Scene Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=11mejVpT6Yg

Darkness seemed to eat away at the trees as the escort made its way down the dirt roads, moving fast enough that looking out of the windows would only enhance the illusion that the sky was some kind of black acid burning away the tops of the forest. Behind the leading truck, were several small vehicles. Niko Sr. had called them the Icarus, for they were fast, but fairly fragile for military vehicles, emphasizing speed over durability. Easy for Alexandros to produce en mass. In the main vehicle, a song was playing on the in-vehicle radio. The captain commented on it to his passenger.
"Valentina Calabresi, the hot new thing out of Italy. The Albanians really love this song, heard it in a bar in my off time."
The passenger, one Enver Hoxha, made no comment on the music choice. Just hoping that the escort from Argyrokastro to Vlore would be over quickly.

Meanwhile in Giannitsa, Pella Department, Greece
Niko's face rested in his empty left hand, propped up only by his arm resting on the table. The foreman of this local factory just outside of Giannitsa, was boring him immensely. Her voice felt empty and monotonous, contrasted by the song playing faintly on the radio in the lobby of the factory. Some song by a new Italian singer, whose name he forgot. Niko's eyes rolled in his head towards the window. Night already. He groaned, he had hopped internally, but the expression of the foreman made it clear that some noise had escaped his lips. Not that he cared.

Albania
Hoxha had almost drifted off to sleep when he was awoken by a sudden jolt. The jerk had knocked the escort up quite a bit, with the soldier cursing as he noticed that his passenger had been pulled out of his sleep.

"We hit something big, comrade. I'll have to go out and look if there's any damage." the soldier began to unbuckle himself as the smaller escorts behind began to pull off to the sides of the road as well. "Just relax here, it shouldn't take very long."

Hoxha waited a bit, as the driver seemed to be eaten up by the darkness as he ran towards the back of the vehicle. However, only a seconds later, he began to hear something over the music, as a line of men, armed with rifles began to march towards the front of the vehicle.

Giannitsa
Niko slammed his hands onto the glass table of the meeting room, once again attracting the attention of the foreman, who quickly grabbed her glass of water.

"Is something wrong, Niko?" she asked

Niko began furiously nodding, "Yeah, there is Zeynep, there is a problem, the problem that I have to sit here in the fucking middle of the night, listening to your prattle on about the most mundane of nonsense, when we all know the factory is doing fine, when at the same time, I have to sit her and listen to you talk to me in Turkish, when I'm here in Greece. We aren't in the Ottoman Empire, we should be speaking Greek!" Niko said, swatting papers off of the table as he stood up. "I'm tired of this, dealing with fucking Turks and Slavs parasitizing off of my father's work. This is Greece, the power should be for Greeks!" Niko stormed out of the room, pushing his way out of the room and descending the stairs towards the lobby so that he could exit.

"Even the music is foreign!" He shouted about the Italian song that played on the radio, as he made his way to the exit, only to open the door and fall back as he collided with a man on the outside.

"What the fuck!" he shouted before he looked up, to see a familiar face. "Boris?"

"Hello, Niko." Boris said, as he revealed the gun he had under his jacket, pointing it straight at Niko. "You thought you could just throw me away, Niko, when I've been running factories before you were even a thought. You think you can send me back to basic labor because your dad gave you a position of power?"

Albania
The soldiers began to line up one by one in front of the vehicle, side by side as they stood at attention, as a final soldier walked up to the vehicle and addressed Hoxha directly.

"Enver Hoxha, I would like to inform you that the Hellenic Socialist Republic is no longer in need of your services. However, as you are a liability to the cause, we have no choice but the dispose of you so you will not stand in our way any further."
With that the Soldiers pointed their guns at the vehicle, as Hoxha began frantically trying to free himself from the safety restraints, the soldiers began their gunfire upon him.

Giannitsa
Niko began crawling himself backward on the floor, unable to bring himself to say anything before Boris began to fire his gun at him, hitting him multiple times in the chest.
From above in the office, a scream could be heard as Zeynep rushed back into her office to call police, as Boris darted out of the building. Niko just laid on the ground in a pool of his own blood, bleeding out as the only other soul in the building hid in a makeshift shelter in her office.

Albania
Hoxha fell out of the door of the vehicle as the bled out in the mud. The Soldiers, satisfied with their work, began to walk back to their transports, as they drove off, the final few notes of the song drifted off in the air as the life began to leak out of Hoxha, and the surroundings turned to black.

Kingman
2:31 AM

Hank Carter was forced into the stiff wooden chair by the big gorilla in a sports jacket. The room had nothing in it besides the chair. No carpet, just bare concrete walls. Anybody who knew enough about casinos knew this is where card cheaters and welshers were dealt with. Even in a cut-rate place like this, the house rules were enforced with an iron fist.

He'd watched his dreams go down the drain. He'd put what was left, all twenty-six bucks of it, on black to win. The little roulette ball landed on Red 8 and the uncaring dealer swept the chips into a slot and said how sorry he was with his words, while his eyes stared right through Hank and on to the next customer. That was when the gorilla gently took him by the crook of his elbow and steered him to this back room.

"Playing with house money, Hank?"

The Toad stood at the room's entrance, his bulbous eyes staring unblinkingly at Hank. He wore an all white suit with matching shoes and tie. A thick cigar rested in his plump hands. To Hank, he looked like a square, since he was almost as wide as he was tall and so fat his double chin had a double chin.

"Toland," Hank said coolly. "I like the outfit. I suppose you have to strip to your skivves come supper time."

The Toad waddled into the room and looked down at Hank with wry amusement. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and took a long drag off of it before he expelled smoke in Hank's face.

"I don't think you're in a position to crack wise," he said after the smoke disappated. "Especially since you're in this room, owing Kingman Gardens, me to be specific, five thousand dollars."

"You can't get blood from a turnip," said Hank. "Beat me until I'm raw, Toland. It won't get you your money."

Told chuckled softly and took another drag on his cigar. This time, he pushed the smoke from his mouth and up into the air overhead.

"You have no idea how bad I'd like to beat you raw, Hank. You see, were not like the Sun City outfits--"

"No matter how much you try to copy them," said Hank.

The Toad scowled. His goon put a meaty hand on Hank's shoulder and squeezed. Hank winced at the pain and squirmed in his chair. The Toad held out a fat hand to stop the pain.

"As I was saying, before being so rudely interrupted, the Sun City boys have policies and procedures they have to follow. They report to people back east, people who don't take kindly to mavericks. The people who make the people back east mad end up in shallow graves out in the desert.

"No, what makes me different is that I am sole owner of Kingman Gardens. You debt can be wiped away at the wave of my hand."

To demonstrate, the Toad waved his hand. It seemed to Hank that the effort of the action caused him to break a sweat.

"Who do I have to kill?" Hank asked with a raised eyebrow.

The Toad laughed and came close to him. Even though Hank was in the chair and the Toad was standing, the two men were at eye level. The Toad put the cigar in his mouth and allowed himself a grin.

"I don't want you to kill, Hank. I want you to find. Tell me, what did you do in the war?"

Hank let out a sigh.

"I was a desk worker."

"Come now," said Toland. "You did more than that."

"Well, you already know," Hank spat. "So why lead me on?"

"I just want to know if the rumors are true. They said you were some kind of treasure hunter."

"It was a bit more complicated than that," Hank said with a shrug. "We made sure artwork, monuments, historical items and all that weren't destroyed during the war."

A large smile broke out on the Toad's face. Hank didn't like the look of it at all.

"Then you know all about the ruins of Salt Lake."

"Oh, no..."

"Oh, yes. Your choices are simple, Hank: You either take a trip to Utah, or you take a trip to the desert."

Hank couldn't believe what he was hearing. This fool believed the stories. The Treasure of the Latter Day Saints. Pure myth, the stuff of dreams. Countless people had went into the desert looking for it, never to return. He looked at the Toad. He was a fool, but he also held Hank's life in his fat, sweaty hands.

"Get me maps," Hank finally said after a long silence. "Maps of Utah, maps of the Salt Lake City."

Maybe if he played his cards right, he could get escape before they got to Utah.

----

Sun City
3:21 AM

Johnny Leggario smoked a cigarette. His suite had a perfect view of the Sun City strip in all its neon glory. He was clad in only boxers, his clothes were crumpled near the bed right next to the crumpled dress and heels the hooker wore. She was on the bed above the sheets, bare ass and lighting snoring. Johnny had put her through the paces soon after she arrived to his room.

He was always that way after a job. In the run up, he was as celibate as a monk. He stored up that aggression and focused it on to the task at hand. After the work was done, regardless of the outcome, he would live like a hedonist for a few days. The hooker was his for tonight and tomorrow morning. If he still had the itch, he'd call the whorehouse on the outskirts of town and get another woman.

He could afford it, after all. After Frenchie and the Valestra Family took their cut of the Cloud Nine heist, Johnny and his two-cohorts were left with a little over a million bucks. Prussian Joe did quick math and broke down their three shares to about four hundred thousand dollars a piece.

A gentle knock on the door drew Johnny away from the view. He padded across the carpet, stopping by the coffee table to pick up his Colt. He cracked open the door and saw two guys he recognized. Rocky and Toots. Both were low-level guys, on the cusp of getting made.

"The boss wants to see you, Johnny," said Rocky.

"This late at night?" he asked.

"Shit," Toots laughed. "Frenchie don't get up until after the sun goes down."

Thirty minutes later, a fully dressed Johnny followed Toots and Rocky into Frenchie's office at the top of the Lucky Gent Casino. He had recreations of famous renaissance artwork scattered through the office. A faux Mona Lisa was mounted next to a Venus de Milo with giant tits. Behind a desk large enough to host an orgy on its surface, Frenchie Gallo sat with his slippered feet up.

"There's my favorite sky pirate," Frenchie said as he dropped his feet and stood up.

After a quick, awkward embrace, Frenchie dismissed Rocky and Toots and plopped back down behind his desk. He wore a tiger striped kimono around his hefty frame and dark sunglasses, even in the middle of the night.

"You were amazing on that airship, kid. You were always an earner, Johnny. But not like this!"

"Thanks," Johnny shrugged, at a loss for words. "You mind if we cut to the chase. I was in the middle of something when your guys showed up."

"More like in the middle of someone," Frenchie winked. "Okay, so here's the deal. I'm going out of town in a few days. Heading to LA for the convention, I have a job for you while I'm gone."

"What's the job?" asked Johnny.

"Pest control. We've been having trouble with some biker trash riding up and down the strip. Highway Rangers, bunch of rednecks who can't get over the fact they lost the war, both of them. They cause trouble everywhere they stop and they're fucking bad for business. Toots and his boys had to get in between them and a couple of shines last night, the Rangers were about to knife the poor spooks. They hauled ass out of town, but they'll be back unless we do something."

"Understood," said Johnny. "Should I preform surgery, or just lop the whole thing off?"

"You're Italian," Frenchie said. "I want you to do to them what Rome did to Carthage. Destroy them, level them, salt the goddamn earth. Capisce?"

"Enjoy your trip to LA," Johnny replied. "When you get back, you'll find that the highways of Arizona are free of the Rangers."

---

Kiev. The capital city of Ukraine and the newest city to catch the Algerian fashion craze. Well, so far the only major city outside of the Arab World to do so but never mind that. If there was one thing the siblings shared, it was obvious optimism. Nour Hamidou stared out into the morning-kissed, dreary streets near her newest chain store. Even in the middle of summer, this place never fails to depress her. Hints pointing to the refugee crisis could be seen even in this rich district of the city. A beggar here and there, intermingled with the rich and upper middle-class that crowded the sidewalks. She was so glad she could be here, inside and out of that dreary looking street. But the government had accepted her goods with welcoming arms and she was going to be one of the first foreign designers to set up shop in urban Ukraine. It was rare that such an awesome opportunity for business could arise and how could she deny a country a dose of her beautiful dresses? She could not have missed a good way to spread her brand far from familiar borders. She had done much to make sure that the Kiev branch of The Algerian Silk would survive and thrive amongst the Europeans that called this place. She had specifically wanted to open during summer, when most of her dresses could be on show and be functional to use. Her beautiful dresses could be put on show and her brand could grow during that time. When winter came, then she would release her brand new, Ukraine-specific winter wear set of The Algerian Silk.

It would be a beautiful mix of local, European and Algerian designs for a functional, and most importantly beautiful, set of clothing. The designer and CEO had many hopes in Europe. She could imagine it now, the first tidal wave of Algerian fashion entering the European scene and she would be its herald. She would be the leader, opening the flood gates to other Algerians and hopefully, other Arab fashion brand. But of course, she needed to get first dibs and this was an easy way to experiment with European customers. If the Kiev-branch failed, they could easily hide it from the rest of Europe, especially Western Europe, since countries were so detached from each other in the continent. If it succeeded, they could carry on setting up chain stores in the country and in other countries. She could easily see it now, a beautiful and Algiers-esque store in the middle of Berlin, standing out as a foreign Arabic-Berber brand. It would be magnificent and a dream come true. As if in her own dream world, she started to hum to herself, smiling sweetly. This was the start to a new age of fashion.

"Um, ma'am? The store is opening in twenty minutes." The store manager - a Sahrawi woman named Jaina who used to manage the Oran branch back home - interrupted her daydreaming. Nour's eyes flew open but she straightened her dress, taking a few calming breaths. She turned around, keeping her sweet smile on her face, tilting here's head in greeting. "My thanks, Jaina. I will be coming down the stairs soon, I will make one last round of the second level. To ensure that everything is at tip top shape."

The loyal employee nodded her head and bowed, turning around to attend to her duties. Her boss waited until she was gone before releasing a held breath. That was close. She couldn't be seen as dreaming already, it was too soon to hope so much. But the optimism helped with the stress of opening a store in a foreign country. Not only that but as the President's sister, her failure could negatively impact her brother as well. And right now, he was balancing two swords in each hand. Any slip up could result in horrible injury to the country. If she was to succeed however... the Ukraine was in desperate need of consumer goods. So much so that they allowed an incredibly foreign brand to enter the country and set up shop on the main street. Algerian culture and influence could start to at least make themselves known among parts of society, particularly the rich and middle class. She had even lowered the prices slightly when exchanging between currencies, making sure that she could get the interest of those demographics. It was those type of people that spread the news, the rumours and the gossip. They could spread the news of a new "exotic" brand within Kiev, from North Africa of all places. This could be big for international relations and could result in an increases in tourism, something her brother was trying to promote. But alas, she needed to keep a level head and rid herself of that optimism once more. A lot was riding on her shoulders and even though a cover up was possible, it wasn't preferable.

Nour started to walk around the second level of the store. She had bought premium real estate and it showed. The old hotel was converted into a white Algerian spire, clawing at the sky. It stood out amongst the European architecture which surrounded it. In a few months of construction, the mini tower had been finished and even now, rumours spread of what it could be. She had spent much time and money on creating it as wonderful as possible. A tailor was hired to fit dresses to richer customers and several locals were hired as clerks and helpers. She had even learned some Ukrainian to make sure she could immerse herself with the culture of the place. She had also made sure that her advertisement campaign would be extensive, particularly two to three weeks before the grand opening today. Radios played The Algerian Silk motto, posters were put up in the urban city and a Ukrainian fashion show featured a dress of her design a week before. She had even sent a gold embroidered, two piece silk jacket and karakou to Anastisya herself, as a gift from her and her brother. She wanted to spin the rumour mills as fast as possible, making sure that this branch's opening could be as grand as possible. Everything was as perfect as it could be within the store.

The store itself had three levels, the first having the cheapest and most affordable dresses, gowns, scarves, jackets and other articles of clothing. The second level had more expensive pieces on show, with jewellery on sale lining the walls. The third level was for the rich and richer. The tailor was set up shop there with rolls of materials lining the walls where women of all shapes and sizes could be made beautiful Algerian embroidered clothes, for a price of course. The more gold embroidery and extravagance, the richer the customer needed to be. But of course, everything was slightly cheaper than current market prices, just to make sure that everything sold well. Selling out on the first day was unlikely, mostly because Nour had prepared the store for such an occasion. She rubbed the corner of a red velvet gown, feeling the materials and emotion of it. She always had a knack for designing and although her leadership skills were on par with her brother's, she always found fashion far more enticing than running a country. Why deal with dreary old politics when you could be a free, bad bitch like her? She made her own living, hired her own people, all without listening to anyone else about what to do! She could never run a democracy, she ran her business like a strict but fair authoritarian regime. She, in the end, would make the decisions but she could listen to advice if she really needed to. But she rarely did.

