than their wives, they handle all the money, they get a choice of wardrobe beyond a bulky dress, and they get to vote. I see no reason why we women shouldn't get every right that they are entitled to."

"Oh my dear", the old woman sighed. "Where do you suppose the money that they handle comes from?"

"Well they work for it, of course."

"Yes they do, my dear. And hard. Karl, darling!", the old woman called, gesturing to one of the men in the room. "How's your shoulder, dear?"

"Ah Missus Muller, still as sore as ever. The doctor can't find anything to help it.", the young man reflected.

"Oh you poor dear, will you be taking time off to let it rest?"

"Hah!", he exclaimed. "Time off work for a sore shoulder? I'd never be able to show my face around the boys. Besides, the wife's been asking for a new necklace. I'd hate to let her down."

"She's a lucky girl, Karl." the old woman praised. "Say, have you seen Adrian?"

"No ma'am. He hasn't been back since they recruited him into the national guard."

"Oh my! I had no idea he had an interest in the army!"

"Small Adrian?", Karl chuckled. "The boy's never been in a fight in his life."

"So what got him into the guard?", Missus Muller inquired.

"Didn't you hear? The draft's been reinstated. Any able-bodied man could be called."

"Now how could they have possibly justified that?" Muller pondered. "Isn't forced service against our constitution?"

"In theory, yes ma'am", Karl confirmed. "That's why they passed military service as a requirement for the right to vote. If you're able to vote, you're obligated to serve. I believe they used some old example from the United States to justify it."

"Thank you Karl, dear." Missus Muller stated with a smile. "Oh, one more thing. Why do you suppose it is that women can't wear pants, like the men of Gottesland can?"

Karl paused, looking extremely puzzled.

"Well, why would they? It's not like there's a law against women dressing like men, but it would look ridiculous! I mean, imagine a man wearing a dress! Absolutely deviant! Besides, what would a Gottesland woman need pants for? She's not required to work, so what use would she have for work-clothes?"

"I don't know", Missus Muller concluded, with a sly glance at her young companion. "Was just wondering."

Just then, one of the other men tumbled to the ground with a hearty thump. As he lay on the floorboards, blood began gushing from his freshly broken nose.

"Good heavens!", the young woman screamed. "What happened?"

"That man," another of the men boomed, "insulted my wife's honour! He said she spoke seductively to him!"

This prompted a roar of protest around the room, prompting several attendees to walk up and spit on the bleeding gossiper, still rolling about on the floor.
Having come to terms with the incident, Missus Muller turned around to the young woman again.

"It's not as easy to be a man in Gottesland. Are you sure you want their life?"

The young woman furrowed her brow, conflicted.