[IC] The Fourth Horseman Came

[Dinh AaronMk]

New Jersey

Sandy Hook Bay

The envoy leaned over the deck railing, the shadows cast by the sails over him helping to shield the early summer sun from the back of his neck. It was early June, and a heavy heat beat against the deck of the state ferry as it sailed south on the wind for the Jersey shore. And while the sun was shaded from his back, the bright glimmering reflections of the sun on the water was powerfully sharp as the water turned and shifted in the summer breeze. All around the ambassador the crew went about their work manning the rigging as the ship steered in for the shore to land.

There was still some time ahead of him as he watched the New Jersey coastline pull closer into view. The green crowns of trees and the white facades of hidden houses – many possibly abandoned – were pulling out of the long atmospheric haze that had hid the shore from the boat. And coming into the far distant corners of the bay where the Navesink River met the waters behind the long barrier spit that protected this northern corner of New Jersey from the dark and foreboding temperament of the greater Atlantic Ocean he knew that while his rather brief journey was closing, his mission wasn't entirely over either.

A tall man standing shockingly near six-foot the ambassador was a young, handsome man. With long black hair combed back across his head and a straight-black suit he was the image of the old-world government agent or business contractor. His brown eyes shone with the light of the sun, turning them almost gold.

Pulling under the first half-derelict bridges that strode the gap between the Sandy Hook spit and mainland Jersey he formerly entered land – and waters – outside the control of New York. Monmoth and lands south were not the direct jurisdiction of the New York landowners, but in recent years had become dependent on and recognized the strength and power of New York to the north. And even more so they turned more readily to the New Yorkers for aid and direction as a common anxiety fell upon them from the south. Misdirection and uncertainty marching at the head of an army claiming itself to be that of the United States itself; a title that had to many in New York become discredited by its inaction and the fragility behind the old strength it had once so long ago displayed.

To the older men who lived in New York, the handful educated in the old world the United States Government which now thrust spears into Southern New Jersey had as much credibility as the government of the now more distant, more fantastical land of Somalia.

“Ambassador Crown.” a crewman said from behind him, “We're coming in close. Less than half an hour.”

Crown turned to him and smiled, “Thank you.” he said with a smile, and turned back to watch the passing green shoreline.

Alexander “Alex” Crown had been directed south by Albany little more than a day ago to partake in wider efforts to grant diplomatic assistance to the regional influences of northern New Jersey and to provide or attend to a gradual dismissal of previous incursions by the northern Republic. Depending on who each agent acquired an audience with this could often be said to be easier said than done. But the over all orders were simple: using the agent's geniality, persuasiveness, and what requests that may be fulfilled by Albany for material support organize and orchestrate the cooperation of New Jersey land-holders or bosses to build a coalition to stall or defeat United States Government expansion northward.

But failing all this, Alexander felt that perhaps in someway he could go further. If not to goad the people of New Jersey to reconstruct the government that had collapsed following their previous war then perhaps the powers that be in Jersey would comply to annexation by New York. It was a stretch, but Alexander didn't get by in thinking of short goals.

He was confident in his ability, and he couldn't be less so knowing who he was headed too. It wouldn't be the first time Alexander met him. But it would be the first as an envoy.

The waters opened wide as the ship glided into Shrewsbury Bay. All around the edges of the bay the shore assumed no sort of order as it itself wrapped itself up into smaller bays and up into the shallow beds of rivers and streams. The detritus of the world passed had littered itself along the rocky shore-line or still floated half-drowning against piers at the concrete-lined harbors that divided the old residential suburbs from the bay itself.

On his left the high walls of club-house building stood over the water, shrouded behind trees and thick shrubbery and weeds at the edge of its concrete shore. Decades before that had been a golf-club. But after the eruption the interest in golf had died flat-out with the rest of suburban, wealthy society and like the rest of the area it fell in on itself, and like the nation scrambled to survive before re-organizing. He had worked there, some years before. The building had been re-acquired by he and his partners as a factory, a trading post in this area of New York and in the time since he saw that the compound had expanded behind the trees and weedy bushes. Towers and taller buildings peaked out over oaks not even a century old and smaller soft-woods. Boating traffic was heavier in that side of the bay, and the ferry skirted the edge of the boisterous activity as mercantilism marched along at a small scale here.

In a quieter section of the bay the ferry skirted along the still water. Its bow turned to a smaller harbor opposite the old golf club. Alex braced himself, stepping off the rail and adjusting is collar and cuffs. The sailors went to work, pulling up the sails and heading for the oars. The silent tight flapping of wind in the sails cut out to a low rhythmic thumping of the water. Ahead the long reaching fingers of docks and of the piers reached out to open-water and at the same time protected the yachts and small boats inside. They moved among the sea of trees that were their masts, and drew up to a dock clear of men save for a small guard surrounding a relaxed individual leaning against a long tilted electrical pole.

As the boat was moored to the side of the dock, and the ramp drawn the man who had been reclining against the pole walked forward as Alexander stepped foot on the deck.

“Well I'll be damned!” the man shouted, his face beaming with a wide smile, “If it isn't Alexander. What are you doing and what are you wearing? I swear to God you look like a fucking G-man in that. You're sharp, friend!”

Alexander smiled as he tipped his head to the man standing before him, a round robust figure with a light caramel complexion. A wild mop of black hair adorned his head. He didn't look much, and his common clothes betrayed his position so little, it actually did just so. The ratty stained jeans and worn leather boots and tucked white shirt did not make him out to be a king, but he was very much so.

“Boss.” Alexander greeted.

“Well Jesus for fucksakes you don't need to use that one me.” Boss laughed, “Call me by my name.”

“Right, how are you doing Mr. Calloon.”

Boss Calloon rolled his eyes and sighed, “You're just fucking with me today aren't you.” he spat. But it was harmless. Banter more than anything.

“After all the trouble of sailing out here to see you: then yes.” said Alex, heading down the wooden pier.

“Well whatever, it's been a few years. What's happening?” Calloon asked

“Not much to say. I got homesick and went back home. Got married, entered government. Got here.”

“Well you make it sound easy.” Calloon asked, “Me: I got hungry people to feed and now we have to worry about how things are going to be with these army folk coming north. I'm not one to go to fight, but I have to defend my people somehow; I'm expected to lead.”

“And lead you shall.” Alexander said, “And that's what I'm here to talk to you about, Marty.”

“There we go.” Marty Calloon laughed, relieved as both men stepped up off the piers. The ground here had been once paved, but in time grass and weeds had grown between the cracks in the asphalt and the area was becoming over-grown. If it weren't for the otherwise well maintained looking buildings of the private docks the entire property would look overgrown, bushes and weeds even grew over the old cast-iron fence that marked the lot off.

“So, what can I do for you?” Alexander asked, as they joined up with a carriage team parked in the lot. Men armed with worn rifles sat guard at the corners or loitered about watching them and anyone outside. It was conspicuous for a man who looked less so, but then Alexander wondered if it was more for his sake than for Martin's.