Music started playing, the sounds of multiple Algerian mandoles playing downstairs. An angelic and upbeat voice started singing in Arabic. It signalled ten minutes before opening and was a last minute choice on her part to include. The band, the Saharan Swingers, were a hit in Algeria and the CEO had reached in deep within her contacts to get them here in Kiev. The mix of the upbeat rhythm of swing with traditional instruments were a new and interesting sound. The voice of the lead singer was just a cherry on top. A very sweet cherry, if she could say so herself. She couldn't help but turn back to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the street. People started to stop and gather, hearing the music coming from the store. They stopped their commute to listen to the music. It was like sweet honey to the ears, a sugary treat in song form. It was an original single of theirs called "Desert Desserts", a controversial song about sex, relationships and sweet love. It was particularly popular to the youth of Algeria but the enticing vibes the song gave attracted native Ukrainians, despite a lack of understanding behind the meaning of the songs. She smiled at the gathering crowd, waiting there for a few minutes before the song reached its climax. She turned and went down the spiral staircase, entering the first floor. Clerks were patiently waiting for the opening, with her manager standing by. All of them were beautiful women of her choosing, both local and Algerian.

The Hamidou sister clapped her hands together, putting on a charming smile before walking towards the glass doors. She took strides with confidence and prowess, unseen in places like these. She was an Algerian woman, someone to be respected and praised. Among her people, she was one of those women to be feared. A powerful, prideful and incredibly sensual being who was capable of taking any place by storm. Controversial but in all the right ways. She attracted the eyes of every outsider in front of the store, approaching the doors in an elegant embroidered gown. As she got closer, her tall height could be seen by the locals and she tried her best to stop herself from winking at a particularly nice piece of eye candy. That wasn't allowed here and she was controversial enough. She had to keep her urges as low as possibly. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and opened both doors with finality. She stood in the doorway, gathering a sizeable crowd while the music came to a climax behind her. "Good morning Kiev!" She exclaimed in accented Ukrainian, opening her arms in a flourish. "Welcome to the opening of The Algerian Silk! I welcome you to our magnificent store, to an exotic culture and most importantly, amazing clothes! Please, come into our store shop as you like." She gave way to people coming into the store, looking around in wonder at the interior of the place as well as the clothes on show. Some left due to the lack of money but some stayed, fishing into their wallets as they looked upon some particularly pretty dress.

'This was the start to a new age,' Nour thought to herself 'a new age of fashion.'

They had shut off the engine some time back. Now they say adrift in the open ocean. The sun overhead beat down a solid head upon the deck and the bedraggled sailors had retreated to what shade they could to wait it out. They could not go below deck, it was much hotter in there than it was above, the old oil-soaked wood acting as insulation to trap and hold the afternoon heat. So they all sat huddled in the shade of the tarpaulin shaded cabin at the stern of the boat.

Resting their arms on their knees they sat idly watching the few men on deck as they stood at the bow and walked the open deck. Several had binoculars in their hands as they scanned the horizon. They watched because they were the only interesting thing. Besides the seagulls there was nothing else living around them, and even then the gulls were an infrequent quest who only came to rest or shit on their heads. Noticing they were not here to fish, they flew off quickly into the afternoon day, laughing and cackling in their shrill voices as they flapped away.

For the past couple of days the crew had bobbed about in the sea in search of freighters. But in so far much of what they found had been on their way north, to Japan, or south to the Strait of Malacca or Australia or Indonesia. But there was very little that flowed west from the heart of the Pacific. Most times, they would see a ship on the horizon who seemed to go in that direction but drawing close they would see the white flag and red sun of the Japanese empire and they would back off as quietly as they had come, keeping a safe difference so as to not threaten the Japanese navy.

“How long have you been in the Bureau?” a sailor asked Huang Du, who lay with his head resting against the helm. The tone of the sailor's question was innocent and conversational. So beyond the initial broach Du realized he had little need for strict caution.

“A while.” he answered plainly.

“A while, huh? How long is a while?”

“A span of time of some considerable length.” Huang Du began, “I would say certainly sometime after the Revolution ended and before today.”

The sailor laughed, “Fuck, you're a smart ass cunt.” Huang Du shrugged, “I don't have a lot of liberty to say. I don't wan to give myself that much liberty either.”

“Well, why not?” the sailor asked.

“Information is a weapon. That's the weapon we specialize in. So if I let you know too much then you might have an edge. You understand?”

“That's something shitty, but sure: I get it.” the sailor grumbled.

“Ten years.” Huang Du responded.

The sailor at first was taken aback and his thought process stalled for a moment before he realized what that answer was to. “Ten years?” the sailor asked. Huang Du nodded.

“Damn, how fucking old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.” Huang Du looked askew to Arban. He was busy leaning over the side of the ship with his head lowered. His coat was gone and now all he wore was his field pants and a white loose-hanging under shirt. In the heat and the sun the shirt had been sweated through and it clung to his back in one large sticky patch. The rest of him looked disheveled and ill. But Huang Du could not say he was entirely alone in that, he too felt ill and beaten from the thus-far short journey, he had done away with his uniform coat, turning it into a pillow and he sat with his boots off and set up alongside him; playing as a holder to a canteen of water. “He's forty-five.”

“And how long as he been in?” the sailor asked, referring to Arban

“A lot longer than I.”

“Let me guess, you don't have liberty to talk much about him?”

Huang Du nodded. “If he wants to answer that he'll answer that. I may have overstepped.” admitted Huang Du, “Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity.” the sailor said, “I've heard the Bureau sometimes recruits from the army. Service veterans and the like. What are my chances?”

Huang Du smiled and laughed. Shaking his head he leaned his head against the helm council and sighed, “Well that depends on you. You need to be quizzed, exercised. Your record meanwhile will need to be examined. A lot of research done. And if they like how you did and how you are then you get two or three years of education.”

“Shit, is it a fucking university?” the sailor said, stunned. He was frankly appalled at the thought. He believed if anything, he may move from one to another and move his career forward. He was feeling stuck in the Navy. But he didn't want to be tied up in college.

“More like an academy. Drilling, studying. Officer level stuff.”

“Sounds like college.” the sailor said.

Huang Du laughed. To not achieve higher merit? This was absurd, he believed. “Well why not?” he asked.

“My twat of a dad wanted me to read a lot. So he had me read, a lot.” the sailor said, in simple terms, “He fucking brought me all the books he could find, anything not ruined or too expensive or what he could get on loan. And he'd bring them to me and make me read them after chores. Fucker wouldn't let me outside to have a life of my own. The navy was my way to get the fuck away from him, and from his damn books.” the sailor was bitter.

Huang Du nodded. He couldn't pretend to understand, but he could try to be sympathetic, at least on the surface. He could claim to be sorry for him, nor angry. “So what then, if not education?” he asked.

“I don't fucking know.” the sailor answered. And he didn't. When he saw Huang Du was expecting an answer he was himself stunned and began thinking. He had never thought much of it before, so he began probing. Huang Du was patient, and took the moments of silence to close his eyes as the boat drifted along silent, flat seas.

“I suppose I could...” the sailor began, his voice trailing off, “Become a mechanic, or a train driver. Maybe go into martial arts, be a master myself...”

“To be a master you'll need to pay one, so you'll need to work at something.” Huang Du said, eyes still close.

“I know, I know.” the sailor said, “But I never had to think about it.”

“It's a good idea to think about it.” Huang Du told him, half-opening his eyes and looking up at the light as filtered through a tattered blue tarp.

“All I've wanted really was excitement.” said the sailor, “Something to do, away from the villages. No books, no monotony. Just something to do that's new day to day. I thought maybe I could have it in the navy, but my expectations haven't been met. So really, why look for adventure and not get it. Might as well when I step on shore to never come back to sea, I might as well live a boring life; settle down into some work, get my apartment, get married, get the bigger one, raise a family, die.”

“That's a really noble life goal.” said Huang Du, flatly.

“Really?” the sailor asked.

“In some areas.”

“Shit.”

“Well don't beat yourself up too much about it.” Huang Du consoled him, “I've known people who go out to seek stability, get adventure. Or they want adventure and end up in over their heads. They see so much they want the normal life. But that adventure they wanted, it keeps haunting them.”

The sailor nodded. “How about your partner.” pointing over to Arban who still leaned sickly over the edge of the boat, “How in deep do you think he is in 'adventure'?”

“I think we plunged him over the deep end.” Huang Du laughed.

The sailor laughed too. They both laughed. It felt good. “But what's this I hear about Vietnam?” asked the sailor, “Sounds like something's being prepared.”

Huang Du nodded. “Maybe. You may actually get the excitement you came in for!” he exclaimed.

“Perhaps. If it's found out whose supplying the factions or whatever in Vietnam, you think a blockage will be called?”

“That sounds like you'd want that.”

“It's better than prowling the bays and the ports, looking for fishermen that go out in their row boats to trade in smuggled goods.”

Herzog Hurst continued his tour of the War Museum in Duala - showing his current entourage the basic history of the Duchy of West-Afrika. It wasn't so much a Museum - as simply an national exhibit, that detailed the West-Afrika Civil War.

Mostly it contained pictures, old uniforms, equipment, medals and weapons. It told of the major battles between the Loyalist Forces under then-Oberst Hurst and namely the Rebels, that had been loyal to the traitor Letow-Vorbeck. Most of it - was simply for propaganda, over-hyped numbers and rather patriotic texts written down.

How 'this' weapon killed fifteen traitors - or that cannon was pivotal in the Battle of Hancourt and so on. Some of which, did tell the details about the actual skirmish between those whom would serve the Kaiser onto death and those that had gotten greedy - and forsaken their sworn duty.

Most of the Kaiser' delegates - could read, how many officers had actually gone turn-coat. There was a substantional number - written in precise detail, and some even had location of death. It seemed that the Duke of West-Afrika had made sure - the crimes of his former countrymen were never forgotten.

Especially - when the last glass case, contained numerous Iron Crosses: 'torn from the necks and uniforms of traitors'. Herzog Hurst had taken it personally, and stripped every traitorous officer of their Iron Crosses it seemed, such was the crime it seemed. The rest contained, some pictures of the young Duke, Askari soldiers and loyalist officers. Either posing in some city, or ontop of the ruins a Rebel camp.

It didn't take long for the gathered guests to count up the number of turn-coat officers and realize just how un-matched the situation for the Loyalists had been. Nearly three out of every four officer, had deserted their post - leaving Oberst Hurst severly depleted in men to lead the Schutztruppe; and as any man who has worn a uniform would know, without leaders there could be no leadership in the army. That had been mostly fixed by having Askari soldiers promoted to NCOs and Officer ranks. It might be surprising - but some of the names written, managed to achieve rather high ranks. Highest being a Hauptmann at that - in the Civil War.

"Now then. Shall we continue on to the Royal Palace?" asked Duke Hurst, being their guide in West-Afrika. This part of Duala was near the coast and also between the urban areas - so while having a lot of whites around, there was also signs of black people as well. Surprisingly - they were as polite as any gentleman - even addressing the entourage in German, as they passed by on the side of the road.

Mostly it was a calming walk down the place - as the Duke walked with a calm grace, showing them around the coastal region. Namely all the many theaters, bars, shops - he pointed to the biggest building in this part of Duala.

Namely it was the Kaiser' Bierstube - or namely the Emperor' Beer Hall. "Best beer this part of Afrika. Most of it is imported straight from the Fatherland - a few are homebrewed. Not bad, in overall taste. In addition, a few are imported from other states. By far the only decent thing they can make..." he chuckled, in good humor.

Soon enough, their group entered the Beer Hall. Namely to get something to drink while they talked about details.Namely this time around, Hurst wasn't talking with foreign ambassadors but rather his own countrymen. As such, there wasn't much need for taking to the Royal Palace. Although he would nonetheless, take his entourage for a visit there.

Taking a large gulp of his beer, Steffen Gottlieb, the head of the group from the Fatherland, and the man who would be staying in West Africa to serve as the Kaiser's eyes and ears in the nation, took a look around, and smiled.

"Such a fine establishment you have made!" He said, loud and jovial. "If it weren't for this African summer heat, I would think I was sitting in my hometown's own Beer Hall! Good on you, Hurst! The Kaiser was right. The Africans haven't changed you a bit. You're still a German, through and through!"

"To be honest Herr Gottlieb - I mostly copied what I had learned during my younger years in University. I wouldn't be ashamed to admit, that many of my ideas had been taken straight from the textbook of good old Bismarck himself," he replied, as soon enough - one man in particular came with some documents for him. The Duke soon thanked the man in question and soon allowed Ambassador Gottlieb to read these papers in question - alongside the other men. "Although, I will admit - we might be able to do better."

Namely these were the basic details of what any good industrialist would need. Namely a decent estimate of the overall of amount of natural gas and oil in West-Afrika. The mineral output of 'industrial' metals - or namely those utilized in the modern world, like iron and aluminum, copper and zinc. Plus the stockpile of gold, in reserve as well.

Needless to say - a rather nice sum and supply. All ready to be organized and utilized. The one thing, many would note was the lack of a strong heavy industrial sector. Light industry was well-developed but its opposite was not - barring mining and transportation. Understandable - since Duke Hurst wasn't a businessman nor an industrialist. Plus, if he had constantly denied the former Entente forces or their capital from establishing a foot-hold in West-Afrika - then he would be lagging behind in this kind of sector.

"I think we might be able to help in that regard," replied one of Gottlieb' friends. An eager man from the Ruhr area. As the talks soon continued over beer and some fine meatballs and potatoes - as they continued the talks. With everything provided, the Duchy of West-Afrika had the potential of becoming a rather well-developed manufacturing center for the German Empire. It had both the resources, internal capital and workforce to make it happen. Plus a competent leader in-charge as well.

In-general, it was good humor and mood all around, as the meeting developed more into a meeting of how they planned on developing West-Afrika into the future bread-basket of the Deutsches Kaiserreich - instead of if they can. That improved the mood all around to be honest.

"I had in mind of also purchasing several of German' finest tanks - if possible," he spoke, to his compatriots - currently bellies full of meat and beer. Namely he wanted for the current amount about five such finely made beasts of war. Tides were shifting and he was sure - that it was better to be safe than sorry. The Afrikan Corps was well-trained, paid and supplied - but they lacked armored support, which he was trying to remedy. Plus - since many in the army understood German anyway - it was better on getting German models for ease of learning and access for parts and repairs.

"We have some Nerthus Kampfpanzer MKII. A bit old but sturdy and reliable as they come - doing nothing good but gathering dust - with the arrival of the new WK1's. High Command wanted to ship them into reserve anyway - but with some quick retrofitting - we could have them easily shipped to West-Afrika within two months," replied one Prussian among them, namely the German military advisory in West-Afrika. As the situation was, they had many MK2's shipped off, likely facing the scrap heap - with the arrival of the new WK1's just a year ago - so shipping them off here could prove both profitable and useful at the same time - for both sides of the occasion.

The Duke smiled and nodded in reply at this sentence - as the remainder of the talks were namely hashing out the details As with such a new and grand investment coming to the Duchy - Duke Hurst was eager in protection such an investment. Namely in the form of the naval power. While buying a ship was a much bigger deal, and something that required much more talks with both the Kaiser and the High Command - they made way, in perhaps having one or two cruisers of the Kaiserliche Marine to be posted around the waters of the Duchy. Namely to protect against British 'pirates'. When that was all said and done, two hours later - they all toasted together.

"For the Fatherland."

The second floor of the Village Idiot was home to the latest tunes from America and Europe, and the latest fashions, which could sometimes make a man want to vomit for all the colours, and the bell bottoms, ridiculous. At least the sound quality was getting better as the demand for the music grew and more people were willing to spend money to take in a show. The Village Idiot had been able to upgrade it's in house speakers the year before .

The two officers stepped through the heavy doors, and a pair of thick curtains, that separated the various portions of the establishment and found themselves in the midst of a haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke. At the far end of the room a four piece band, made up of attractive white women who had dubbed themselves the Peppermints, was playing a rendition of the Beatles "Ain't she Sweet". The crowd, who was certainly more subdued than you average Beatles crowd, was singing along nonetheless. Mac reckoned there had to be about two hundred people in the room, a mix of men and women, black and white. The sign of modern Rhodesia.

"Always liked these guys." Mac rumbled to Sas, the two leaning together to be heard over the singing.

"Yea, their alright." Sas said with a nod. "Certainly worse noise. This marijuana shit gives me a headache though."

Well technically illegal in Rhodesia, marijuana had been making leaps and bounds in recreational use. There had been steps taken to have it properly enforced but Cornell Inc, the tremendously powerful tobacco company, had quickly stepped in, bought out any significant supplier of the drug and started lobbying the government to allow them, and only them, to sell it, with a decent tax to be paid into government coffers of course. The whole matter was still tied up at senior government levels and so the police more or less ignored it unless someone was dealing it in plain sight.

"Onward and upward?" Mac jerked his head toward the door and the two officers made their way to the third floor where the Wilted Roses, a batch of older mixed race men, and one woman, were playing good old fashioned jazz. Their audience was considerably younger than that of the Peppermints, though Sas noted a collection of younger black folks closer to the stage who seemed really in to it.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," The singer crooned as he began to work up the next song. "How about a big hand for our local law enforcement!" He gestured to the back of the room and everyone swivelled to look at the two officers. Mac waved, Sas smiled, and a polite applause took over the room. Not everyone of course, but hey, anything was better than a thrown beer bottle.

"And now, on the piano, let me introduce you to Veo!" A handsome thin black man stood and bowed to the applause, his salt and pepper hair covered by a fedora hat.

"On the saxophone, his twin brother Feo!" Twin was right. The second man was a spitting image his brother, though he had shaved his head and grown a large beard.

"My beautiful partner and lead vocalist, Mihndy!" The woman waved and offered a short bow to the crowd as she swayed to the bassline that stlll thrummed out from the bassist.

The two officers didn't stick around to hear the rest. There was assuredly going to be some cocaine in that group, and without a drug dog and some backup they were hardly going to start asking everyone present.

"Last one..." Sas muttered as they climbed toward the last floor. The base of whatever was going on up there could be heard hammering through the heavy doors, so deep that you could feel it in your chest. How it had not been so obvious on the floor below was beyond them.

The doors opened and a wall of marijuana rolled over their heads even as sound assaulted them like a tidal wave. The band, the Evan Catz, was barely visible through the cloud. It was an assortment of black and white males, all clad in blue uniforms that were reminiscent of French Cavalry from the 18th century. None of them wore shirts, the jackets were open to show off chests glistening with sweat even as long haired bounced around them as they moved about the stage in no particular order that Mac and Sas could see.

"What. The. Fuck." Mac mouthed to Sas and the black man shrugged, grinning as he did. This new noise, sort of a weird tribal hip hop crossed with rock and roll was mind numbing. Any number of women filled the space between them and the band, their screams almost drowning out the band whenever one of the band members flashed his jacket open or blew them kisses. Judging by the uncertain step of virtually everyone in the room, band included, people were well drunk at this point.

Those at the rear of the crowd had become aware of the two massive police officers and an open space had formed around them as people moved away. That was fine by Sas, neither he or Mac liked people in their personal space.

A doorman, perched on a metal bar stool and probably as stoned as the clientele, nodded friendly like from nearby. He, like the two monkeys by the front door, was a huge man and undoubtedly on steroids. Mac had half smashed the man to death about a year ago during a fight during which time he had tumbled the big man down three flights of stairs. The doorman had been so out of it thanks to whatever drugs he was on he barely remembered the incident, though he'd never tried anything again.

"Well, unless we can convince the Captain to roust out the Specials, we won't be doing any serious work here tonight!" Mac had to shout to be heard and Sas nodded before turning back to the doorway. The two officers pushed through it and back into the stairwell where the air suddenly seemed cool and welcoming.

"Wellp, I'm good for the night. Let's get the fuck out of here." Sas said with a groan. "So many lovely ladies and not a thing I can do about it while on duty."

The two made their way down the stairs and back into the chaos of the lowest floor. A bar tender caught their eye as they left and gave them a wave before they stepped out onto the street. A line had formed while they were gone, down the street and around the corner. They knew that the moment the police vehicle had driven away, the whole line would be let into the place. In the meantime, the staff had to try and keep some sort of an illusion respectability.

"Night officers." The doorman said as they exited, batons clacking against flashlights, a sound suddenly very loud in the seeming silence of the street.

"Night Harold. See you in a few hours."

The two Constables made their way back to the Land Rover and climbed in. The huge engine turned over on the first go and Mac moved the vehicle back out into the street. They picked up speed and vanished into the gathering night.

Anna Politkovskaya was lying in the darkness of her cabin aboard the Rhodesian flagged cruise ship African Dream, an aptly named ship for the journey they were undertaking. Nine days ago she and her companions had climbed aboard the vessel with nothing but the clothes on their backs, a single suitcase for the four of them, and hope in their hearts. Hope for a better future.

Twelve days ago she had been standing in the line outside the temporary Rhodesian Consulate building by the docks wondering if she would even be able to make her way inside the line was so long. She estimated that there must have been a thousand people standing in the rain as Ukrainian Police shouted at them to keep the streets clear and the locals cursed them for taking away their food, water, jobs, the sunshine, whatever they could blame on the unfortunate refugees.

Anna, her brother Alex, and her two best friends in the world, Elena and Natalya, had all fled from the fighting in the north. They had brought much more with them but by the time they had paid bribes to everyone who blocked their route to safety, very little was left.

So there they had stood, in the pouring rain, until a black Rhodesian wearing a long raincoat and strange brimmed hat began walking down the line. He spoke atrocious Russian and most of the line shied away from him, black people were pretty thin on the ground around here.

"Doctor? Pilot? Engineer?" He kept repeating a small list of such skilled trades over and over again as he walked down the line. No one was replying and she could see he couldn't have cared less one way or the other but as he drew closer she stepped out of line and spoke to him in flawless English.

"I am a Doctor. My friends are Nurses. My brother was the hospital technician." The last one was a bald faced lie but she couldn't leave her little brother behind.

The man looked her over, glanced at the small group and their single bag then gestured for them to follow. She didn't waste a second, grabbing the bag and hurrying after him, the others trailing quickly in their wake. A few people in the line grumbled but most kept their silence when the Rhodesian glanced their way.

They were escorted straight into the building where Anna was stunned to see huge lines waiting to talk to an efficient group of clerks behind desks set up at the rear of the building. She expected to be led to one of the lines but instead the Rhodesian pointed them to a table behind which sat a white man in a well tailored suit and tie. He was backed by another clerk who sat next to him and two standing sentinels who could only be soldiers for how straight they stood, their eyes never stopping as they scanned the crowd.

Anna stepped up to the table, there was nothing else for it, and stuck out her hand to the man in the suit who looked up at her in surprise.

"Anna Politkovskaya."

He stood, towering over her slim five feet seven inches and shook her hand. He acknowledged her strong grip with a small smile and then looked behind her at the other three.

"My brother, Alexander Politkovskaya, and my friends Elena Milshina and Natalya Esterniova. We all worked at the hospital in Tsaritsyn. Before the fighting that is." She added hurriedly before realizing the man obviously knew why so many refugee's were present in Odessa.

"I am Mr. Smith." He replied, his accent soft compared to the British she had met in the past. "I am the Chief Consular official here in Odessa, and in charge of screening all of our skilled applicants. As you were escorted straight here, I assume you have some skill you think we might find valuable."

He sat again. They were not offered chairs. Anna felt stumped for a moment as Smith looked up her expectantly. He obviously talked to many people and some, she was certain, had lied.

"I was, am, a Podiatrist," She said quickly and saw interest flash in his eyes. That was good. She could feel her heart hammering in her ribs as he wrote quickly on a sheet in front of him. He had misspelled her last name but she was hardly going to correct him. "I speak Russian, English, and some German."

"This is good." A smile spread across his face for a moment. "Where did you study?"

She began to tell him of her career, studying in Moscow, eventually in Berlin before moving to Tsaritsyn. She told him of procedures she had done, using technical terms that only a real Doctor might know. Some of it was beyond Smith's own knowledge but he politely let her finish before nodding slowly and reaching into a box on the desk in front of him. He drew out a stamp, wetted it on red ink and then stamped her paper.

APPROVED Shouted big and bold up at her. The second word he stamped she could not read. It must have been in Afrikaans.

Next went Natalya, and then Elena. Both had worked in the trauma unit at the hospital in Tsaritsyn. Anna had been surprised when one of the soldiers behind Smith was asked what he thought of the two and the big man, almost as wide in the shoulders as your average doorway, had nodded to Smith who had added the APPROVED stamp to their papers and handed them over.

"He is a medic." Smith offered at the look that went between the three women. "I suspect he has saved more lives in a less sterile environment than you ladies." It was not an accusation, just a simple fact and Anna found she appreciated the bluntness of the Rhodesian speech.

"And now you," Smith flipped back to his original scribbled notes. "Alexander Politkovskaya. Tell me your story."

Alexander stepped forward with a nervous swallow. Anna had introduced him as a hospital technician during her own narrative, which was as far from the truth as it could be. Alexander was a soldier, deserted from the Tsar's army just when they had fled the city. He had never fired a shot in anger, never killed a man at all. He had been a mechanic in the motor pool.

"I was technician in hospital." Alex began lamely, his English was terrible at best and Smith cut him off almost at once.

"Please Alexander, do not waste my time with lies. I could see my conversation with your friends and sister was well beyond your comprehension. I will give you one more chance to be honest with me."

Anna felt her heart sink as she saw the sweat break out on Alexander's bro. He snapped his heels together however and stood straight. He was a big man as well and the two soldiers across the table eyed him carefully.

"I was soldier, sir. A mechanic. I, ah, fix... fix..." He was desperately searching for the answer and Smith, to Anna's surprise, waited patiently. "Tractor... Caterpillar...?" Alexander was struggling.

"Tanks?" Smith asked helpfully and Alexander nodded and smiled.

"Da!" He spoke some more in Russian until he realized that Smith had no idea what he was saying and hurriedly switched back into his broken English. "Yes. Tanks."

Smith looked at him for the long moment and then drew a stamp from the box. Anna felt her breath catch in her throat as the stamp hovered over the paper. Then it slammed down. APPROVED.

Now, as she lay on the bed she had been sharing with her three travelling companions, she could not believe her good fortune. The rest of her time in Odessa had been a whirlwind of activity. As they were considered "special skills" they had been bumped to the first boat leaving, which was three days later. She had procured an English-Russian phrase book for Alexander and spent what little money she had left on some new clothes, bought at ridiculous prices, but she wanted to look the part when she arrived in Rhodesia.

To be honest, she didn't know much about the country, only that it was in the Southern part of Africa and had was ruled by a white minority government. It had taken her the better part of a day to locate a book that explained more about the country and she had devoured it when the African Dream finally slipped from her mooring and began the journey south.

The four of them had been assigned a single cabin with one large bed. They took it in turns to sleep. The ship was crammed with other skilled trades. She had met another Doctor, several Engineers, many Nurses, plenty of teachers and more. She supposed she should be sleeping at the moment, she had eight hours, but she couldn't. They had been told they would be arriving either that evening or the following day.

As if reading her thoughts, the ships intercom system popped on with a slight buzz and an accented voice blasted its way into her thoughts.

"Ladies and Gentleman, if you would like to come on deck, Rhodesia is visible now on the starboard side." A pause. "The right side."

She didn't hesitate. She hurled the bed covers off and, dressed only in her underwear and a t-shirt, she hurried topside. Throngs of other passengers joined until the starboard rail was packed with people. Still more came, climbing onto the superstructure.

The air here was hot and humid, even as the sun was dipping toward the horizon. It was hotter than anything she had experienced before and she had a sunburn to show for the last few days above decks as she had watched the African coastline slide past. There had been a stop in Ethiopia for coal but no one had been allowed to leave the ship.

White sand beaches backed by thick green forests reached down from a slight hill. The beaches were mostly empty but she could see a small group of children flying kites and a few of them stopped to wave at the ship. Anna waved back.

"Beautiful isn't it." Natalya appeared at her side. Alexander and Elena had consummated a budding romance while on the ship and spent most of their time together. Anna could not blame them, it was an adventure with nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

Buildings were slowly coming into view now around the point of land Anna could see that it was a city built on the bank of a massive river that flowed from deep in the interior where she could see distant mountains peaks wreathed with clouds. There wasn't a flake of snow to be seen and Anna loved it. She had once told herself she would live somewhere that never got any snow.

The ships whistle sounded and the intercom buzzed, popped, and then blared across the packed decks again.

"Please return to your quarters. You will be receiving required relocation documents shortly."

Anna waited while the others began to file below as the city grew in the distance. It was small and uninspired, nothing compared to the ancient cities of Russia she had grown up in but she did not care. It was also not on fire and no smoke clouded the horizon. As she watched a large launch put out from the city coastline and she felt the engines below her die off to a slow rumble. The vessel raced toward them at high speed and then cut around the bow to make a circle of the African Dream. A Rhodesian flag streamed from the stern and she saw two small machine gun mounts on either side of the craft, and one large gun on the stern, but all were neatly covered with what she assumed was canvas. Several sailors were looking up at the ship and she waved to them, they waved back enthusiastically. It occurred to her as the boat passed out of sight it might have been because her long legs were bare for them to see and she felt a blush quickly rise in her face. She turned and hurried below.

Her cabin was a whirl of excited voices when she burst in. The other barely noticed her lack of clothes and she quickly threw off her shirt before pulling out the lovely ankle length green dress she had purchased in Odessa. It took her a moment to manage the zipper on the back and then she stepped up to share the mirror with Natalya and Elena, combing at her hair as she tried to get it into some semblance of order. Then the intercom popped again.

"When your name is called, please make your way to the smoking lounge to receive your travel documents."

The frantic activity slowed as they realized they might be there for a while. To their surprise, Elena was called almost immediately. She stepped out into the passage and hurried toward the smoking lounge. It had been called that from years ago but it seemed the Rhodesians no longer allowed smoking on the vessel so they had been content with a faint lingering smell of it. A few minutes passed and then, surprisingly, Alexander's name was called. He gave them an uncertain smile and then made his way forward.

It seemed like hours before they returned, though not more than ten minutes might have passed, and names had continued to be called. Both were all smiles and shoved their travel documents into Anna's face as soon as they returned.

"We are both to go to some place called Maputo! It is on the Ocean!" Alexander bubbled with excitement. "I am to work for the military repairing automobiles and Elena is going to work in a medical clinic."

Anna hugged them both, she was happy for them but deep in her gut she knew that they would be separated. When they had signed their paperwork in Odessa she had noted the line I, the undersigned, agree to be relocated anywhere considered suitable by the Rhodesian Government. The meant she could easily be placed anywhere in the country and while Rhodesia was certainly much smaller than Russia, it could be some time before she could expect to see her brother again.

"Anna Politkovskaya and Natalya Esterniova." The intercom screamed those two names and Anna took heart that at least she would have someone to make the walk with. She suddenly found herself tremendously nervous. More nervous even than when she had first met Smith. This was it, the moment where she would discover what her life would look like. There had also been the line on her documents that stated ...agree to occupy the position assigned to me for a minimum of seven years. Upon completion of my assignment by the Rhodesian Government I will be permitted to relocate, at my own expense, to find new employment if I so wish.

The two women, hand in hand, walked up the long carpeted hallway, many curious faces peering out from doorways to watch them pass. They climbed the central stairs and approached the smoking lounge. The big double doors were flanked by two soldiers, one black, one white, who asked for their travel documents. The names matched and they were ushered into the room. The furniture had been somewhat rearranged and yet more clerks awaited them behind more tables, flanked by more men in Khaki Uniforms with blue trimmings and POLICE on their hat bands.

"Anna Politkovskaya." Called out one clerk. She nodded and stepped forward as Natalya was called to a different table. The clerk who she stopped in front of looked up at her and she realized with a start that he was smiling at her. She glanced up at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and saw why. She was blonde, with bright blue eyes, strong chin and a slim figure. The green dress she had purchased was revealing without being distasteful. It had been so long since she felt pretty that she smiled back involuntarily.

"Ah yes, our podiatrist!" The clerk said as she drew her form in front of him, checking it against the document that she handed over. "Good, very good. Lucky you, off to Salisbury!"

Salisbury. The Capital of Rhodesia. She felt relief flood through her so that she almost missed what he said next as he handed her a large manila envelope.