“Well I'd suggest Albany just throw and entire fucking army down south and be done with it, but I don't think they'd like the idea.”

Alex shook his head, “No, they wouldn't. They want to sit this out and watch. But they still want to interfere.”

“I suppose no one's kids have been crying over a lack of inheritance then.” Marty grumbled.

“No sir.”

[Byrd Man]

Five Miles Southwest of Hog Island, VA

"Fire!"

The starboard side of the sixteen gun frigate Roanoke erupted into a cloud of smoke. One hundred yards away, a fleeing vessel's port side was bombarded with shot and sent splinters into the air.

"Goddammit, that crippled them for sure," Jock Monroe said with a pump of his first.

Captain Hamish Sturgeon took a deep breath and bellowed orders to prepare for boarding procedures. To Sturegon's right stood Jock, ostensibly the one in charge. As First Sealord of the Republic, Monroe was commander-in-chief of the Republican Navy. Roanoke was the navy's flagship and carried Monroe's official flag on its mast.

But Jock knew better than to get in Hamish Sturgeon's way. Sturgeon looked more schoolteacher than sailor, with steel-rimmed spectacles on his pudgy face and a hairline that had retreated away from his forehead over the years like the tide pulls away from the shore. But Jock and every member of the Republic over a certain age knew all too well what Sturgeon was capable of. The captain instructed the pilot to continue on a boarding course with the fleeing ship.

"Coming aboard with us?" Sturgeon asked Jock with a raised eyebrow.

"That I am," Jock replied. He pulled his sidearm from the holster on his hip and followed Sturgeon down the quarterdeck towards the starboard side of the ship.

Marines and seamen were crouched and waiting with rifles and hooks as the Roanoke drew closer to the vessel. Jock locked eyes with one of the marines and nodded curtly. He had gotten his start all those years ago as a marine and raider. He had been a good sailor, but sailing had never appealed to him the way the fight had. Up close, there were no slick maneuvers that could save you. There was just you and the man in front of you and you couldn't cross his T to win.

"Ship!" The young man in the crow's nest announced. "Port side, ten o'clock!"

Jock scanned the horizon and saw the ship heading towards the two boats at what looked to be a fast rate. He knew right away it could not be Republican nor pirate. It was too nice to be either. He squinted and tried to make out the flag billowing on the top of its mast. His eyes, never the best, had dimmed in his fifth decade, so all he saw was a billowing mass.

"US," Sturgeon said. He let out a cold chuckle. "'Bout like them to show up now."

With one hand on his sidearm, another on a sword, Sturgeon bellowed out another order.

"Prepare to board!"

Jock clung tightly to his gun as the hooks were tossed across the water at the wounded ship. The hooks clattered as the hit the decks, the ropes tightened as the two vessels were clung together, and a wild volley of gunfire erupted from both sides as the second phase of the battle begun.

The First Sealord leaped from the Roanoke on to the enemy vessel and found himself in the thick of the action. A bullet whizzed by from somewhere close. He saw a man in rags, waving an old rusted pistol and trying to be heard over the din. Jock leveled his weapon at the man at the same time as the pirate drew a bead on him. He would have shot Jock if not for the faulty gun's backfire. The pirate's left hand disappeared in a cloud of pulp and blood as his gun exploded in his hand.

Turning away, Jock took a potshot at one pirate fighting Captain Sturgeon. The man crumpled to the deck of the boat. He then turned and fired off two quick shots that hit a charging pirate square in the chest. He reached down and picked up the dying man's rusty machete.

While the battle stormed on, the third ship came alongside them flying an eleven star version of the old American flag. It was not like the vessels tangled in hand-to-hand combat. This one was decked in smooth steel and shaped sleek, a remnant of a time when flags across the country flew fifty stars. Stacks protruded from its center belching a solid column of black smoke. It came up real close, almost silent, until it flanked the opposite side of the embattled pirate ship.

"You are in waters belonging to the United States of America" said a voice through a megaphone, "Put down your weapons and surrender". This offer did not seem to matter even to the offerers, because the blue-clad marines on the US ship were sniping pirates before their officer stopped speaking.

Jock turned and saw the hail of gunfire coming down from the second ship. Men in uniforms finer than anything the Republic could muster were firing down upon the deck with weapons so fine they made Jock's near pristine five-shot revolver look like the old pirate's rusty pistol.

"Fall back," Sturgeon shouted over the noise. "Marines and seamen of Roanoke, retur--," the captain was cut short as a bullet pierced his upper arm. "Goddammit!"

"Come on," Jock said as he helped the shorter and dumpier Sturgeon back towards their ship.

The US navy had turned the deck of the pirate ship into a shooting gallery. The wood was slick with blood and bodies of pirates -- and a few Republican sailors -- were draped across the boards. Jock helped Sturgeon over the deck back onto their ship and left him in good hands with the ship's surgeon. The few pirates left alive were on their knees, waving whatever scraps of cloth they could find in surrender. They were pointed towards the US warships and begging for mercy as the rifle volleys ended.

"Six men come with me," Jock said as he climbed back on to the pirate ship. "I want the pirates still alive captured. Remember, they are our prisoners and not the land lover's. We're going home with them."

Jock saw a large rope ladder descending from the warship as marines and officers climbed down on to the pirate deck. Easier said than done, he thought to himself.

The well-uniformed marines fanned out across the boat to form a loose wall of riflemen. Behind them came their commanding officer. He was an young man for his post, perhaps in his early thirties, dressed in a black coat, gold buttons down the front, and an oversized black peaked cap on top an uncombed head of brown hair. He wore sunglasses, and a smile that, just a little too wide, seemed to be the resting state for his face, so for him a true smile was simply bearing his teeth. When he walked toward Jock he ignored the bodies strewn across the deck, stepping over them without so much as a glance downward.

"The clothe on your poll tells me you are Tarheels? What on earth would bring you north of Virginia Beach?"

"This ship and two others like it raided an Outer Banks town a fortnight ago. The blackguards burned down half the village, took all the supplies, and killed close to twenty men and women."

Jock glanced down at the prostrate pirates. They were nervously looking up at him. He expected some form of denials from the men on the deck. Their kind almost always denied their wrongdoings, even as the hangman slipped his noose around their necks.

"As First Sealord of the Outer Banks Republic, I called forth part of our naval militia in a mission. The Roanoke, and her sister ships Hatteras and Kitty Hawk, have been engaged in these waters the past week, hunting the pirates down. The two other ships are back at Hog Island, destroying what was left of their stronghold there. Those not killed will be sent back to Roanoke to be hanged for their crimes."

He looked down at the younger man with a raised eyebrow.

"Before embarking upon this mission, the Second Sealord gave me assurances that he had informed the United States of our plans and the fact that we may stray into their territorial waters in our hunt."