"Your basic Rhodesian identity card is in there. It will allow you to access public transit for one week free of charge. A train ticket to Salisbury is included, you leave on the first train in the morning. You will be met at the train station by a driver from the hospital. Included in that envelope is one hundred Rhodesian pounds. It will serve to feed you and help you find a place to live, it is more than enough for one month. I highly recommend that you put it away somewhere it cannot be stolen." He shrugged at her expression. "Alas, even in Rhodesia we have pick pockets though the Police will certainly grab any thief if you point them out."

She nodded. "This is all very organized." She meant it. From the moment Smith had stamped her papers she had been moved quickly from one point to another, it was like being in a machine.

"Not our first time Anna." The clerk held out his hand. "Welcome to Rhodesia."

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June 30th: Addis Ababa
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The rain came down all morning, rustling trees and pattering against windows and roof tiles. When she woke up, Leyla saw outside and assumed it would last all day. She ate her breakfast with her father. Masri Farid was the grandson of an Egyptian immigrant, but despite this he'd found success in the Ethiopian capital, a situation rare for ferengi. He'd succeeded partially because his father had married an Amharic woman, and so had he, making his foreign nature less conspicuous. They sat across each other, eating bread and fruit at a table imported from Italy, the image of Leyla's deceased mother smiling at them from a black and white photograph on a six-legged corner table.

"Do you think they will hold the contest though it's raining?" She asked her father. Subconsciously she still carried that assumption of childhood in her heart, that her father held some sort of mystical sway over the universe, and what he spoke would become the truth simply for having passed his lips.

"I don't know, child."

"Tekwashi Girima is supposed to be there."

"I don't know who that is."

"Only the best shooter in all Africa."

"Why would he be at try-outs if everyone knows he is the best?"

"He's the judge. He's putting together the team to go to the Olympics with him. I told you all this last night, didn't I?"

Masri smiled warmly, but he looked like care was weighing down his face. "I'm sorry, my child. You know I have difficulties at work."

"I'm sorry, abba. I only want to make you proud."

"You have, Leyla. If your grandfather could see us now, and know that even his female descendants are forging a place here, he would be proud to have made a family here." He finished eating and stood up. "I need to go. Do you need anything?" She shook her head. Masri kissed her on the forehead and went out the door. After a second passed, he leaned back in. "The rain has stopped."

"Thank you!" Leyla replied as if he had stopped the rain for her. He left, and she went to get dressed. She'd put on a white habesha kemis that morning, but now that the rain had moved on, she slipped out of it and replaced it with a brown linen skirt and shirt combo that'd been assigned to her as a uniform by the Shotel. It'd taken a month for her to actually receive it, but now she had it, she wore it proudly. It made her feel like more than just a little girl. It made her feel like a part of her country. Not simply a citizen, but a real active member. Not simply the flesh riding freely on the body, but an arm or a leg. Or at least a finger.

She went outside. The world had a yellow tinge as if reflected through a filter, and the air was misty and cool. Slim streams of rainwater washed through the gutters in the paved road. This block was populated by middle class housing, built in a Mediterranean style, far detached from the trash-built slums that circle Addis Ababa like a ring of dirt around a porcelain sink. Here, in the central neighborhoods of the city, life had an almost western feel to it. There was dependable electricity and running water. The roads were paved, and cars could be seen parked in front of houses. Leyla passed by a wooden police box on the corner. She walked several blocks, houses giving way to shops, until the shops gave way to the roundabout with the statue of Menelik II. The contest was not here, at the Shotel headquarters, but this was the closest place to catch transportation. She hailed a cab and gave directions to the Gebi Entoto.

"What is a little girl doing in the great big mountains?" the cab driver said. He was twice her age and had teeth like a camel that had been in one too many street fights. She felt her usual combination of feelings for situations like this: fear, and resilience. A knowledge that this man could be dangerous, and a determination not to be cowed. "I'm a government agent." She said proudly.

"Government agent?" the man looked over her uniform, redressing her with his eyes. "When did the government start hiring little girls?"

"The Emperor needs all of us." she said.

"So he does." The driver lost interest and looked placidly forward. She felt herself become comfortable again. Most didn't want to get in government affairs in anyway whatsoever, and this driver proved no exception.

The city went by, dwindling into older crumbling buildings, the European fading away and the African qualities of architecture becoming apparent in the heavy use of earthen walls and recycled material. It grew sparse where tree-shaded knolls gave way to ridges, and ridges to the rising Entoto mountains, where evergreen and eucalyptus dripped rainwater onto bright green grass.

She was dropped off in front of Gebi Entoto, on a hill overlooking the city. The palace, once the home of Emperor Menelik II, was now merely a piece of unused government property, trees and weeds creeping into the compound. Its style represented the time it was built, in an era when Ethiopia was finding itself immersed in the global expansion of Western civilization. The plaster walls, thatched roofs, and spindly wooden supports of the humble buildings was as traditionally Ethiopian as armored nobles and shamma-wrapped priests, but there were architectural flourishes that set the compound apart from a highland village. The residence had a veranda wrapping the second story along its oval hut-like walls, while the hall was fronted with a rounded portico. Nothing moved among the buildings of the palace compound. The contest was a short walk away, and Leyla found it by following the sound of practice gunfire.

There were dozens of men from Ethiopia's military. Most came from units stationed in and around Addis, but they came from several branches, here to try their luck in front of Tekwashi Girima. They were all men except for her. She felt out of place, eyes judging her, making her feel like a fraud. She tried to ignore those thoughts, but it was hard. She trudged forward to Tekwashi, feeling like she was swimming against the current of the entire universe.

Tekwashi wasn't hard to spot. He had an infamous visage, that of an African Quasimodo, his back hunched, his limbs mismatched, and his face scrambled underneath a dirty mop of dreadlocks. He leaned his hyena-like body against a rifle and watched her curiously as she walked across the damp field surrounded by hostile eyes.

"There is no well out here, young girl." a man in full uniform said, standing next to Tekwashi. "What are you looking for?"

"I am here to shoot." Leyla said. She felt subconscious that her voice was child-like, and her face heated up.

"The Shotel girl." Tekwashi growled. His malformation made his face hard to read. "You don't have a gun?"

"I haven't been assigned one."

Tekwashi seemed to shrug. He grabbed a handgun from a nearby table and slammed a magazine into it. It was the only thing he looked natural doing. He handed it to her, the weight of it making her feel as if there was no turning back, and that was a soothing feeling. She founded a place under the shade of a Eucalyptus tree where should could prepare her mind, and adjust to the weapon in her hands. She hated looking up, knowing she'd find mean eyes in most corners of the field, so when she did look up she looked straight at the range. It was a simple thing, stringed off with twine, paper targets hung from steel poles on the far end.

Tekwashi started to list names. Each name accompanied a shooter, who walked up to meet the gorilla of a man near the range. Only half of them were called. The other half watched as the contest started.

Each man lined up, armed with a pistol, preparing their stances in the pale rain-season sunlight as Tekwashi grimaced at them with binoculars in hand.

"Aim." Tekwashi shouted. When the shooters steadied their stance, he shouted again. "Fire." A volley shouted out across the hills. Leyla looked down at the city below and was sure they'd all heard it as clear as she did. This was the most guns she'd heard fire at one time, and the sound of it rang in her ears.

"Petros two o'clock bullseye." he yelled out, "Jafar, 1 off. Man Defrot, Bullseye dead center..." and so he rattled off names until nobody but the man jotting scores in his notebook was completely paying attention. As he did this, boys dressed in the ragged robes of hill Sheppard ran barefoot onto the range and changed the target. The first group was given another chance. A volley rang out. The scores were recorded, and the first set of contestants were sent back. Some look defeated, knowing they'd lost their chance. Others went off proudly, having past the first test.

The second group called to the targets included Leyla. She was in the moment now, and paid no attention to the others. Her world was the target straight ahead of her. She took a deep breath, pointed the weapon down range, and took it off safety.

"Aim."

She held her breath.

"Fire."

Gunfire exploded all around, so close it felt like solid sound had smacked her eardrums like a gong. She felt her heart leap when she saw that the bullseye in front of her was disturbed. Tekwashi rambled names, but she didn't pay attention to the others, waiting instead to hear her own.

"Leyla, Bullseye, center."

She felt like jumping, but she held it in, still consciously trying to fit in.

They took a break, but she couldn't think of anything but the contest now. The losers ambled off, leaving a small handful of finalists including herself. Tekwashi stood under the shade of a Eucalyptus tree and eyed them all, looking like a suspicious ghoul. "Line up." he called out several minutes later. It was time for the final contest. She replaced the magazine and walked calmly to her place.

Fresh targets had been put out for them. Tekwashi didn't give them as much time, calling out "Aim" almost as soon as they arrived in their spot, and "Fire" soon afterwards. Leyla sucked in her breath real quick, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The roar of gunfire was uneven this time. When Tekwashi called out scores, he added their status to it. "Man Defrot, Bullseye dead center. You stay. Ruga, Bullseye 6 o'clock. You're out. Markos, Bullseye center. You stay..." each time Tekwashi finished a name, Leyla felt anxiety well up. When it wasn't her name called, that anxiety rolled away for the few seconds it took the master shooter to finish that score, so that she was riding on cresting waves of anxiety. "Leyla, Bullseye 1 o'clock. You're out."

Her heart sunk. That was it. She returned her gun to the table as the next round of finalists were given a break. She went to go, but was startled when Tekwashi stopped her.

"You did better than we expected."

"I lost." she said.

The corner of Tekwashi's mouth curled up in what looked like a grin. "Some of those men you beat are snipers. You have a natural talent. I'm going to recommend the Shotel promote you."

"Really?" She was surprised.

"I don't believe in wasting talent." he said, "Now run off. There is a bus waiting to take the rest of you to town."

May, 1939
Brooklyn

"I believe in America."

Anthony Fortunato said as he looked over his cup of coffee at the two men.He didn't know their names, their real names anyway. They'd introduced themselves as Smith and Jones the first itme they met last year. Jones was some kind of military officer. Even without a uniform he sat with ramrod straight posture, his hair cut short in compliance of military regulations.

Smith wore a three-piece suit and shoes that marked him as upper crust, a New England WASP whose yearly government salary couldn't cover the cost of that suit. He had a breezy confidence that marked him as someone who had always had money and connections. To him, privilege was a birthright.

"I came to America as a young man in 1898. I could not speak a word of English. I worked as as street cleaner in Little Italy. I literally shoveled shit for pennies a day."

Anthony took a long sip of coffee for dramatic pause. After he finished, his eyes shifted towards the skyline of New York, visible from his patio.

"Now here I am. The most successful businessman in New York City, if not the entire state. I have more money than I or my children or their children could ever spend."

What he didn't say was that his business was built on the backs of gamblers, hookers, and drug addicts. But that was America. Smith's people had made their money by killing Indians, enslaving blacks, and exploiting Chinese railroad workers. The unspoken truth was that in America, a crime lay at the heart of any vast fortune.

"How much do you want to see the country whole again?" Smith asked.

"They say it is a matter of time," said Anthony. "After Denver and Salt Lake City, the west coast lost their fighting spirit. Before long, the south will collapse as well."

"Did Vinnie tell you that?" asked Jones.

Anthony raised an eyebrow at the man and set his coffee on the patio table. Vincent, his youngest son, served in the Marines and was somewhere in the south. The last letter the family received from him was postmarked Houston.

"If this is regarding the previous matter we discussed, then I have to warn you gentlemen that the south is a different beast than the radicals out west."

Late last year, Smith and Jones met Anthony and his Jewish counterpart Herman Green. Even though the west coast was more fervent than the south, their labor unions were still interwoven with men who owed their alliegence Anthony and Herman, men who who recognized that politics were ever changing, but this thing of theirs was here to stay.

"Long abolished all labor unions through the south," Anthony shrugged. "My friends in New Orleans, Miami, and Atlanta were not pleased."

"This isn't about labor disputes or causing strikes," said Smith. "This is about something more serious."

"You're right that the end of the war is a matter of time," said Jones. "But, there are people who want to speed it up. There is a serious roadblock to that process, and he sits in Baton Rouge."

"Your son is doing his part with the war effort," said Smith. "Help us bring him home."

Anthony picked his coffee back up and drank from it as a sardonic smile played on his lips.

"We'll take care of it," he said after a long pause. "Not because of my son, or you, or even President Wheeler. Because I love this country."

---

June, 1939
Columbia, South Carolina

President Huey Long bounded on to the stage. He seemed to glow with confidence and energy. The crowd at the fairgrounds roared in approval. Ten thousand strong, all of them cheering their hearts out for the populist hero, the man who had escaped MacArthur's grasp and was carrying on the legacy of both Washington and Lee, a soldier and statesman who stood for american liberty.

Towering over Huey was South Carolina's Wilbur Helms, the SUSA's Secretary of State. The two men shook hands, Helms' big hand wrapped around Long's pudgy one. Helms held up Long's arm to the crowd. More applause and cheers for the two men. Mixed among the people were the Louisiana State Police, dressed in all black with sunglasses. Long's personal guard, handpicked by him and loyal only to the president.

In the third row sat Samuel Polk. He was sweating, more so than he should be in the humid June air. He was sweating because it was almost time. Time for the pain to end, time for the headaches and the smells of rotten flesh to stop. Time to die. That would be okay, though. He'd feel no pain, and he would set up his family to live without him. They had promised him so much money that his wife and children would be set for years.

"How y'all doing out there?!" Long boomed. There was a microphone in front of him, but Samuel was so close he could hear the man without it. "South Carolina, y'all sure know how to make an old country boy feel right at home!"

Samuel took a deep breath and slipped a hand into his sports coat. A little five shot revolver rested there. He wrapped his right hand around it and said the Lord's prayer. Long was starting the wind up part of his speech when Samuel pulled the revolver from his pocket and took aim.

He suddenly felt pain in his armpit, the sound of a gunshot followed it. More shots let into before he could even pull the trigger of his revolver. A bullet caught him in the chest and sent him spinning. The crowd all around him was in total disarray and panic. On stage, two troopers flanked Long on both sides, guns drawn.

Samuel started to topple backwards. As he did so, he saw one of the guards behind Long turn his gun away from Samuel and towards the president himself. With a clear line of sight, the trooper shot Long three times in the back of the head. Long crumpled to the ground as the guards opened fire on the guard. Both he and Helms went down in a torrent of gunfire.

---

Sergeant Michael Bordeaux died on the way to the hospital, as did Samuel Polk. Wilbur Helms would survive after multiple surgeries, the use of his legs robbed from him by the attack. After lingering for two days, Huey Long died on June 17th, 1939.
Officially, Polk was labeled the assassin of Huey Long and Bordeaux. Records showed that his family never received any money after his death. Sergeant Bordeaux, who was later discovered to have been on the payroll of New Orleans' Mancini Family for years, was buried will full honors in Baton Rogue.

The Southern United States surrendered to federal forces on August 22nd, 1939. Gerald L.K. Smith, acting president of the SUSA, signed a formal surrender two days later. On January 1st, 1940, the nation was dissolved and the rogue states were admitted back into the Union.
Corporal Vinnie Fortunato made it back to New York City for Christmas with his family. He was gunned down by unknown assailants in 1947, a casualty of the Mafia's Chinatown Wars.

---------------------------------
July, 1960 - Beira, Rhodesia
---------------------------------

Morning came slowly to Anna Politkovskaya. The African Dream had been finally allowed to enter the Port of Beira after all passengers had been checked and their travel documents had been handed out. Unexpectedly, Police had gone through the ship with several dogs searching for drugs. None had been found and the vessel had been cleared to tie up at one of the recently built concrete piers.

She had spent the entire evening on the upper deck of the ship while the others slept below in a sweaty pile. The humidity once they had gotten closer to shore had been to much and she had sought the cooler night air on the open deck. It had given her an opportunity to take in her first real Rhodesian night.

The City of Beira was built on a low lying coastal plain and she was certain she could see the majority of the city from where she stood. It smelled faintly of civilization but did not have an overpowering stink to it that she had come to associate with cities in Russia and Ukraine. Street lights appeared to be something of a rarity rather than the rule and automobiles appeared to be fairly scarce. She had seen a blue and white Police car go past, along with the odd delivery truck. Many people seemed to be walking, or taking advantage of a host of buses and taxis that made up the majority of traffic. The streets appeared to be well maintained and she saw, on more than one occasion, a person in a jumpsuit moving down the sidewalks picking up litter.

Church spires jutted above the rest of the rooftops, most of them white and topped with a steel cross. There were few buildings over three stories and most of those appeared to be near the white sand beaches, she suspected they were probably hotels. Across the harbour from the African Dream she could see a military installation. Two long sleek looking warships shared a pier, while several smaller vessels like the one that had come out to meet them on their arrival waited at another. A big circle of concrete with an H painted in its centre rested near the waterfront.

The strangest sight of all to her was the number of black people. She had found herself struggling to even find a white face in the crowds of people who strolled the waterfront, filled the cafes, and stared curiously up at her white face far above them. The women seemed to mostly dress in long ankle length dresses that billowed around them when they walked, and the men in shorts and a collared shirt.

She had stayed there as darkness fell and the sounds of night took over the city. It was much quieter than Odessa and she occasionally heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Once an ambulance raced past the waterfront. Several groups of drunken youth staggered along the waterfront and threw themselves behind cover with screams of hilarity whenever a police car cruised past. One group paused to look over the cruise ship and began to call out to her when they spotted her white face but she was to far away to make out what they were saying.

Eventually she had lain on one of the long benches that circled the observation deck and stared up at the sky. Light pollution here was less intense as well and the whole sky spread out above her, a great carpet of stars that winked and sparkled down on her. She lay there for hours, disturbed once by the drown of an aircraft passing overhead and again by a member of the ships crew who was as startled as she was to find another person there.

She fell asleep, still lying on the bench, and woke to the morning sun on her face as it began to clear the horizon. It was early but already she could feel the heat of the day begin to rise quickly with the arrival of the sun. She waited until the sun had cleared the horizon, marvelling in what was her first true ocean sunrise. The city below was stirring to life as she stood, stretched and looked around the deck. Several other people had arrived while she was asleep but all were lost in their own thoughts as they looked over the city.

"Anna!" Natalya appeared on the upper deck and waved, a smile on her face. "Breakfast is ready if you wold like some coffee." She tapped her wrist watch. "And our train arrives in half an hour."

Anna had noticed the train tracks during the evening but only one train had arrived from the interior of the continent. It had disgorged a chattering mass of passengers and then continued northward along the coastline out of sight.

"Lead on!" She declared as her stomach gave an angry rumble at the thought of food. "I would love some coffee."

"They have Ethiopian coffee today. It seems our classic Russian fare has run out." Natalya commented as the two women made their way down to the dining room. It was half full at the hour already. Alexandre and Elena waved from a table and the two made their way toward them.

"Good morning." Alexandre smiled as he stood to hug Anna. "You really must try this." He handed her a small white cup filled with a pitch black substance that smelled like coffee. "It is unbelievably strong!"

Anna sipped the hot beverage and coughed at the taste. Ethiopian coffee was unlike anything she had ever had before. It was almost violently strong and she realized why the portion must be so small. She sat and sipped it some more. She was to excited to really eat anything and nibbled on some toast while the others spoke amongst themselves. Alexandre and Elena were discussing finding a place to live together in Maputo, though they knew literally nothing about it. Anna couldn't help but smile at their enthusiasm. Natalya, like Anna, was to begin work at the Royal Salisbury Hospital, but she had not done any research and had not idea what Salisbury was to be like.

The intercom popped as they were in the middle of a discussion about meeting up again in a few months, interrupting them. "All passengers for Salisbury, please make your way to the gangway. You train will arrive in ten minutes."

This was it. Anna and Natalya stood. They embraced their friends, sharing tight hugs and a few tears as they promised to see each other again soon. Together they returned to the cabin and took their meagre belongings from the suitcase which they would leave for the other two. Anna looked at her old clothes from Russia and then, with a sense of purpose, she turned her back on them. She would not take any part of her past with her except her memories.

The gangway was busy with some forty other people. Several families, and plenty of people in pairs or travelling alone. A few awkward conversations could be heard but most, like Anna, were to nervous to speak. The anticipation was worse than when she had lost her virginity.

Everyone fell quiet as a Rhodesian official in white shirt and shorts made his way up the gangway. His broad black face was wreathed in a smile that might have been a little to forced and Anna, belatedly, realized that he might not want them there. Rhodesia was in Africa after all and she doubted the black majority population thought highly of importing more whites. To her surprise though he spoke in halting but passable Russian.

"Ladies and Gentleman." His pronunciation was a bit off but she understood him. "Welcome to Rhodesia. My name is Nigel Nyamutumbu. I will be taking you to Salisbury." A small cheer went up and a genuine smile crossed his face. "Please, follow."

He started down the ramp. Everyone hesitated for a moment except for Anna who stepped off the African Dream and left the past behind her.

EDIT: DOUBLE POST.

Chinatown
7:35 PM

"Right this way, Mr. Shaw."

Uncle Ace Kwan personally led Elliot to a table. Uncle Ace: Full-time restaurateur, part time dope and gun runner. The money he made off it ended up funneled across the Pacific to support Chinese anti-communist causes and smuggling dissidents out of the country. Elliot bought horse, opium, and girls from him from time to time. It depended on whatever the craving starlet or movie producer needed at that time.

Detective Jefferson Thomas was already waiting for him. A metal pot of tea and two ceramic cups sat on the table. Thomas stood up. He was bigger up close than Elliot realized, that was because the even taller Detective Hoyt was not present to dwarf the two of them. The two men shook hands and exchanged greetings. Elliot ordered lo mein for the two of them before Uncle Ace shuffled off to the kitchen.

"I'm surprised I didn't get any lip from the old man," Thomas said, pouring himself a cup of tea. "If you think some white people are bad when it comes to negroes, they don't have anything on Chinamen."

"Uncle Ace knows where his bread is buttered," replied Shaw. "He pisses off the studio people and he loses a lot of cash and favors coming his way."

Detective Thomas nodded, pulling a pencil and notepad out of his jacket pocket. Elliot's eyes glanced down at it. He saw notes jotted on the paper in shorthand, but it was unreadable.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Shaw. Just some routine questions. But I'm sure you know all about that. I understand you were a cop back east?"

"Boston," said Elliot. "Five years in patrol, ten as a detective."

"What brought you out west?"

Elliot saw flashes of memory: Christmastime. Snow flurries. He stood in the cold. Blood spatter on his face. A pump shotgun in his hands. Red, numbing hands on cold gunmetal. Eight people dead. Heinous crimes required swift resolution. Shotgun justice.

"The weather," he said after a long second. "I got my fill of New England winters."

Thomas made a note of it before he looked back up at Elliot. There was a soft smile on the detective's face and it set off alarm bells. He knew the look well, he had used it often. The smile was to put someone at ease, to help them forget the authority of the cop. They were two friends, after all, just having a nice chat. No reason for Elliot to worry or be concerned. At least not until the other shoe fell.

"What can you tell me about Miss Beauchamp's personal life?"

"Not much there," Elliot shrugged. "Part of my job at Pinnacle is to know about our star's personal lives. We have a moral clause in all our talent contracts and they are rigidly enforced. Claire was in full compliance of the morality clause."

Thomas made a note and spoke without looking up. "What about with screenwriters, Mister Shaw?"

Elliot raised an eyebrow as the detective looked back up at him impassively.

"Excuse me?"

"Wendall Brock," said Thomas. Elliot had to resist the urge to curse. He knew exactly who Brock was. "He is -- he was -- a negro man, gunned down in South Central a few days before Miss Beauchamp, a few blocks away from the Voodoo. It took me a while to find it, but Brock worked as a screenwriter for Pinnacle Pictures, at least until he was blacklisted two years ago."

Thomas reached into his jacket and pulled out pamphlets. He laid them on the table and Elliot felt a lump forming in his stomach. The pamphlets were political tracts, and they were just like the ones he'd recovered from Claire Beauchamp's bungalow.

"Brock also had a redacted criminal history, the redacting started around the time he was blacklisted. Brock and Beauchamp. Two people with ties to Pinnacle, one with radical politics, are killed less than seventy-two hours in the same area of town in the same way. And let's not forget your involvement, Mister Shaw."

Son of a bitch, thought Elliot. "Me?"

"I remember seeing you that night at the Voodoo. The bartender remembered you, too. A white man like you stands out like a sore thumb in a place like that. Three people with Hollywood connections all in the same area, two of them murdered. What do I make of that?"

Elliot tried not to sweat. The son of a bitch had laid a trap for him and Elliot had waltzed right in. He had to give Thomas credit. The detective gave him just enough rope to hang himself with. He'd handled it just like Elliot would have.

"I thought the LAPD were rounding up all the criminals in South Central?" he asked.

Thomas nodded. "They are. They want an easy bookend to the case. They want to say the case is closed, regardless if they get the guilty person or not. The truth is a lot of things, easy isn't one of them."

Elliot saw a wedge and plunged into it.

"So this is all unsanctioned," he said with a laugh. "You're on your own on this, Detective Thomas. I wonder if the commissioner would like to know. You know I have his personal line in my address book, right? The studio people have that kind of power."

Thomas smiled. It was nowhere near the comfortable one he had been wearing minutes ago.

"Do that, Mr. Shaw, and I'll leak what I have to the tabloids. I have just enough to create a sensation. Communism, murder, and the movies. It'll sale a million copies. Congress will be very interested in that old story of radical influence in the picture business."

They didn't speak as a waiter laid a steaming plate of lo mein on the table along with utensils and two plates. Once he was gone, Elliot looked over the food at Thomas. He was way out on a limb on his own, which meant there was an angle he was playing. He was fine with that. Playing an angle meant Elliot could make his own play if he needed to.

"What do you want?"

"Access," Thomas said, scooping noodles on to a plate. "I need to know everything I can about Brock and Beauchamp to find out who killed them. For that access, I'll keep quiet with what I know. If you help me catch the killer or killers, then you get to spin the story of why they were killed how you want. The case is closed, everybody forgets about it, and Pinnacle can move on. Do we have a truce."

Elliot watched Thomas eating noodles. He looked like just another jig the first time he saw him at the Voodoo. How wrong he had been about that.

"Fine," he finally said. "It's not a truce. It's a non-aggression pact."

"Excellent," said Thomas. "Now, I need to know everything about why Wendall Brock was blacklisted."

Iron Lady - The Battleship Comes, The Brother's War - The Ending?

As the Battleship and its US Navy escort were allowed through the Corregidor fortress' old guns so that they can dock at the Naval Yards at Cavite, Priscilla Aglipay-Rizal, soon to be the former Lady President once Archibald had won - Aurelia deciding to run for Vice President, while suspicious, had guaranteed the Agriculturalist's win - thought of the odd turns fate took. Standing just behind the Naval Yard's docks along with her bodyguards, as well as an array of dignitaries, she couldn't help but feel as though the Philippines had a fighting chance against any threat now. Aurelia's deals had won them Rhodesian aircraft to convert to military use, and training for new pilots.

These, along with the docking Battleship which splashed water on the harbor itself, symbolized hope. Yet the need for them symbolizes grief, grief that people are not coming together for the prosperity of all. She looked at Irene, her housekeeper.bodyguard, whose scarred face had an expression of joy. Instead of sharing her concerns, Priscilla would ask, "What is the name of that ship?"

Irene replied, "The Yohannes IV; Yohannes is 'John' in English, 'Juan' in Tagalog."

Priscilla nodded and said, "Then it's settled, the name of the ship will be 'Juan IV'; a direct translation of the ship's name. Anything to honor the nation that gave us this gift." Anything except giving them back their ship.

From a telegram from Lucrecia, she had heard about the Bahr Negus' objection to the gift, as well as how the latter had lacked compensation for it. This was actual theft, not redistribution, yet at the same time, it was a far lesser crime than allowing one's nation to fall. We are one of the last decent places on Earth, one of the last places that are aware of their flaws and do not ignore them. That does not mean we are perfect; rather that we are self-aware. She looked at an approaching Aurelia, who looked stunning in a dress of blue Philippine Silk and Sulu pearls. Will we keep that self-awareness once I am gone? Oh, God, I hope so.

Aurelia gave a slight bow; Priscilla was surprised to see genuine deference in her expression. The rich landowner then said, "Good news from Sulu: Al-Hakam Kiram has finally met his brother in battle. Despite the Sultan not actually fighting, his forces, with help from Sarawak, have won; Kota Kinabalu has switched allegiance. As for Lahad Datu and the eastern ports, 'volunteers' from Sulu itself staged another incursion, this time with better boats."

Prsicilla sighed. "I do not want more territory, merely security against a potential Japanese encirclement. Tell Al-Hakam that I recognize his Sabahan dominions as an independent state...if he hasn't declared independence already."

A smile from Aurelia. "Oh, that's the Sabahan People's Congress' job; you taught Al-Hakam Kiram well - even as his armies are crushing the last remnants of resistance and bribing the interior tribes into accepting the new order - he adbicated actual political power; the Congress now has control of Sabah itself. They wasted no time declaring that the Philippines' friendship is accepted, but not domination."

A breeze blew as Priscilla smiled and nodded. "Then, as one of my last acts as President - after thanking the Americans and Ethiopians for their battleship - I will formally drop the legal case and legal arguments for Philippine soverignty over Sabah. With a potential Japanese Invasion coming, I'd prefer allies, not servants."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
July 1st: The Semien Mountains, Begmeder Province, Ethiopia
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shifta army marched over the rough and rocky terrain on the northern bluffs of the Tekeze River. It was a sight hardly removed from the Zemene Mesafint: columns of barefooted men in dusty cotton tunics and trousers, shammas wrapped around many necks, hair as wild as the heath that bloomed all around them. Rain made the terrain slippery and slowed their travel, but it also swelled the river. Fitawrari Ergete considered this a blessing. The rushing waters made a wall between him and the mysterious regiment shadowing them from the other side. This new threat had appeared several days before on the open ground west of the Semien mountains. Ergete led his men along the foothills, keeping himself between the enemy and the high ground, preparing for anything the newcomers might do. A rider came up in a cloud of dust. Ergete recognized the man, and in recognition he called out. "Amsale! What news?"

"The river is growing shallow." the scout reported, "Soon they'll be able to cross."

"If they want to cross. Who are they?"

"We haven't been able to find out."

Ergete puffed himself up, made a fist, and shook it at the silhouettes across the water. "If the Mesfin has betrayed me, I will turn out all the Neftanya and Korro of Begmeder and make them into beggars. I swear this to Virgin Mary." he announced dramatically, a curse on the military middle class and the bureaucrats of the province.

They trudged on, the tired soldiers keeping quiet, only the rattle of rifles and squelching of muddy ground to be heard. A fight was brewing, and Ergete's eyes were fixed on the terrain. Too steep an incline made hard work for both sides. The wrong terrain on either flank could open them for attack. He'd put his a army between their enemy and the mountains on purpose, giving him a buffet of higher ground to chose from, anchor his lines to, and to retreat into if it should come to that. But that higher ground represented the unforgiving Semien range at its highest heights, some of the roughest terrain in the entire country, where the mountains appeared like the worn-down canine teeth of a dead giant ripping into the flesh of the clouds.

They were far from civilization out here. The river was the only true path. Eagles circled it far above, their barking occasionally heard as they searched for prey among the blooming scrub-land. The ragged band came around a bend in the river masked by the rising hills. Ergete's mind looked at the piece of ground and saw a battlefield.

The river bend put high ground on his left flank, in the direction his men were climbing from now. Ahead of him, in what would be his right flank should he fight a battle facing the enemy, a wall-like ridge split the river from an incoming meandering stream. The convergence of the courses created a place where the foothills rose more gently, giving the defenders the benefit of the high ground without burdening them with terrain only a goat could stand comfortably on.

"We camp here tonight." Ergete shouted. The officers on horseback repeated the order with whistles and yelps, and the column seemed to breath a collective sigh of relief.

The work wasn't done. Rifle pits had to be dug. Watchmen were sent to scale the two towering plateaus marking the right and left flanks. Ergete himself dismounted and joined the effort, shoveling defenses with gusto, working up a sweat in the humid wet-season air.

Rifles cracked as soldiers fanned out to scavenge the countryside, taking down birds for meager meat. This land was wild and lacked villages to support them, forcing them to subsist on meager rations. Many of the men carried bullock horns filled with honey wine, and they traded sips of it for slices of raw meat from the hunters.

By the time the sun first started to sink below the hills, the shifta forces were finished with their work and staking out their spots in the spread out camp, the hillside coming alive with idle chatter. Their stalkers disappeared over the southern ridge. For a second, Ergete entertained the thought that the other army had been a mirage the entire time, but he put that out of his head and tried to focus on real planning.