"Oho." the US officer looked down at the subdued pirates. "You people have been playing wicked in the south." He looked back up at Jock. "Perhaps something did arrive on my desk, but I have been in New Jersey for the last two weeks and I forgot to bring my desk with me. So I'll be charitable. You can have the pirates, they are irrelevant. But this... I assume this is the pirate ship? It and it's contents now belong to the United States Navy."

Jock's smile tightened into something akin to a grimace.

"The ship we would like to have, Outer Banks custom is that any ship boarded by us is to be the Republic's property until it can be prepared and sold to a citizen for a fair price. We boarded first, so custom would dictate we have first claim on the ship. A claim I am willing to waive in the name of securing the ship's contents. Whatever is down there is undoubtedly the property of Outer Banks citizens and belongs to them first and foremost."

"What are you going to do?" the young officer said. "Hand them out in the town square? They are contraband now. What we are doing here is figuring out which government gets to swallow the profit. Seeing as how we are in US waters, this becomes a diplomatic situation. Which is good for me, because I am Vice President of the United States, so diplomatic matters are something I am entitled to deal with, and the way I see it this entire event was a breach of US sovereignty. A breach I have no problem overlooking, seeing as how these creatures are little better than thugs. You can have them, but the ship and its contents goes, as contraband naturally should, to the government of these waters. Sell the pirates inland into slavery, take the proceeds, pocket them, and call it a win."

Vice President? The young man in front of Jock made sense as a junior officer. That he could understand, but as the second in charge of a sovereign nation? Not just any nation, but the one that it was the rightful successor to the old country that once ruled this part of the world and straddled the entire planet like a colossus. Jock considered himself a student of history. He knew about the old nation better than some. To say that this mere child in front of him was part of that successor state did its predecessor a disgrace.

Jock could mention that. He could mention that and so much more, the fact that the US had been given prior warning a week before his three-ship fleet set sail from Roanoke, he could even mention that the practice of slavery -- as owner, dealer, or even transporter -- was outlawed in the Outer Banks years ago on the grounds of immorality. So much he wanted to say. But instead, he took a more diplomatic route.

"Consider the ship and its contents a gift," he said tightly. "Bestowed upon the United States by the Outer Banks Republic in the name of continued friendly relations."

"It is good to see friendliness!" the Vice President exclaimed, shaking Jock's hands. "We'll help lug these piratical creatures over to your ship if you wish. I have a few extra hands about."

"Most gracious," Jock said neutrally.

--

Roanoke disengaged from the pirate ship and began to drift away with the current. Jock stood on the quarterdeck with the pilot. Sturgeon was below deck with the rest of the wounded and dead. The shot had went through Sturgeon's arm and out the other side which meant there was a good chance he would keep the arm and not face amputation.

The deck of the pirate ship was busy with activity as the seamen and marines began their search of the ship for anything of value. The blood that stained the deck of that ship was as much the Republic's as it was the pirates, and it was damn certain that no US seaman had come close to losing blood in the fight.

"Orders, sir?"

Jock was about to speak, but then he caught the eye of the young man -- the vice president -- who stood on the deck. The kid gave a broad wave and exaggerated bow in Jock's direction before turning to other matters on the deck.

"Back to Hog Island," Jock replied. "We're linking up with the rest of the fleet. And then we're heading home."

[Vilageidiotx]

Tuckahoe, New Jersey

The southern New Jersey landscape was green with summer, smelling of pollen and stale water. Rifle fire echoed five miles to the east, where several regiments of the United States Army were feinting at a bridge across the swampy estuary that divided the abandoned small towns of Tuckahoe and Corbin City. While that fight sparked, among the reeds and the trees, Lieutenant-General Mason Sumner led the bulk of his forces through the woods to the west, around the estuary and toward the shallow Tuckahoe river.

To his surprise, there was little resistance here aside from the sniping fire of enemy skirmishers.

The General rode on horseback in the middle of his force. He was a middle aged man, and though his hairline remained intact, what once was a strong jawline now drooped with his jowls. Part of Mason Sumner's success was that his brother, Caden Sumner, was President of the United States. Surrounded by his men, these columns of fresh troops in their undusted dark-blue uniforms and steel helmets, he sat up rigid straight, watching the woods casually, expecting to see turkeys present in more numbers than the enemy.

"Observe this." he didn't look when he spoke to his nephew, the twenty five year old Ethan Sumner, a young man with mousy brown hair and the broad, bony facial features of the Sumner men. Soldiers in camouflage jogged by, passing the blue-clad soldiers in column. "Those men who just passed us? Their duty was assigned to them before hand. You know what that is?"

"They are skirmishers." the younger man said. "So I suspect they will skirmish."

"They will cross the river up here slowly and flush out any of the enemy that might be set up there. When you hear them open fire, that means the battle is joined on the western flank."

And so they listened. They still heard the gunfire to the east. Nearby was the sound of horses, men whispering to each other, and birds twittering in the trees. Sunlight broke through the leafy canopy above them and cast light like lasers on the crumbled road below.. Minutes went by and nothing happened. The far away guns were so consistent they blended in with the nature sounds, but no action was opening near by.

It was some time before a scout arrived to relieve them of their tension.

"The river crossing is clear, sir." he reported to the General.

"Okay then." Mason said, mulling his suspicions over in his head. "We'll cross the motherfucker and see what happens."

Nothing happened. The crossing was slow because the ground along the river was swampy, near as they were to where the Tuckahoe river emptied into the embattled estuary.

It was when Mason's horse, struggling for footing on the muddy slope, came out of the reedy bottoms and into the woods, that gunfire erupted nearby. At first it was hard to discern a direction among so many trees.

"Forward in line!" Mason shouted. The men fanned out into the woods in search of the battle. The moving was slow through the summer foliage. Mason joined up with the lead regiment, whose going was made easy by the ruins of the road. They went east, in the direction his skirmishers had been sent, assuming they would find the fight there.

They found it in a field, a mile long and a quarter mile across. Wild wheat grew among weeds here, suggesting it had been farmed within the last decade. In front of them was an old house that showed signs of recent maintenance, and where now a number of US skirmishers found cover and took shots at the shadowed forest ahead.

"They are there in force, sir." a Captain of the skirmishers reported. Around them, the blue-shirted and blue-helmeted infantry formed up and put themselves at the treeline.

"Let's find out what New Jersey is about." Mason said. He rode forward, into the light, close enough to hear bullets smashing into the ground. He pulled his sword, waved it, and...

The infantry had been finding cover and taking aim when he rode up, and all at once they fired, sounding like the doors to hell bursting open. The gunfire continued on down the line, supplemented by the scattered pops of the men in camo. The enemy did not relent that first time. Bullets smashed into flesh now, and men fell into their own pooling blood.

"Tell the men on the left to make a charge." the General commanded. A rider departed north, and the contest ahead continued unchanged.

The birds had stopped singing. All that could be heard was screaming and rifle fire. Mason looked to the north, in the direction where the field tapered to a knife's point. He couldn't see the enemy, though he knew they were there. The only way to judge their disposition was by the rate of fire poured into his own ranks. When the enemy slowed their pace, he recognized the attack was having its effect.