Mahetsent rode up from the rear of the army and joined Ergete in a makeshift tent above a rifle pit where the self-proclaimed Fitewrari held court. A shifta had tributed Ergete with a couple of birds, and the commander shared his meager fare with his friend.

"Do we hold this spot in the morning?" Mahetsent asked, chewing on a gamey piece of raw meat.

"We wait to see if they do anything. I doubt if they'll fight us here."

"You chose the ground."

"They'll wait until they get a better field. But I want to draw them out, if they mean to attack."

"Who do you think they are?"

Ergete looked at the hills across the water, the falling sun washing the slope in yellow light, shadowing the tops of the hills and beyond in pitch black. "I think it's Ras Wolde Petros."

"Not the Emperor's military?"

Ergete shook his head certainly. "They have men on horses. If the Emperor came for us, it would be with his machines. This isn't the government, it's something smaller. Wollo is a day's march from us, and the Emperor's uncle has less to fear from breaking the law and entering Begmeder to hunt our people than any other Mesfin."

"Can we fight them?"

Ergete sat real quiet for a second, the cry of insects and uncaring sound of the warriors mixing into a soothing afternoon melody. "I think the great revolutionary armies of the world have done amazing things because their armies were free. The Americans at their Boston Hill, the French in their Revolution, they fought powerful foes and won. We will do the same here I think. If the enemy is foolish enough to attack us, they will run against the power of the people, and they will be broken."

"You words make me feel better about our chances."

Ergete put his hand on Mahetsent's shoulder. "There is nothing to fear. Sleep well tonight, my friend. I will put you on the left flank to protect our high places." Mahetsent nodded, and the two warriors parted ways for the night. Ergete turned his shamma into a pillow and went to sleep.

When he woke up, everything was quiet and wet with dew. The first red rays of sunrise peaked over the eastern cliffs. The men were stirring, making breakfast of what they hadn't ate the night before. Ergete looked down at the first line, where men slept in their rifle pits. They were now staring across the river at a line of enemy warriors on this hill below. When Ergete saw this, he knew in his heart that battle would come today after all. This was good. He had the best ground.

He dug out a pair of binoculars and trained them across the river. Their soldiers looked much like his, including a compliment of men on horseback. Too many of them to be Begmeder's [i]Neftanya[/i, and too haggard for that set. They could only be the militia and retainers of some official or lord. Ergete was certain it was Ras Wolde Petros, more so than he had been the night before.

The wait seemed to go on all morning, the two sides facing against one another, doing nothing. Ergete itched to move out of his trenches and take the enemy where they stood, but that way was foolish, and he fought his urges like a recovering alcoholic, twitching in the saddle. An eagle screeched somewhere above him, but he did not look. Then it began. He couldn't contain his excitement when he saw their horsemen lurch forward and cross the river. He jumped out of his place, drew his sword, and stood above the rifle pits of this first line, uncaring of the danger to himself. Gunfire pattered somewhere far to the west before the horsemen were in range. The enemy horsemen let out a high pitched cry, and ululating like devils they charged Ergete's men. The Battle was opened.

The first volley of rifle fire echoed all around him. Charging enemy riders fell from their horses. Sometimes it was the horses themselves that fell, taking the rider with them. Clods of mud flew all around, painted with the spray of blood, coming together as a cloud of filth. Riders with rifles and carbines shot at the shifta line. Bullets whizzed by.

The cavalry reached the rifle pits and rattled the first line. Hand to hand combat followed. The riders were dressed much like the shiftas, though some wore goatskin capes or lions-mane headdresses. Ergete jumped into the fray, slashing the leg of a rider, bright blood painting the steel and flowing freely, soaking into the man's cotton trousers. All was chaos. A bullet rang past Ergete's ear and lodged in the haunch of a horse, causing the beast to panic. Almost imperceptibly, the fighting pushed back, and they were driven into the shifta army's second line. A new volley rang out, and the horsemen were forced to retreat. They left a row of blood and corpses trampled into the muddy ground. The riders took a place within firing range and threw a few Parthian shots into the shifta line before it was completely reformed. Ergete realized he still heard the gunfire in the west, and knew this time that his right flank was embattled. He rounded up some survivors of the recent attack and took that party in the direction of the gunfire, leaving the rest to defend their well-won rifle pits.

Moving like prowling hunters they crossed the thin stream between his center and right and headed for the imposing ridge where the right flank had been placed. They climbed over stone and bush, sticking to the rocky places, struggling and sliding where there was mud. By the time they reached the crest of the ridge they were exhausted and covered with sticky earth, but they plunged themselves into the fighting all the same, giving out a ululating war cry to let both sides among the embattled rocks know they were there.

Struck men rarely fell where they stood on this incline. They slid down the muddy slope until they caught on a rock or a tree. The blooming heath exploded in the gunfire into clouds of shredded peddles. Ergete grabbed a rifle and trained it on a bobbing head down slope. He let his rifle crack, but did not see if it was a hit or a miss. Soon enough, the reinforcements had done it, and the shiftas were driving their enemy from the ground. They stopped at the edge of the rough ground, where sandy ground opened up along the river. From here they took pot shots and screamed curses at their retreating foe. Some of the shiftas combed the ground for wounded enemies, who they stripped of all their valuables, leaving them naked in their pain, which they made much worse by slicing open their scrotums and removing their testicles as bloody prizes.

The first phase of the battle was won, but most of the enemy army hadn't been thrown into battle yet. Ergete climbed back up the ridge, followed slowly by the others, until they had a good view. He watched the enemy army from the height. They did nothing. He became conscious of an unnatural humming sound coming from far away. It was low, and seemed to come from everywhere. At first, he didn't connect the sound to the fighting, but as it got louder, and the enemy army continued to hold their ground, the atmosphere grew ominous, and Ergete expected something strange and dangerous to happen at any moment. The enemy started to advance. A second later, six fighter planes crested the ridge behind the enemy line, bathed in the glory of the sun, brightly painted scenes of lions, and prowling leopards, and charging warriors shining on their fuselages. The fighter planes dived at the shiftas and sprayed them with rapid death. Chaos ensued.

Ergete fired hopelessly at the incoming planes with a stolen rifle. The shifta lines broke, and were driven back by the charge of enemy infantry. Ergete tried to hold the ridge, jumping in where the fighting was heaviest. Some of the fighters were dropping bombs in the main field, jets of fire visible from the rocky ridge, where the ground shook from the impact. Only the oldest of the shiftas had experienced combat like this, during the Great War. For the rest, this was more than they could handle. They were unmanned. The enemy surged forward, and the shiftas gave up their ground. Ergete's force was in full retreat into the mountains. He found himself practically tumbling down the ridge, stopping behind rocks to take shots at the incoming wave, rejoining the retreat before he got overwhelmed. In the stream below he was given a horse. Mounted, he looked back one last time at the bloody field, saw the fighters diving down on his fleeing warriors like angry dragons. It was that moment that he accepted the battle was lost. There was no rallying on better ground. He joined the torrent of men rushing like an avalanche in reverse into the cloud-ringed Semien mountains.

Silver Lake
9:23 PM

The young woman's long fingers nimbly moved across the piano keys. She sat alone on stage with no accompaniment. When she sang, it came out clearly across the room.

"I would send out for assistance but there's someone on the signal wire, and the corporation logo is flashing on and off in the sky. They're putting all your names in the forbidden book. I know what they're doing but I don't want to look."

Jessica and Penelope watched her preform in silence. They were only two of maybe a dozen people sitting at small tables in front of the stage. Jessica couldn't believe she had actually made it to Daily Bread. It was a rumor among the lefist community in LA. Everybody claimed they knew someone who had gone, or they knew someone who knew someone. But now here she was with a cup of coffee in her hand watching the woman on stage singing a protest song MacArthur outlawed.

"Everybody's singing with their hand on their heart, about deeds done in the darkest hours. That's just the sort of catchy little melody to get you singing in the showers. You think they're so dumb, you think they're so funny. Wait until they've got you running to the night rally, night rally, night rally."

Light applause broke out as the song ended. The young woman politely bowed before walking off stage.

"This used to be a speakeasy," Penelope said.

The older woman reached out and wrapped her hand around Jessica's. They weren't the only pair of same-sex lovers in the place, but they were the only two women together. Jessica squeezed her hand and offered up a smile.

"It was before my time," she added. "But it explains why the place is so hard to find."

Jessica nodded. Penelope leaned forward and brushed hair away from Jessica's face.

"Are you okay? You seem distracted."

She thought about Parker and the Pinkertons, his threats to hurt both Jessica and Penelope.

"I'm tired of LA," she finally said. "I want to leave all of this behind."

Penelope leaned forward, her brow wrinkled. "Why? LA isn't perfect, but for people like us it's the best we'll ever find."

"Canada," said Jessica. "I grew up in Canada."

"I didn't know that..." Penelope smiled and squeezed Jessica's hand. "But I could never go to Canada. There's still work to do here. Negroes are being denied civil rights down south, labor unions can't organize, and the government stomps on our civil liberties. To leave now would be running away."

"What's wrong with that?" Jessica asked, leaning forward and speaking softly. "It's an unwinnable fight, Penny. The government will never be beaten."

"We have to try, Jess," she said with force behind her voice. "Men and women before us fought for their beliefs. Harrison, Bromowitz, Peters, Hecht. They all fought.

"And they all died!"

All eyes in the room were suddenly on Jessica and Penelope. It had been that last name that made her lose her composure. She could feel tears forming in her eyes and she tried to hold them back. Penelope was so passionate... and so very, very foolish.

"Excuse me," Jessica said, standing and hurrying towards the door.

"Wait!"

Penelope followed after her out the door and through the hall towards the elevator.

"Jessica!"

Jessica was starting to go down the stairs when Penelope touched her shoulder.

"Talk to me, please. What's going on?"

Jessica spoke barely above a whisper. She was afraid if she raised her voice, emotion would overcome her and she would collapse into a wreck.

"Hecht," she said, swallowing hard. "My real last name is Hecht. I'm... Jessica Hecht."

Penelope looked as if she had confessed to being god. Her eyes were wide, a look of disbelief on her face.

"No... she died."

"No, she didn't," said Jessica. "I'm her."

She let out a choking noise as she let the tears flow. Penelope embraced her and the two women cried together in the doorway of the stairwell. Jessica had let her biggest secret slip, but she still hadn't told Penelope about Parker or the Pinkertons.

---



The White House
12:03 AM

"The vice president and I would like to thank all of you gentlemen for gathering here."

President Michael Norman stood at the head of the table with his glass raised. Russell sat at the opposite end of the table. Between them sat the most powerful men in America. New York's political boss Lennie Parrish sat next to New England's Big Jim Dwyer. Chicago Mayor Charlie Ricketts and Kansas City's A.J. Patterson sat on the opposite side from them. Wilbur Helms and LA's Walter Babbit sat on both sides of Russell. Big Jim's chair had a booster to make him look just as tall as the rest of the men at the table. Russell and the rest of the group knew they would be assembled in a similar fashion in just a few days in LA. They were the kingmakers of the Democratic Party. To Russell, they were more like feudal lords.

"I wanted to also mention Lewis Brisco resigned today. His health has taken a turn for the worse. He's in our thoughts and prayers."

The men around the room seconded the president's well wishes. Russell hid a smile. As Postmaster General, Brisco served as patronage chief for the entire federal government. Next to the president, the Postmaster General was the most powerful employee in the federal government. Every single man in the room, save for Helms, wanted that position for themselves.

"Let me be the first to wish the Brisco Family my sympathies," said Ricketts. A fat man with bright orange hair, he oozed corruption the way a slug oozed slime. "I'll see to it that the Chicago city council names a day after Lewis."

"Kansas City will name a boulevard in his honor," said A.J. Patterson.

"To Lewis Brisco," Russell said, standing with his drink raised. He traded amused looks with the president as they toasted.

"Thank you, Russell," said Norman. "In addition to a last bit of fellowship before the convention, I wanted -- the vice president actually --" Norman gave Russell a friendly nod. "Wanted to mention our friend Lewis and that when it comes time to appoint a new Postmaster General, we will start looking at all of you in this room to fill that vacancy."

"Remember that," said Russell. "And remember that while promises are the bedrock of political campaigning, it's the fulfilling of the promises that separates the campaigning from governing."

The president nodded and gave the men a reassuring smile.

"Senator Fernandez is on the outside looking in. Remember that when it comes time for your delegations to vote."

"Power is where power goes," said Russell. He aimed a finger at Norman. "And there, gentlemen, is power."

"This administration has a long memory," said Norman. "We always remember who stood with us."

"And we never forget who crossed us," Russell snarled.

An uneasy titter came from the men. Some, like Babbit, took it all in stride. But Ricketts and Dwyer both did not look amused at the blatant reminder of the president's power. These men ruled their political machines. They were not used to having someone above them, someone rubbing their noses in the fact that they were small time.

Afterwards, as they had after dinner drinks, the president buttonholed Russell for a private conversation.

"I don't know if this will work, Russ," he whispered. "I saw the way some of them looked. They're not happy. I think it may have antagonized some of them."

"Trust me," said Russell. "I know these men. They need a wake up call. Flexing your political muscle like this keeps them in line."

"It's just...," the president trailed off before lowering his voice further. "What about the postmaster general thing? Instead of making them united and fall in line, we're just going to encourage them to fight among themselves. That's the last thing we need at the convention."

"Don't worry." Russell squeezed Norman's shoulder and gave him a kind smile. "It'll all make sense in time, Mr. President. I know exactly what I'm doing."

---------------------------------
July, 1960 - Lusaka, Zambia
---------------------------------

Half a continent away from Anna Politkovskaya and the past she was leaving behind, Andrew Walls was still running from his. For two weeks he, and the girl who he had come to know only as Ferro, had blundered through the jungle. They had bounced from place to place until, at last, they had slipped across the Rhodesian - Zambian border. It hadn't been easy. The Communists inside Zambia had been doing their best recently to overthrow the Royalists who still supported the King of the Lozi People. The Royalists controlled most of the army and police forces so it had been a one sided battle until recently. At the moment the Communists were still confined to the more rural sections of the country and they used the rough terrain to lash out at Royalist and Rhodesians alike. Unlike the Rhodesians, however, the Royalists were painfully short on airpower and Andrew had seen how Rhodesian aircraft ranged into Zambian airspace with little regard for national borders, bombing and strafing Communist positions at will.

Two weeks of jungle hell had landed the couple in Lusaka. Andrew at first feared that they might be questioned but the streets were full of the wounded, displaced, homeless, all of them refugees from the fighting in the countryside. They were just two among ten of thousands. The press of humanity oppressive after weeks in the jungle. The stink of so many pushed together, the sick, the dying, the doorways cluttered with bodies that snored under thin rags.

The children were the worst, begging, stealing, or even operating in packs to take down larger adversaries in search of food or money. The police could only be bothered to protect the locals, what refugee's did to each other was of no consequence to them. It seemed that the soldiers only took a look at you if you were carrying a firearm, or a basket big enough to conceal one. Since Andrew and Ferro had literally nothing but the clothes on their bodies, they were left largely alone. Once a soldier had tried to suggest Ferro should come with them but she shrunk from his almost childlike face and hid behind Andrew.

The strangest sight of all was the complete lack of white faces to be seen, no matter where he turned. He assumed most of them had fled to Rhodesia or South Africa when the Communist insurgency broke out. It made him feel a good deal safer. All of his current enemies were from white governments in Rhodesia and America. Not much of a chance they would be blending in around here.

The concrete was warm under their bare feet as they padded down one of the side streets. The houses around them were not poor by any measure and the sky above their heads were choked with a never ending network of laundry lines, power cables, and, for some reason, a pair of shoes tied at the laces and thrown over one of the lines. Automobiles were even more rare here than Rhodesia and only on a few occasions did they rumble through and they were almost exclusively police or military patrols. In each case they had stood off to the side, smiled blankly, waved back if waved at, and then choked on the diesel fumes as the vehicles passed by.

"You look lost, friend." A voice called from a nearby doorway and Andrew turned quickly to see clean shaven and well dressed black man smiling at him from below a sign marked Rooms. Cheap.

"You might say that." Andrew replied, looking up and down the street and then back at the stranger. Ferro was pressed against him, her breathing loud in his ear as a small dust bunny whirled by on the street. There was no one else to be seen as the street curved away as it were a large crescent shape. "Our first time in Zambia."