"Go over that field and take them!" he said with another wave of the sword. The infantry did, across the gnarled field of weeds and wheat, bodies dropping in small numbers as they went. Mason stayed behind and watched from the vantage point of the bullet-torn house. The line made it to the other side of the field and were swallowed up by the shadow of forest, leaving their wounded and dead behind.

Beside him, Ethan pulled out a pair of binoculars and looked toward the tree line on the other side of the field. "I can't see anything." he said.

"You cannot know everything in battle." Mason said. "That's how it is an art. You know how many battles in history where won because the grunts and low-ranking officers were good at their jobs?"

"How many?" Ethan snarked.

"Most." Mason replied. "Probably all."

The sound in the forest ahead became that of scattered gunfire, individual screams, and the occasional shout of more than a dozen men in unison celebrating... something. Mason looked down at his nephew and noticed the young man had paled. Could he see a defeat that the old Sumner didn't? But the young man had tilted his binoculars lower than the forest, into the field.

This was the first time Ethan saw the effects of combat. He was no longer watching the battle, he was watching the blue-uniformed corpses in the field. Some were dead; bloodied, gutted, dismembered, beheaded. Most were alive, either bringing themselves back to the friendly treeline, walking or crawling, while the others lay mangled but alive in the field, crying for help, panicking at their wounds, praying or begging for mothers. Mason had seen worse in his youth. He'd been at the Battle of Short Pump when he was young, commanding a regiment, walking among fields stacked with dead. This place had only a scattered number of casualties, their blood splattered on wheat left standing despite the fact a gunfight had just occurred here.

"If this bothers you, Ethan..."

"No." the young man put down his binoculars, looking ashamed. "I'm fine. It's just... new."

Medics reached them and started to tend to the wounded when a running courier burst from the other side. He sprinted across the field, minding the bodies, living and dead, only so much as a runner avoids inanimate obstacles, and paused for a breath under the shade where General Sumner rested. "They are running, sir." he said. "We have their flank."

Mason didn't trade words. He rode forward at a trot with his nephew following behind.

The forest was a running battle. Mason took out his pistol and those with him followed suit, and they rode along the line trying to restore order before a gap in their line formed serious enough for the enemy to take advantage. Not that the enemy seemed capable of taking advantage of anything. Seeing their bodies here for the first time, he knew he wasn't fighting any professional force. They wore common enough clothing, with back-backs and utility belts to store whatever they might need. The only common marker was pale-yellow bands of cloth, usually worn around their arms, though some wrapped them around hats or used larger bands as sashes. This was a militia, not an army, and that they broke now meant they probably broke for good.

Lines were reformed as the fleeing enemy took pot-shots from behind trees. When they started forward, they did so like a rake, taking prisoner the scattered foe where they found them and pushing the rest through the forest. It was, in his mind, the cleanest Battle Mason Sumner had ever saw in his life.

There were places where the forest had over taken old buildings and broke them down, leaving debris near the faint trace of a road, and creating a place for the panicked enemy to lay ambushes. They never held long in the chase except for once. An old railroad ran through the forest intact, providing a barrier for rallying New Jerseyans to lay prone and send a stunning volley into the jogging American troops. The Americans spread out, found cover, or dropped, and the second line fight of the advance started up.

General Sumner wondered how far the chase had taken them. He and his staff rode south, staying behind the line as they went. Bullets whizzed and punched into trees, throwing splinters and dust into the air. They rode until they reached a point where they could see the estuary surrounded by a good wall of reeded marshland. They hadn't linked up with the force pushing against the bridge.

"Colonel Estaban!" he shouted, recognizing the balding commander of the nearest regiment. "Get your men north!"

"The fighting is hairy here, sir!" the Colonel noted.

"Fighting gets that way." Sumner replied. "Go north, effect a push, lets drive these Yawka motherfuckers into the river."

Blue uniforms pulled out of the fight and followed the inside track Sumner had traced in his ride.

"I see what you are doing." Ethan said thoughtfully. "Do you think they are pulling back?"

"For their sake, they better be." Sumner said over the din of rifle fire.

The light from the setting sun was paled by the smoke. Trees were whittled to the yellow wood beneath the bark. From time to time an American would throw a grenade, and the sound would rock across the way, location marked by a jet of sod. But the New Jerseyans held on, withdrawing piecemeal. The battle didn't so much end as peter out, with the last remnants of the enemy chased from the field in the fading light.

"You didn't drive them into the river." Ethan said.

"Plans don't survive contact with the enemy." Mason replied. Their attention turned to the arrival of more troops, the boys he'd sent to feint at the bridge, and their commander, Brigadier General Costen James. General James was a light-skinned black man with a face that was flat, almost feline. Though he was only a few years over forty, his hair was already beginning to grey, and it hung in dreadlocks.

"How was it down there?" Mason asked the younger General.

"Messy." Costen said, his voice deep and quiet. "Spilled more US Army blood than I would have liked, but we pushed them. They picked a good spot considering they were amateurs. But if this is all New Jersey has to offer, we'll be flickin' peanut shells in the Hudson river before the first snowfall."

"That's what I like to hear." Mason said. He then spurred his horse, took a flag from a nearby man, and rode forward waving it as a greeting to the last of the men marching up the road from the bridge. They cheered at the sight of him.

"Alright boys, write home to your girls" Mason shouted with a shit-eating grin on his face. "You were at the Battle of Tuckahoe, on the winning side!"

They cheered the louder for hearing him say it.

[Byrd Man]

Hatteras Island

The small crowd gathered around the stage clapped as the couple took the stage. The young man had a guitar in his hands, the young woman a fiddle in her right and a bow in her left. They looked at each other for a moment, a half smirk on the man's lips and the woman's eyes filled with warmth as some unsaid inside joke or thought passed between the two. She softly counted down from three as he nodded at her and started to strum. They sang in harmony, their voices ringing out clear in the small bar.

Music

"Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, hoist the mainsail here I come.
Ain't no room on board for the insincere.
You're my witness, I'm your mutineer.
I was born to rock the boat.
Some may sink, but we will float.
Grab your coat, let's get out of here.
You're my witness, I'm your mutineer."

In the corner of the bar, Sam Hall watched with rapt attention. Sam had been coming to the Undertow for years now. Live music was something they occasionally had, but not like this. It was almost always somebody plucking on a banjo or a rusty harmonica. There was something Sam found striking about the song. It was the singers, he finally realized. They projected to the crowd, but they never once took their eyes off each other. The song was being sung at the Undertow, but it wasn't for the Undertow crowd. It was a private duet between the two young musicians. It was borderline voyeuristic.

"Long ago we laughed at shadow.
Lightning flashed, thunder followed.
They could never find us here.
You're my witness, I'm your mutineer."

Someone sliding into Sam's booth finally snapped him from his reverie. The unpleasant hangdog face of Turner Stephens was an unwelcome sight any time, but especially during the midst of the beautiful song being sung on stage. There was also the fact that Sam owed Turner a lot of money, but right now Sam chalked it up to ruining the song. On stage, the young woman was playing her fiddle while her eyes continued to be locked on the guitar player.

"I was born to rock the boat.
Some may sink, but we will float.
Grab your coat, let's get out of here.
You're my witness, I'm your mutineer."

"How's tricks, Sam?" Turner asked in a neutral voice.

"Tricky," Sam replied with his stock phrase. "How goes the business?"

"Trickier still."

The slow song turned into an upbeat number. Sam shifted full attention to Turner. He wondered if the fat man was armed. Sam was. Ever since his fuck up six months ago, he made it a habit to carry the old Beretta pistol everywhere. Even to bed with him. If Turner wasn't armed, Sam was sure there were at least two other guys in the bar who were armed and watching this conversation go down.

"So what can I help you with, Turner?"

"You know exactly what I want, Sam. My fucking money."

"I've been doing all that I can," Sam said with his arms spread open. "Turner, the shit that went down made my name mud and I can't get a fucking paying job to save my life."

"Whose fault is that?" the fat man asked with a raised eyebrow. "Yours. You fucked up, Sam. You know the risks you take when you run contraband for me. You owe me fifteen thousand."

"What?" Sam asked with a scowl. "At most, the shit I lost was five thousand--"

"Plus interest." Turner said with a look that had no give to it. "I didn't demand repayment six months ago. I consider that a loan, a loan that I refinanced three months later."

"And now you've come to collect?"

Now it was Turner's time to spread his hands. Sam balled his fists into his hands and fumed under the surface. When it came to the Outer Banks, men like Turner Stephens ran things. The captains and old timers loved to talk about freedom and the man and the sea and all that bullshit. But the flip side of that was the freedom opened the door to men like Turner and Sam, men who followed that old personal freedom credo to form the criminal backbone of the Outer Banks and the Atlantic coast. They weren't pirates, the Outer Banks ruled piracy a capital offense, but they were just a few steps above it.

"If you don't have my money, Sam. I know of a way you can work off the debt."

Here was the rub. Sam had little doubt that Turner knew full well Sam couldn't pay him before he even set foot in the Undertow. He also knew the piling on of debt and interest was part of it. Guys like Turner liked money and getting it, but they more often than not liked people in debt to them, people who would do anything to work off that debt.

"What?" was all Sam would proffer.

"I know a guy on this little piece of land called Cobb Island. He's holding something for me. Get your rickety ass boat and sail up there, get it, and bring it back to me. Simple enough, right?"

"Cobb Island," Sam said, mostly to himself. It wasn't a place he was familiar with right off the bat.

"Where's it at?"

"Maryland," Turner said with a smirk. "Right were the Potomac and Wicomico Rivers meet."

Sam felt his guts tighten and a cold feeling start at the base of his spin and slowly work its way up his back. That was nowhere near Outer Banks waters. That was--

"Federal waters," he finished his thought out loud. "I'm smuggling something out of the Old Republic?"

Turner winked at him in a smug way.

"You got it."

Sam had visions of federal gunboats and patrol ships going up and down the Potomac on 24/7 patrols. Each one would be armed and blow anything not flying a federal flag out the fucking water. Turner sensed his hesitation and leaned forward with both eyebrows raised as he spoke.

"I'll wipe out all the interest on the fifteen thousand and consider this a pay off on some of the principal. I'm giving you four days, Sam. Two to get up there and two to get back. If you're not back by then, I tack another five grand on your debt every day you're past the due date."

"And if I say no?"

Turner nodded behind him. Sam noticed the two men who were across the room but kept staring at Sam and Turner.

"I get my two guys over there to kick the shit out of you until you cough up the money or die. What do you say?"

Sam waved a waitress over and ordered a drink.

"Always wanted to see the Chesapeake. Now's my chance."

[Dinh AaronMk]

New York

[h1]New York City[/h2]

He looked down at the floor, but he didn't see the white woolen carpet, he saw a bed of snow deep as a man's waist and driven by a fierce nor'easter. He smelled the air, but he didn't smell the cheap stale tobacco of an exhausted cigarette – if it could even be one – but the cordite infused choking mist of battle. The wind did nothing to drive it away as it only blew in more from elsewhere beyond the snowy gray haze. He didn't like to think it, to see it, or to smell it; but he allowed himself to get lost in it because what else were you supposed to do in a waiting room?

To him, he was back on the Vermont frontier, years ago when he was something of a younger man. It was towards of the war though, because for all purposes the man was still something of a young man, but he bore more lines in his face that didn't matter for his age. Never the less, he was there with a rifle hugged tight in his hands and heavy rags wrapped around his hands and face as well as finger less gloves and an itchy wool scarf. His eyes watered and teared in the biting wind and if he didn't bleak them away the tears would freeze. He already lost feeling in his rifle, a stout rifle the length of his arm with a maple stock.

Zachery Maden was just a young officer then, little more than a fresh lieutenant from out of the Gray Castle up river from New York City itself. He had been sent there because his father was important and he could get in on account of friends in government. But he was also there because he was the second youngest of five and unlikely to get any sort of land inheritance when his father – the loud horse-racing drunk that he was – finally croaked. Some sort of military career and an allowance was all he had been given in life.

Stout, with a round face and a large nose; he was called a crow or mouse among his cadets at The Castle. But he always thought himself more a mouse with how much he felt his eyes were dis-proportionally small for his face. But really his brows just sagged low and they were set deep in. But on the winter fields he hardly mattered much with his face covered, he was another in a line of thousands slowly crunching their way through the hills and desolate winter forests.

Outside the office windows, something crashed to the ground outside the great clatter echoed up to Zachery's ears like the crack of a rifle and in his memory he spun to find a Vermont militia man open fire into his face with a shotgun made from an old glass beer bottle. The weapon was fragile though, and it exploded in his hands as soon as he fired it, but his aim had been off and the shot went wide. What hit Zachery instead were the pieces of glass and wood that had exploded out in front of him, from behind a snow bank not a few inches further than an arm's reach away. He felt the glass cut the side of his face and nick his nose, the warm sensation of blood from newly opened scars running down his face and into the threads of his scarf. His heart raced in his chest, and he jumped a little inhaling sharply the warm office air.

He looked around, eyes wide and held is hand to his chest. “God.” he muttered under his breath, and pulled out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dirty thread bare suit and whipped out his sweating eyebrow. As the memory faded he could hear the report of his rifle in response to the offending shooter, so far off in his imagination it might be confused for a gun shot in New York's cavernous urban valleys.

In his post-war years, Zachery had fallen into the habit of committing to as many rituals as possible when the flashbacks returned and quickly he signed through them; bowing his head and crossing his shoulders and humming a little. He didn't quiet know what the Muslims did, but he cross his arms across his stomach and keeled over in his seat like it was sick and hoped that did enough to appease their god to help lessen these bloody memories.