"Well welcome then," Replied the stranger with a grand wave of his hand. Andrew took a closer look at him as he moved out of the shadow of the doorway. He was wearing a clean white shirt, dark grey trousers of a local make, and had a pistol tucked into the waist of his pants, held in place by a red sash. "To the alley of lost souls!"

"Alley of lost..." Andrew felt his heart sink and his face must have mirrored his thoughts because the man burst out laughing.

"Naw Ek Se, I'm fucking with you. This here is part of the Church Circuit." He grinned and pointed up at the spire that soared above them. Andrew hadn't noticed it before. Indeed he had failed to notice that the Rooms. Cheap. was actually hanging from the wall of the church. Much of the lower side had been covered by smaller dwellings but this door still stuck through. The frame was of black brick, the main building of red that had once been white washed but it was now peeling away. It was evidently some side entrance and he noticed the little wooden doorway that you could once have, and maybe still could, put an unwanted child so that someone inside could raise the child as a God fearing member of the Church.

The stranger had a fine smile and his eyes did not betray any evil intent to Andrew. He hadn't become a drug Kingpin by being bad at reading people and he felt confident that the man meant them no harm. He chuckled in spite of himself and then pointed at the sign. "Cheap rooms? What's the catch?"

"Gotta earn them, Ek Se."

It took Andrew a moment to realize that the man was calling him "friend", or at least a slang version of it anyway, in Zambian. His eyes narrowed though as he looked at the pistol and then at the church. "What sort of work, friend? I ain't one for muscle work anymore.

"No, no," The man laughed again then stepped into the street, hand extended. "I am Brother Isaiah. I keep an eye on this here portal to make sure none of the undesirable's come on in and try to help themselves to the offerings, if you know what I mean." He flashed a golden cross from his shirt at them as if it was some of talisman.

"I believe him." Ferro's voice interrupted Andrews thought process and she stepped around him to approached Isaiah. She bowed slightly and offered him a greeting in a language Andrew did not recognize. Brother Isaiah's eye widened then he bowed and replied in the same language. They spoke for a moment and Isaiah's eyes became hard as he glanced at Andrew, hand straying to his pistol.

Another burst of chatter from Ferro and he relaxed, then extended his hand to Andrew. "You saved one of the sisters. Well done you."

"Sister?" Andrew asked uncertainly as he shook the hand. Ferro nodded at him.

"Yes, I was a nun before... Well, before I met you. I can speak common Zambian, English, and Latin."

"A nun in Rhodesia?" Andrew couldn't keep from blurting the question out and Isaiah raised an eyebrow at him. Ferro only nodded. She still wasn't much on speaking, though the bruises she had sustained from the attack were nothing but unhappy memories now.

"You're from Rhodesia?" Isaiah's tone was still friendly but he looked wary, glancing up and down the street before swiftly opening the door behind him and ushering them in. The darkness beyond the door yawned wide and Andrew couldn't help but worry for a brief moment. He hesitated before stepping into the blackness. The door behind him slammed and heard the sound of a bolt sliding home. There was silence for a moment then the sound of a match being struck and light flared as Isaiah lit a hand held lantern. He waited for the flame to settle and then glanced sharply at Andrew.

"You must be Andrew Walls, the American, then?"

"How the fuck..." Andrew's body felt as if someone had dumped ice water over him. How the hell did a Priest in the middle of Zambia know who he was? He almost began to look for a way out of the space but he could see no way except past Isaiah. He bunched his fists and prepared to dive at the man if he went for the pistol.

"A friend of mine told me about you in a letter. He fed you in a cave when you crossed the border."

In an instant Andrew's memory flashed back to the cliffside hideout, concealed in the deep brush, and kindness that had received from the Communists who called it home. He unclenched his fists and nodded slowly. "You mean Bupe? Tall fellow, short spiked hair, funny way of dancing and singing?"

Isaiah nodded. "One the same. I guess you probably didn't know then, he's dead. The Rhodesian's killed him and most of his group a few days ago. By the grace of god, one of them was able to send us a signal before they were overrun."

"You're a Communist then?" Andrew asked in disbelief. "Isn't that out of step with the church?"

"There is room for Gods house for all, Andrew. But we must keep you of sight. Rhodesian agents are in the city and they've been asking about you. I don't know who you are, or what you did, but you pissed them off something fierce." Isaiah was now leading them up a flight of well fitted wooden stairs and the sound of chanting could be heard above.

"Well, that should be easy to avoid. White face stick out like a sore thumb around here." Andrew began to relax. At least, here, amongst other blacks he might be safe. He doubted he would stay long but heck, anywhere was better than running for a while. He was so lost in thought that he crashed into Isaiah as the man stopped abruptly to look at him.

"White? What were you doing in Rhodesia? Smoking crack? The Security Forces employ many blacks and people of colour. They are not fools."

Isaiah had no idea just how well he had hit Andrew's previous line of work on the head. He hadn't had anything for almost three weeks now of course and the withdrawal had been terrible but whole "not dying" thing had kept him pretty focused.

"Well I need to get out of here then. Can you help me?" Andrew asked as they passed through a low doorway into a long room filled with single bed cots. Some were filled with sleeping forms, some were empty. Those that had occupants also had weapons leaning against them. Andrew looked around. "What can I do?" He asked with some despair.

"You sleep, you wait, and when the time comes, you fight."

Route 66
3:13 PM

"Oh give me land, lots of land under starry skies above. Don't fence me in."

Johnny Legarrio's supercharged Packard Stallion roared down the highway. He had the ragtop down and his sunglasses on. The wind blowing through his black hair was the only thing that made the Arizona heat bearable. A rolling expanse of desert the only thing he could see for miles, so far off a hazy mirage began to obscure his view. The radio played Bobby Chambers with the Edwards Sisters backing him.

"Just turn me loose, let me straddle my old saddle underneath the western sky. On my cayuse, let me wander over yonder 'til I see the mountains rise.

One hundred and four degrees outside. It was days like this that Johnny ever wondered why the fuck he had agreed to leave Chicago. But then he remembered the winters of Chicago and suddenly the heat of Arizona wasn't so bad. At least it was a dry heat. What that meant, he wasn't quite sure. People always said it whenever it got hot here.

"I want to ride to the ridge where the West commences, and gaze at the moon 'til I lose my senses. And I can't look at hobbles, and I can't stand fences. Don't fence me in."

Another hour on the road and he finally found the town he was looking for. A sign announced that he had arrived in Yucca, Arizona, Population 850. Above the sign was a flagpole displaying The Arizona state flag, and the confederate flag. Now he knew he was in the right place.

Only a few phone calls and he had what he needed about Yucca and the Highway Rangers. Most state and local legislatures were in Frenchie's pocket, which meant they knew the score when Johnny started asking about the biker gang. A bunch of crybabies who couldn't handle losing the war. Twice. So they banded together and roamed America. Yucca, one state rep had said, was where the Arizona chapter operated out of now. They'd damn near taken over the whole town over the last few months.

It was an open secret how they terrorized Western Arizona, but the Yucca police force wasn't standing up to them. With no state law enforcement agency, the only thing the governor could do would be to send in the state national guard. And there was no way he wanted to see his state make news by invading itself.

But Arizona was still the frontier even this far into the 20th century. The pioneer spirit was still strong throughout the state. Plenty of Arizonans prided themselves on being the last state admitted into the Union. With that spirit and pride came the concept of frontier justice. If the cops couldn't do the job, then Johnny would. The thought made him smile. A Chicago guinea hood playing sheriff in the middle of the goddamn desert. Only in America.

He slowed and pulled into a service station. A skinny, pimple-faced teenager in a grease-stained olive uniform came out to pump his gas. Johnny popped the hood of the car to let him check the engine out. When he was finished, Johnny passed him a twenty dollar bill.

"Hold on a sec while I go break it."

"Keep it," said Johnny. "Whatever I didn't spend out of it is yours, kid." He squinted at the name sewn on the shirt's lapel. "Jasper, let me ask you something. What do you know about those biker guys who hang around?"

The smile he had been wearing when he thought he was earning a seven dollar tip vanished. He couldn't look Johnny in the eye, and suddenly his feet were very attractive to his gaze.

"They're assholes," he mumbled. "Say that Arizona was part of the old confederacy in the first war, so they think this is friendly territory. They go around town and... they're assholes."

"Where do they like to party?"

"Road house on the other side of town." The kid hitched a thumb behind him, pointed towards town. "Used to be a bar. They took it over last year and call it their clubhouse. Only members and friends allowed."

He saw a sign posted across the street. Wooden and hand painted in ugly letters

"DON'T LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON YOUR BLACK ASS IN TOWN.
WHITES ONLY AFTER DARK"

"How many coloreds you got around here?" Johnny asked.

"Maybe twenty" Jasper said with a shrug. "Couple families. They live in Bucknelson, a small group of houses outside of town. Rangers put that sign up."

Johnny nodded before he reached into his wallet and passed the kid a ten dollar bill.

"For your troubles, Jasper. You got money saved up, kid?"

"A bit," said Jasper with a soft smile. "Even more now that I met you."

"Take what you can and buy a bus ticket to wherever you can." Johnny started the car and looked up at him. "Things are about to get worse in town."

He pulled out of the service station and cruised through Yucca. There weren't many people around in the middle of the work day, but those that did were drawn to Johnny's big, flashy car. The sound of his powerful engine caused many of them to flinch before they saw a car, not a motorcycle, was the source of the sound.

The Highway Rangers clubhouse sat just off the highway on the outskirts of town. A one story wooden frame building, there was an obviously added on second story above it that looked so shaky a strong breeze might topple it. Close to two dozen bikes were parked out in front on the dirt.

Johnny was on the other side of the highway, parked and watching. A plan was forming. First thing he'd have to do is get them out of the clubhouse. This time of day, plenty of them were still probably sleeping it off from last night. They wouldn't be out until hours from now. A smile crept on to his face. He knew exactly how he could do it.

He revved the engine of his Packard and put it into gear. The tires spun for a second before they caught on the asphalt. He raced across the road and the dirt towards the motorcycles on their kickstands.

The Agriculturalist, the Golden Lady, and the New Presidency

Archibald Santos' first order of business was to send out messages to the mobile courts to begin another circuit, as well as the regional assemblies stationed in the provinces to move to another major city; it would not do to have individual urban centres in the Philippines get too cozy with being centres of Power. The Muslim Congress, buoyed up by its success in Sabah (a success they forgot they had nothing to do with and had actually opposed), was eager to move to Cotabato City to be closer to its new ally and trading partner. Marawi's Civilian Council would be sad, but they'd understand. It was Davao which was the larger problem.

Despite land reform further north, the Christian settlers trickling into Mindanao have only slowed down their migration into Muslim and Pagan lands, and were demanding their own representation. Davao City had the loudest voice for that, being home to Christians, Muslims, and Japanese Refugees exiled from Japan because of left-wing views. Due to the land around Davao being host to an increasing number of small cacao farms exporting chocolate to the global market - the sellers usually labelled the cacao as Mexican or African to avoid any tarriffs against Priscilline Confederalist Philippines - the city's voice was getting harder and harder to deny.

Archibald mused that it was his own agricultural techniques that had led to this rise in influence; an unforseen consequence of good intentions. Either way, he was thinking about how to please Davao's Civilian Council without alienating the Muslim Congress.

Footsteps were heard entering the room, which was situated in the small and modest guesthouse he lived in now that he was President. It was Aurelia, dressed in an immaculate black-and-white robe that made her look a bit like a Zebra, not that he was going to say that outright. Archibald said to his Vice President: "Hello, Aurelia, what's the order of business?"

"Christians want to join the Sulu Pirates," was the sudden and surprising reply from the normally refined lady. "Same for Sabahan Muslims. Should we extend tacit permission?" She would then blink a little. "Also, you might want to re-confirm ties with certain Rhodesian...entities."

Archibald would say to Aurelia, "I know about the airplanes you're buying from them as gifts to the air force. And we can always use a new market for agricultural products." A look at her. "By the way, you do realize my agricultural research ought to help their business; so can you ask your contacts to call off their assassins?"

Aurelia's eyes opened slightly wider. "You're more assertive and perceptive than I gave you credit for. Power must do that to a person. So, what about the pirates?"

"Tell Davao City that if they support the Christians' ridiculous requests to join in piracy, they can kiss being a seperate political unit from the Muslim Congress goodbye. We are not muddying up the waters. Sabhans, meanwhile, need to register the names of every pirate captain - who would then keep a list of crew - in the Sulu and Manila Registers." At Aurelia's expression turning quizzical, Archibald continued, "Priscilla and Sultana Sabiha forced all pirate captains who want official support to register their names in Sulu, which would be copied in Manila; these two registers will be regularly cross-referenced with each other."

Archibald revealed more, "Each pirate captain then keeps a smaller ledger of their crewmembers and their activities. It is a measure to ensure a minimal level of ethical behavior between Pirates; keeps them semi-honorable. Not merely that, but all ledgers have a coded message in Arabic Script but in the Esperanto language. This coded message cannot be deciphered by the pirate captains, but is widely understood to be a means of distinguishing said ledger from any imitations." A purse of his lips. "Any pirate who does not have a ledger with said message, or who claims to understand said message, is actually an impostor or infiltrator."

Pinnacle Studios
10:23 PM

Jefferson Thomas followed Elliot Shaw down the shining marble halls of Pinnacle. Glossy black and white publicity photos of starlets and movie posters lined both sides of the wall. Blackface comedian Spanky Young beamed down at Jeff with his greasepaint covered face.
Shaw opened a door with his name stenciled on it and led Jeff through into his office. Shaw clicked a light on and started to rummage through a file cabinet.

"Brock was a pretty reliable screenwriter for Pinnacle," he said over his shoulder. "You ever seen Lion's Den?"

"The one based on the Bible?" asked Jeff. "Yeah. I saw it twice when it opened."

"Brock wrote that. He also wrote Tomorrow Isn't Today, I Was a Kentucky Bootlegger, and at least four westerns that all made back their budget. Everything he wrote made us money."

"So why the blacklist?"

"Because of this."

Shaw pulled a script from the file cabinet and dropped it on to the desk. It made a loud smack as it fell on the hard surface. Jeff leaned down and looked at the thick script. The cover page announced the title of the screenplay in bold, red typed letters.

COMRADES IN ARMS:
THE RISE AND FALL OF THE CALIFORNIA PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS
WRITTEN BY W. BROCK
PRODUCED BY P.K. WEISS

Jeff looked up at Shaw and waited for the man to light up a cigarette.

"My boss commissioned Brock for a war picture," he said, blowing smoke. "She wanted something like Mr. Lankham Goes to War. Pro-US, anti-red, anti-Long. What he submitted, instead, was this giant piece of shit. It's over two hundred pages, Detective. To give you an idea, in the picture business one page of a screenplay is supposed to equal about a minute of screen time. It's three and a half hours long and unusable, even if it weren't filled with leftist propaganda."

Jeff ran his fingers across the cover page. He tapped the name typed underneath Brock's and looked up at Shaw.

"Who's P.L. Weiss?"

"Penelope Weiss," said Shaw. "Penny's a rich heiress who finances pictures on occasion. She was willing to go halves with Pinnacle on this picture, at least until Janie pulled the plug on the whole thing."

"Was she blacklisted?"

Shaw shrugged. "We stopped working with her and let other studios know, but she's got her own cash. We fired Brock, but Penny's independent."

"Who was going to direct?" Jeff asked as he picked up the script and started to thumb through it.

"Roy Abercrombie. He directed two of the westerns Brock wrote..."

He looked up as Shaw trailed off. There was a look on Shaw's face. He was thinking through something.

"What?" Jeff asked.

"The list," Shaw said softly.

"What list?"

Shaw looked up at Jeff, his face betraying his words.

"I didn't say anything about a list."

"What list, Shaw?" Jeff asked. He dropped the script back on the desk and let it land with a loud thump. "You hiding things from me will cancel our deal. The papers would love to know about this screenplay."

Shaw looked at Jeff for a moment, then he sighed and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and passed it to over.

"This was in Claire Beauchamp's apartment. I took it out the night she was killed, right before LAPD got there. That and a bunch of radical pamphlets."

It was a list of phone numbers. Penciled beside the numbers in a different handwriting were names. Pennelope K. Weiss was at the top of the list, Wendall Brock and Roy Abercrombie below her.

Jeff looked up from the list and stared hard.

"This is breaking and entering and obstruction of justice, Shaw."