Just as he was finishing the door opened and in stepped the man he wanted to see, a tall but unspectacular balding man, whose few remaining strands of hair were combed across his sparkling domed head in a weak effort to hide the planetoid bald-spot.

“Jesus Christ you aren't fucking sick now are ya?” he asked, unsure and a little repulsed.

Zachery looked up, and felt the blood rush from his face in embarrassment. “Ah, no sir. I wasn't.” he said quickly, but the felt cold and weak leaving him.

“Well shit ain't you an ugly bastard.” the man remarked again with an unaware grimace, almost subconsciously the stranger his hand to the side of his face and touched his own unblemished cheeks. Zachery felt his stomach role as he realized what he meant, the exploding glass-bottle gun had tore wide jagged scars across the right side of his face and his cheek was chiseled down as a result of the flesh being carved off it like a holiday ham.

“Oh, ah- that'd be from the war...” he said bitterly, “The, ah, last one.”

“I see.” the man said uncomfortably. “Well I guess we got off on the wrong foot. Forgive me.”

Zachery waved him off dismissively. Gesturing politely the taller gentleman bid him to stand up and follow him, “Into my office then, we'll discuss matters accordingly.”

Zachery nodded nervously, and stood up. As he left his chair he picked up the leather wide-brimmed had on the seat next to him and uncomfortably played with the brim of the wide hat as he followed.

The next room was the main office itself, a small corner room in an old brownstone brick building at one of the distant edges of New York City itself. Windows swept both the back and left wall of the room, letting in ample light and the sweeping skeletal remains of New York City.

For miles and far off the island of Manhatten was a forest, or more aptly: a mountainous landscape built by man, where the mountains were not gentle sweeping hills rising up high above the heads of man but whose cliffs were sheer and blasphemously tall and artificial. And clearly even at his distance Zachery saw and noted the slow work being done by man's hand to decompose its own creation. The skeletal framework of the distant skyscrapers were clear as pencil-thin lines sketched against the blue afternoon sky. And in a regular grid the network of ancient streets marched towards and away from the office.

The nameplate on the simple wooden desk red in black letters, “Donald Smithson.”

“So, it is my understanding you would like to purchase a reclamation site here in the city.” Donald said matter-of-factly as he sat down at his desk. He stirred uncomfortably as he looked up at Zachery's scarred face and looked away and pretended to look busy deorganizing and reorganizing and otherwise organized desk.

“Yes, I understand you have some properties someone like myself could own?”

“The city does.” Donald affirmed, “Small jobs in the brownstones here on the edge of the old Metro area and in the less commercial areas of Manhatten island. Or if would rather, we do still offer ownership shares of the larger ongoing projects but you would have to wait until you can make any active claim on these sites.”

“No, I would actually like something that I can work now.” Zachery insisted.

“That's fair.” Donald said, nodding, “Before I can make any offers though I will statements of your financial footing, so we know you can make the payment. Are you the holder of any debts, sir?”

Zachery nodded, “I owned a horse back home towards Buffalo and I loaned it to my neighbor, the horse died in his care and the courts charged he owes me some two-thousand five hundred dollars, and I'm owed a loan to a small free-farmer whose only paid interest on a thousand-dollar loan.”

“Do you have the record copies on these?” Donald asked.

Zachery nodded excitedly, “I do.” he said, reaching into his pocket and holding out official copies of the statements of debt. Donald looked them over and nodded approvingly.

“As an official register of properties for the Holdings Commission of New York City I can offer you a property credit of three-thousand seven hundred for these debts.” Donald said, looking at Zachery, but a little askance, a bit down perhaps to avoid the marred cheek.

“I suppose that's fair.” Zachery said, he was tempted to bargain for the full value on these debts but he was told the NYC Holding Commission doesn't barter or haggle values.

“Excellent.” said Donald coldly, “Now, ah- are there any more financial dealings I must know before moving ahead?”

“On my retirement from the service I was offered an officer's pension.” Zachery said, digging in his pocket for the copy of his note of pension.

Donald didn't take the paper but looked up at it, thought for a moment, and said: “That's fine.” and then under his breath muttered, “If wanting to own a single flat.” Zachery pretended not to hear the comment.

“Next, are you the owner of, co-owner, or otherwise the beneficiary of a financial mission that would provide you any additional funds?”

Zachery nodded proudly, “I am a quarter-shares owner in a shipping company operating out of the Niagara area. We ship food stuffs and lightly processed materials – starches, oil – up river through the great lakes region into markets in the Lake of Eerie and Ontario. These passed two financial years we have made 1.2% profit and 1.5% profit. This has allowed me to make investments in several successful small adventures. I have a summary of my portfolio on me, if you would like to see it.” Zachery offered, casually.

“I'd like to review it.” Donald insisted, holding out his hands expectantly.

Again, Zachery reached into his coat pocket and produced a roped together packet of folded and rolled papers. The agent rose a brow quizzically at it as he was handed over the financial information of this young man since the ending of the Vermont war. “I suppose last question as I go over this: for the war did you receive and bounty land and you might otherwise rent out to help subsidize your efforts in the city?”

“No sir, I didn't receive anything. Bounty land went only to Colonels and above, I was only a lieutenant.”

“Understood.” Donald said with a sigh, taking the portfolio, untying it, and going through the papers one by one while writing down the information. The process took a whole fifteen minutes, where the only question he was asked was: “I suppose your personal financial state is in order?”

The answer was “yes” and the agent nodded accordingly.

Some time went by without a word being spoken. Turning through the remainder of the portfolio the agent copied down some numbers, and ran some calculations. Standing to excuse himself, he left the office, the copied information under his arm. This left Zachery again alone to himself.

He took the time to reflect on why exactly he was here, waiting again. The clear answer he had known was that he was effectively deprived of any land inheritance on his father's passing. But that was something many in his position dealt with, and often took it in step with a cash inheritance to build something of their own as a merchant, sea captain, or even a tradesman. But either case presented Zachery a world of only irrelevancy in the grand scheme of things. True he may be able to stay attached to the broader family estate but he would be no power within it. A someone still, but a lesser someone, and depending on how his brothers acted towards him in this instance meant he stood at the edge of being just another case of the hired help.

No, he wanted to be something more than that. And he needed an estate of his own. But things were getting hard enough again in the rural countryside to find or carve a country estate of his own to fill with tenant farmers. He had to go city ward, into New York.

Outside in a distant block black smoke rose into the sky as something caught fire. He regarded it with come mild curiosity, then shrugged it off. It was far enough away it wouldn't mean anything to him. And he had seen things burn before.

There was a sound at the door as Donald stepped in again, a stack of portfolios in his hand. “Here are the available areas that you can begin your industry in, that may be affordable to you.” With a heave he dropped the stack down, the stack thumped heavily on the wooden desk and it almost collapsed by the impact, “Between you and me we can go through them, and we can begin building your holdings here in the city.”

“That's quiet a lot.” Zachery admired, looking it up and down with wide amazed eyes.

“Well there's plenty more where that came from. New York is a big place.” Donald said with a smile.

“And no one has bought these all up?” Zachery asked.

The agent shook his head, “We don't approve of that sort of thing. And we price things now just on horizontal area but vertical. This tends to add another factor that makes otherwise over-eager land barons second-guess.”

“We?”

Donald nodded, “The NYC Holding Commission.” he answered, “In conjunction with the New York Metropolitan Council, the local governing body for the entire city area, from New Jersey to the New York Republic.” there was a light of pride in his eyes as he said that, “But if you want to get into technical specifics, the Holding Commission is really a board of the broader council, that is the local landholder council for men from upstate such as yourself.”

“I see.” Zachery said, beginning to look through the stacked portfolios.

Donald nodded, “As a to-be landowner you are – as elsewhere – eligible to join the council. In fact: it is highly encouraged you do. I can not stress this enough.”

“Really now?”

“Yes, really. In fact to make it easy: you should.”

“I don't quiet understand.”

“Oh, well. We have our reasons. But I am limited in my ability to tell you. You must become a member to learn why. And not just that, but be shown to be active and interested. There's a certain... security.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Well let me suggest something bad might happen if you don't. There's been a history of that.”

Zachery didn't need it to be spelled out for him. The threat was clear behind the forced smile of the land agent. He looked back outside through the window behind him and considered. Is the black smoke billowing from the distant block a result of this failure to comply?

But if it was relevancy Zachery wanted, to be a somebody in something and to not lose power then it would be useless for him to refuse. “I guess I'll have to become a part then.”

“Excellent, I will put your name in and as soon as we're finished I can give you directions to the Bureau's local factory.”

“A factory? You mean the old world type?”

“No, not a manufactory. A house of factoring.” the agent laughed. “Oh well, I suppose you'll find out when you're there.”

New Jersey

Long Branch

“It's good to see you back.” a colored man said, walking forward with his hand out and a wide smile on his face.

“Allen, how are you old friend.” Alexander Crown greeted with a warm delicate smile. Allen Hawk was an old business associate and friend of Alexander since his merchant days along the Atlantic Coast. The two men plied a small coastal kingdom with outposts from New Jersey to southern Maine. And while their adventure was formally housed in the Queens Burough Factory, the adventures both had managed to build was functionally charted from northern New Jersey, where the beating heart of their efforts was mostly free from mercantile espionage.

This had also made Allen and Alexander both powerful figures in international activity on behalf of New York, despite what some would have called shaky residency in the Republic itself. Yet all the same, Allen and his partners managed and held land title to the Queens Factory; if at times Allen himself seeming to appear in two places at once for that.

“I'm doing just fine.” Allen said, taking his old friend's hand, “I have your old room here in order, you're ready to take up residency any time you like. Or would like a drink first?” Allen smiled expectantly. He wasn't a man nearly as tall as Ambassador Crown, but he made up for it with a stiff upright posture and straight-back shoulders. His heavy build and neck gave him a strong athletic air around him, and it held as well in a muscular heavy face. It was an aura at odds with the man, as he smiled with political grace with thin lips and caramel colored eyes glowed with a hoping light.

“I suppose I will.” Alexander said. Allen nodded and thumped him hard on his back. “Absolutely brilliant, I've been dying for a fucking drink all day and I needed the excuse to start.” he said with a low laugh like ocean waves against a rocky shore.

“I'd had to kill any casual tone before the evening comes in full swing,” Alexander said outwardly, “but I think I need to get a ground lay of the situation here for my mission.”

“Yea, and I can give you the best briefing there is here. Most if not all information passing through me.”

“You don't need to tell me that twice.”

The halls of the old golf clubhouse had a moldy decay of age and time's not-so-gentle passing. If the color of the walls hadn't faded to off-colors and the vibrancy of the paint faded then it had peeled back showing the bones of the building underneath. Wooden floorboards – or once carpeted plywood floors – were now bowed and bore the grooves of travel. The windows even were crusting, and a milky film of salt and mold was growing on the glass obscuring a clear image of the world outside, it also filtered the moon and star light that filtered in. further yet, the orange and green glow of lanterns and candles threw a ghostly light in the halls and rooms as they lay silent in the darkened evening.

“We'll go out on the veranda.” Allen said, then moving back to the topic: “First thing is first, the situation we hear from the south is mostly second or third hand from word of mouth. But what we can say for certain is that Federal forces are marching north from the Tuckahoe area of South Jersey.”

“So they haven't gotten that far.”

“Fuck no, it's only just begun.” Allen laughed dryly, “But they're due to move fast most likely.”

Alexander nodded. There wasn't any central government in the state anymore after their disastrous defeat at the hand of New York federal forces following the annexation of New York proper. Before his time. But merchants and informants in the area had passed along enough allegorical information to suggest that the old Atlantic City government hadn't had enough central control on its counties and regional governments prior and the stinging defeat in the war had only weakened it further. What followed was widely known to be a steady period of decay until the whole system crashed.

“There has to be old war veterans, officers still around to whip their local men together. Surely that could slow them?” Alexander suggested.

“I don't think they stayed.” Allen sighed, “Or I haven't heard of any of the big names. They must have fallen from the public eye. Sorry to say, but if you want to run manhunts in parts of the states we have no part in being in already I don't think you're going to get much from them.” he reached out for the handle of a door and with a click opened it up to a narrow porch. Alongside the door was a small table with a few bottles of liquor and shot glasses there waiting.

“I guess the south of the state is only being held together by militias then at this point.” said Alexander, sitting down.

“Afraid so.” Allen remarked, taking his own seat and popping the cork on the bottles and pouring a round for the two of them.

“So what's the status of the Boss before I got here?” asked Alexander.

“What, couldn't you tell?” Allen scoffed, laughing as he rose his shot glass for a sip.

“No, he was much to evasive about it. I tried to bring it up a few times but he kept ferrying me around all day showing me the state of the city. Pointed out all his Soul Diners.”

“Not much of an economy in those.” Allen said with a cynical bite.

“Yes, free food. Without reimbursement it's safe to say that any resources he had in any sort of armed force to go against the Federals is washed up in that.” Alexander downed his shot glass, the alcohol burned down his throat, but left a clean after taste. He pucked his lips and let out a long low sigh, “He's an idealist still, I'll give him that.”

Allen agreed, nodding slowly beside him, “Told me he believes God'll show us the path to unity once again. All that's left is to live according to his generosity. To be the brother to your neighbor, or your sister.”

“Not ideas that will win him battles.”

“Oh, I've seen him win battles while you were away!” Allen announced with feigned amazement, “Get together a motley militia in leather jackets and goes off to take the fight to bandits coming from the Trenton area. They put up a hell of a fight way I hear it. But they don't take any interested in pushing for land. But they've stopped Trenton from pushing in on them.”

“It would probably be better if Trenton had annexed the area. We'd have a more concise mission.”

“Fuck, I won't disagree with you there. And that's only knowing half your mission.” Allen smiled, finishing his glass and pouring another.