"This is me doing my job," Shaw said, jabbing a finger towards the list. "Be it drugs, kiddie porn, or proof of subversive ideas. If it hurts the studio, I clean it up."

Jeff ignored Shaw's justifications. Instead, he sat down at the desk and pulled a pencil from his jacket. With a scratch piece of paper, he began to jot down the phone numbers and names on Shaw's list.

"This is my copy," he said as he worked. "I'll give you yours back when I'm done. You know what we do after that."

"Let me handle the movie people. They know me. I might be able to get some of them to actually talk."

"That's fine." Jeff passed the list back to Shaw and tucked his own copy into his coat pocket. "As long as you leave Weiss for me."

Dawn's light closed in on the capital. The sky turned a deep purple as pale oranges and yellows followed after the setting sun as it lowered below the crowns of the buildings and tree tops to the west. The distant outlying hills and mountains outside of Beijing took on dark shapes pressed against the evening sky as the street lights flickered on. But in places in the old city where the damage of the war had not been so severe, where work crews had not the opportunity or ample reason to carry on reconstruction many of the streets and narrow Hutongs lay dark and dreamy in the fading lights. As birds clambered and chirped madly in the trees, drowning out the sounds of traffic on the mainroads the sounds of dogs barking and children crying their final screams of the late evening sang in the cool summer's air.

The gentler folk who lived along the narrow hutongs had done what they could to hand lanterns up from the small gateways into their family homes, which provided a soft orange light for the late-night travelers on their way home. Many were old blood in the city, merchants who had found a new life under the Communist regime or a few professionals who wanted what was believed to be a fleeting facet of old Chinese life and moved into the empty Siheyuans. As men in factory garb or faded bureaucratic suits shuffled through the narrow streets, or skillfully wove along them on bicycles a small group of youths made their huddled way through the narrow corridors smelling the late evening smells of fried dumplings, searing fish, or the incense on old family altars.

High atop an old stone wall a cat sat perched and meowed down at the group as they passed. Its eyes glowing a bright green as it caught the soft light below. But they disregarded the feline, chattering and talking warmly among themselves as they went along their way. The topics varied, ranging from idle banter to conversation on life and women, or rather simply women. The singers of the day spun in and out of conversation.

“The ladies really like Ai Wung.” said one to his companions, “My older cousin said they really like to be called a Silken White Lilly, after his song.”

There was dismissive laughter, and they went along.

Their walk came to an end at a small gatehouse. Nondescript, blending in with its neighbors its only tell as to whose it was, let alone it was not unlike the others was a large painted wooden sign reading “Gao – Song, Zhen, Liling, Huang, Ji, and family”. There was also a potted plant.

Acting as not being strangers, the company of young men stopped at the door and their leader reached for the wooden door to the courtyard beyond and grabbed the robe to the bell there. With a firm tug he rung it and a dull brass note rang in the night. Moments later an old thin woman came to the door dressed in a gray cotton dress. Smiling wide, her pale cheeks glowing in the lantern lit courtyard beyond she began happily greeting them. Bidding them welcome with each name she recited with warm familiarity, “Guang, Ho, Hei, Da, Cong,” she said, “Biming, Chao. Welcome. Head along, the professor is waiting.”

The students exchanged her hospitality and returned the bows. Some pointed out the decoration of the evening and complimented the lanterns strung above the stone courtyard. One mentioned the well kept plants in the scattered garden plots in the courtyard, distributed as if one had cast a few pebbles into the air and dug up the dirt there for flowers and trees. Besides the wall to the narrow Hutong street behind them, they were enveloped completely by house. A wide veranda ran the edge of the open courtyard, including in its circuit the southern wall at the street. A few electrical lights in the rafters illuminated the darker spots and one their left side an elderly couple could be seen watching them as they rocked back and forth in their chairs. The youths bowed to them, and the couple returned the favor by waving hello, or bowing their heads.

Moving ahead they stepped into the main house proper and they were greeted immediately by the smells of fry and cooking of stew. As the guests came to a hungry excitement they were greeted by the man of the house, a tall impressive figure with a thinning head of hair.

“Good evening! Welcome!” he said in a loud cheery voice. A pair of round circular glasses sat atop a dapper, delicate nose. His cheeks were round and wrinkled, especially as he smiled and his voice carried like a thunder clap in the theater. He spoke warmly and with candor, his brown eyes glowing brightly in the lantern and candle light of his house. There was not much room for electricity, he seemed to provide his own in any case.

The guests and their hosts migrated to a dinner table, small and normally not fitted for such a large number they none the less found a way to pack themselves in. As genially as they had come, so they set about the evening's events. Opening with stories. “I was visiting my cousins in the country last weekend.” one of the young men started, Chao Biming. A broad shouldered young man with a face that threatened to turn into Guan Yu's if he did not shave. He was a student of engineering at the university.

“When I joined my eldest cousin in a walk around the fields I saw two small birds fighting off a large hawk. This was amazing, I thought and I pointed it out to my cousin. Nonplussed he looked up at the fighting birds and shrugged it off. 'It happens all the time.' he told me, 'sooner or later one gets the better of the other.'

“'How often does it turn out?' I asked him.

“'It depends on how hungry the eagle is.' my cousin said casually.

“I was still impressed by this, and I watched them as we walked. I was amazed at the agility of the small bird's performance and the endurance and stability of the hawk in flight. He acted as if there was nothing to bother him and stayed the course.

“This simple thing had to be the single most fascinating thing that day. And my cousin brushed it off! He showed me a creek instead he would take his kids too on an easy day and let them play and cool off in the water as he sat by and carved wood with his knife.”

“What does your cousin make?” a thin wiry man said, barely a boy. Like the professor Gao Song he wore a pair of spectacles, though his larger and square in shape. He wore a collared shirt that hung loose at the shoulders. His name was Hu Hei.

“Just, little things.” Biming said, “I don't think he makes anything practical. He just cuts into wood and tries to make little designs or something. He had a refuse pile near a log, you could tell that's where he sits. He was still thinking about those birds when we sat down there, and I asked if he could make me a bird. He said he'll see what he can do.”

“Your cousin sounds like an interesting man. Does he have a collection of carvings perhaps?” professor Gao Song asked from the head of the table. His wife quietly entered the room and began asking if anyone wanted any beer to drink, a few said yes and she soon disappeared in the kitchen for a few bottles.

“I never saw any. I suppose if he makes anything worth keeping it might give it away.”

“And on those birds.” another student said with a raised voice, a square jawed man with a set of eyes that seemed to gaze distantly, “I don't suppose you're going to try and design an airplane after them?” he asked with a laugh.

Biming shook his head, “No. But that would be nice. But I don't know where I should start.”

“Maybe later.” the square-jawed man said.

“Huang Guang, you have anything interesting to tell?” asked the professor. The square-jawed man considered for a moment and shrugged, “If we're talking about animals I was walking around Qiangdao Island with my girlfriend at the water side. At some point we stop to look at the water. A moment later an old man stops next to us and starts tossing small bits of bread and shit into the water. Some large fish, carp or something come up and start eating at the scraps he's feeding them. Up until this large monster of a fish enters the fray and things turn violence.

“My girlfriend starts laughing as the water is splashed by all these fish fighting with the big fish for food. This goes on until the old man finishes his bag, maybe fifteen minutes. And he turns to us, nods his head, and walks the way we came. Without any food the water clears and the fish disperse.”

“I have something similar.” Hu Hei interjects, “It's not mine specifically. But it's a story I heard none the less. Apparently there was a fisherman down south on the river with a boat in the early morning. Somewhere nearby a flock of ducks land. Moments later he claims to have seen a large fish rise from the water and swallow a duck whole before disappearing into the murky water and the mud. My brother said he heard it from a friend who was down there on a trip.” the table laughed. It counted.

Gao Song's wife reentered the room, circling the table Gao Zhen placed a bottle of beer infront of everyone who said they'd have one. “Dinner will be ready in a moment.” she said cheerily. Her cheeks glowing in the warm light of flickering candles and lanterns.

“Thank you.” a chorus echoed as she left, and in strolled a young girl carrying a thin young black cat.

Smiling the professor said, “So we adopted a new member a couple weeks ago.” he said, holding a hand out and gently scratching behind the ears of the nervous cat in the young girl's arms. “Or rather Liling did. I was apprehensive at first but I suppose it warmed on me.”

“Oh boy, how'd this happen?” a student asked.

“Well I suppose finding fish in the tree is sometimes possible when you try. Or at least when someone puts them there.” Song said, “Liling picked her up on the way home from school.” he began as the young girl walked around the table letting the guests pat the nervous feline on the head. It was jet black with glowing yellow eyes. At each stretch of the hand it would try to push back, but the young girl's arms were too tight. In the end it surrendered to the generosity of each touch and comforted, “By the time I noticed, my little jasmine had her well at home and there was no use getting rid of it. Her ear was cut, and Zhen had to head out into Fengtai to find an animal doctor to look into it. Apart from the one injury, she got a clean bill of health.”

“What are you naming it?” asked a student.

“Oh, that's up to Liling.”

“What is she naming it?”

“Hou.” the table laughed.

“That's a funny name.” they pointed out.

“I know, but not my cat.” Song said with an indifferent shrug.

Song's wife again materialized from the kitchen, this time carrying a metal tea pot and a tray full of small tin cups. She set them on the table, “Tea for anyone who wants it.” she said.

Following her was a young boy, maybe two years younger than Liling. He was perhaps twelve. He had a wild head of unbrushed hair and he helped carry in a tray full of bowls of soup which were quickly served to each of the seated guests. “We're almost ready.” said Zheng in a warm tone, there was relief at the edge, knowing all on her end was beginning to wrap up.

“I had the opportunity to eat cat years ago.” another student chimed in, “Maybe... five?” he said thinking. He was dexterous looking with an athletic look. His hair was combed tight against his skull which narrowed nearly to a rounded point, and again likewise at the chin. “It was a student trip when I was in primary school and we were seeing Hong Kong and where Hou began his career. We stopped over at a small place tucked neatly away, just big enough to house us all. Unwittingly I and my friends opted to a dish that contained cat and we ate it. The meat has a strange taste to it, I can't place it. But I didn't like it very much.”

The table broiled with disgust. All of them from the north there was agreement eating cat was unacceptable. As they ate their soup they continued exchanging stories, going in a circuit around the table until they had exhausted their options. By this point, the main meal was out and everyone was starting to dig in.

“Comrade professor,” a student started as he served himself a stack of dumplings from the spread laid out on the table. By this time with the food all sorted Zheng seated herself next to the head with her husband and with a relieved look was going about to partake in the food at hand. The son who had been with her had appeared and disappeared from the kitchen holding onto several plates and shuffled off elsewhere. “I have heard a lot about your lectures from Guang, and I want to know what your thoughts on Hou.” said a student, the young man known as Guang, with the narrowing brow and chin looked up expectantly to observe the conversation.

“What is the occasion?” Song asked, piling up rice with his chopsticks.

“I was talking one day with a foreign yankee living here in China who pointed out that it seems to him Hou's work is nearly everywhere, or should be. But that many people don't seem to see it. He seemed to suggest that as a leader he should be an involved man, or at the least be a man to make statements on what is happening in the world. But so far he hasn't. To him, he claims to remember the last time Hou has firmly commented on things was in the early fifties.”

The professor nodded and tapped his chopsticks on his plate as he parsed together his thoughts. “He doesn't have to.” he said.

“How is that?” asked the student.

“In the tradition of China a leader is most often an individual who delegates. Or more ideally is one to act behind the scenes. In China's recent past it was the mandarins of the Qing who were the public face of the Imperial court, while it was known that the Emperor was at the head, it was broadly seen and recognized as the Qing court and its tendrils as the face of proclamation and action. Less so perhaps during the Republic, where its rule was so tenuous the generals in its army became their own face in ensuing warfare. But Hou has readopted the imperial policy.”

“Yet he is not an emperor.” the student pointed out.

“That is for the best.” Biming quipped.

“It is, but it's also for the best that Hou's position has thus far been unchallenged.” Song said, “I foresee terrible times for China if at this time it has to negotiate elections.”

“How is that so?”

“As recognized by Sun Yat-Sen, the full breadth and conditions of liberty are not wholly realized by the Chinese people. For thousands of years the Chinese people have only known central authority beyond their grasp, they are not trained to think democratically, and they will not overnight realize they have options as the Party or its more radical counterparts wish to be.

“I am not saying China is without hope on this. But Hou and his Party have considerable work ahead of them to erode the Old Ways.”

“How might Hou possibly want to erode the old beliefs when he uses them?” asked Guang, looking over at the student who had initiated the table conversation, “As has been debated in class what does it mean really for the state ideology in moving ahead that it drags behind it the chain of the past? I do not really think Hou wishes to erode these positions, and I still stand by that position. But what is new about Hou's philosophy when it is referential and relies so heavily on the old traditions?”

“Are you trying to imply that Hou is mixing Marxism into Confucianism, or Confucianism into Marxism?” asked Biming.

“He is saying that Hou is reconciling Taoism with Marxism.” professor Song smiled, “Which is on point. But he is using it in such a way to give pause for the reconsideration on how the ancient texts are written.”

“It sounds like he's disagreeing with you.” Biming said.

“He disagrees with another student in the class, but besides the point.” Song said. Guang bowed.

“As in Confucianism,” continued Guang, “as we explored in the class, while the student is subservient to the master, the master is not immune to the student's questions or challenges. Likewise is the government not immune to the critiques of the people.”

“Hou has outlined this.” Song said, “From a philosophical perspective it is not as if he is negating Confucianism by saying it is wrong from an external. He's pulled from the Analects to imply that there is not an absolute top-down flow of power. For the rest of the Chinese people, he tries to de-alienate Communism and European popular liberation ideology by making comparisons with what exists in our own canon to make it immediately palpable. He's also since 1954, '55, or '56 began practicing what it was he preached and slipped further into the background, about the time political parties returned to China.

“However, while Guang asserts that Hou is fully canonizing Marxism as Chinese by referring to the ancient texts I have to propose a correction – probably – to the analysis and say that while Laozi and Confuxi are being appropriated to make elective government appear less alien to the broad masses and de-alienate it, a man like Hou is simply not a resource that can be quietly dispensed with in an election, not like in the Philippines with Priscilla's departure.”

“How so?” asked the student who had begun it.

“Namely, it would be immature. Hou understands his methodology more completely than anyone else. He can write about it and explain it, but in the climate of China's politics many of the representatives still act as if they were Mandarins and their political allegiances shift organically day to day. While there is a large core of officers in Hou's party many of the rest start off one month as a Unionist and might the next move to the 2nd Movement, or to Hou's Party, and vice-versa. No one has yet learned the political realities in China and for us to hold an election now would invariably entail we elect a snake who will sell out or change the national principle before we know it. An election might well kill the revolution now, but Hou seems to have a trust that these people will not create the conditions to endanger it.”

“Though, given what is happening had has happened in countries outside of China,” Hei said, between mouthfuls of food, “is democracy the safest course of action? As you admit we need Hou, he is the only one who understands. And assuming that someday in the future China is to understand what he is he's thinking; wouldn't Democracy ultimately weaken China to the pressures of capitalists? Look at America: Hou even criticizes the Americans for having lost their democracy. Democracy is an open door to any ideology, what comes it. And all it takes is for them to enter. The very revolution in China would be threatened if in absence of Hou, capitalism reasserts itself in China and spoils the work my father and my uncles have done in this country. And by the very notion of democracy, that which is the popular opinion of the country is ultimately right, never mind what happens after. If we democratically elect a capitalist, we spit on the graves of our fathers.”

“That is bourgeoisie democracy.” Gao Song said, “It is easier for the bourgeoisie of a country to say, 'Look! It is what what most of the people want! And so it shall!'.” he took a moment to take a drink of beer, “But this is a half-democracy, a hidden dictatorship of the bourgeoisie built on the appeal to the majority as made by the dollar. In the end, what Hou has manifested from the old writings, and innumerate from Marx is that democracy, and the dictatorship of the Proletariat is a democracy of meeting where all barriers to political discoursed are lowered so all might participate. That majority opinion be not just a one-way dialog of ideology but also of consensus; as in the village community.”

The table murmured, until someone spoke up, “Ms. Ghao, what do you think?”

She looked up and smiled politely, “I don't think about it.” she admitted, “I just handle the house, the groceries, and the parties.”

“That is a shame.” Biming said, “But you do cook the best dinner ever.” the table nodded in agreement.