“So, did he take you on a tour of Long Branch proper?” asked Allen.

“No, he said he'll do that another day.”

Allen shrugged, “Suppose that's right.”

“Why would he?”

“He's rebuilt the area rather well since you were last here. Actually: a lot of the homes there are comparable to before the Catastrophe. It's amazing, really. Beautiful really. A lot of the people from the country-side moved into the town, he's got a rather nice coastal town going.”

“Huh, amazing.”

“Very, so you only got to see the hamlets in the ruins.”

[Vilageidiotx]

Washington, Capital of the United States of America

Isabella Sumner looked at herself in the mirror, examining the lacy blue dress, fretting how it lay. It took her an hour to do her hair before she decided on a braid, put up like a crown over the brown locks that flowed loose to her shoulders. She didn't have that much time to spend on her dress. The party, she knew, was already starting.

"Do I look like a child?" she said, looking down at herself.

"No, Izzy. You look grown up." her middle sister said. Amelia, at twelve, was three years younger than Isabella, which was old enough to have an opinion that counted for something. She was laying next to their youngest sister, Dolly, an eight year old, a child, who couldn't understand what Izzy was worried about. The two rested like planks on the old four-posted canopy bed, a dark wood old thing draped in a floral pattern a granny might love, having been here in the Queen's Room of the White House since forever as far as Isabella or her sisters knew. As the eldest girl, her father allowed her to claim this room as her own.

"Grown up? Do I?" Izzy played with the dress, trying to make it lay a way that pleased her, but no matter what she did she felt like a little girl dressing up to go to church.

"They make your boobs look grown up!" little Dolly said, giggling.

"Dolly! Don't talk like that" Izzy turned around and did her best to look offended, though she was ashamed to admit to herself that she was worried about exactly that part of her too, among all the rest.

"You're fine." Amelia stood up and looked in the mirror from behind Izzy. As she grew, the middle sister's blonde hair and crystal blue eyes were joined by a strong chin, making her look like the reborn likeness of their great grandmother, Amanda Hexad, who had been the first woman President.

Izzy took one last dissatisfied look at herself, but her middle sister grabbed her by the shoulders. "You're the 'Infanta', people love you, you're just nervous."

"I know I am, but I can't stop." Izzy replied.

"They'll be paying attention to the dumb boat anyway. Don't worry. You get to go out on your own! I'm so jealous."

"Oh, I wish you could go too, Amelia."

"Don't worry about us." the middle sister said. "Just go out there and have fun. We'll find our own fun, maybe bring the Ouija board to Lincoln's room for the gajillionth time and see if we can talk to him."

Izzy smiled softly. "I have your thoughts?" she asked.

"You have our thoughts." Amelia replied. "Now go out their and knock them dead!"

Izzy's stomach fluttered as she went down the stairs, through the entrance, and to the front of the White House where a carriage was waiting. It had once been an automobile until petroleum fuel was all used up in the world, well before Izzy was born. They gutted it, put a box seat where the engine once had been, and rigged it to be pulled by horses. The inside had been changed as well, made so two long seats faced inward toward the center. She climbed into the leather interior, careful with her dress. The driver closed her door, climbed into the box seat, and set the horses to motion. Izzy looked back, and as the White House receded from her she felt lonelier than she'd ever been in her entire life.

Washington passed by. Here, in the center of the city, all was pristine. Electricity still flowed here, provided by the USS George Washington. The top floors in the canyons of old brick offices had been turned into apartments, but otherwise they had been maintained to look the same as they did before the country fell apart. Traffic was on foot, or bicycles. Horses and horse-drawn carriages were rarer, most of the later made of old automobiles. Izzy's carriage turned south, the setting sun eclipsed by the White House. Traffic was light, letting them move quickly across the mall, the marble sight of the capital building on one side, and the dreaded Washington monument on the other, the latter with its steel tip bright orange in the dying light of evening.

It was only minutes away now. What would she say? She ran through all the worst scenarios. She could trip, or offend an important person. How would she handle the fall-out of something like that? The City Wall was coming closer, a long steel bulwark held in place by girders like ribs on an ancient metal snake. The closer it came, the closer she came to the moment of truth, because the gala was exactly on the other side.

Her carriage passed silently through the gate on Ohio Drive. In the water on the east side were the cement remnants of older bridges, now just their supports lonely in the water. She stuck out her head, catching a glimpse of the Jefferson Memorial covered in stringed lights, the field glowing underneath them as if illuminated by fireflies. In that field were the tents, the food, and well-bred people mingling all over, wearing their best clothes and their best smiles. When her carriage pulled up, people took note of the Presidential seal on the door. All attention was on her, like a Queen arriving for her coronation. Her driver opened her door. When she stepped out, somebody announced her.

"Ladies and gentleman, the Infanta: Isabella Sumner."

She stood there, smiling, paralyzed. The people wore elegant gowns and recreations of fine old clothes. They applauded, and she waved in the genteel way she had been taught. When they went back to their mingling, she felt the loneliness again.

"May I escort you?" she heard a young male voice, and when she turned to look she saw it came from Declan Estes. He was only a few years younger than her, meticulously groomed, and to her relief, very openly gay. She smiled, but felt self-conscious about looking manic, so made an attempt to control her expression. "Virginians are gentlemen!" she cooed.

"That's what they say." he said, taking her coolly by the arm. "Pardon me, but I do not know what to call you. Is Infanta a title?"

"No." she giggled. "It's a nickname, some guy used it in an article and it stuck."

"Isabella will do?" he asked.

"Yes." she replied with one affirmative nod. "How are you and yours finding the capital?"

"This is a place of opportunities." Declan said. "Wait." He stopped a waiter in his path and lifted a small treat from his tray. It was a twinkie: an manufactured food from before the war, so full of complicated chemicals that those still around were edible fifty years after production had ceased. They were cut into slivers and dipped in cream. She took a sliver and tried to eat it as cleanly as she could. He smiled watching her struggle, and she had to try not to laugh.

"Someday I should get you to try ribs." he said. She giggled and said nothing. Their conversation was cut short when another announcement was shouted to the crowd. Everybody went quiet at once.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Vice President of the United States, John Sumner."

A smattering of applause, as polite as what Izzy had received, now greeter her half-brother as he stepped up to a podium, dressed in a gilded blue uniform with an old-timey naval hat complete with a feather, the glittering waters of the Tidal Basin at his back. This was the first time she saw the ship in the middle of the basin, a wooden sailing vessel with holes for guns, now bathed in the harsh beams of spotlights.

"Friends, neighbors, relatives." her half-brother said. "On this beautiful summer night, we come together to celebrate that our government is still going strong. The insurgencies in this country are can't last forever. Two days ago, not far out from Norfolk, a patrol I had the honor of leading discovered two such insurgent groups fighting on wooden ships, pretending to be pirates." he paused, and the crowd politely laughed. "We intervened, and with the justice of our constitutional government on my side, I personally adjudicated the issue. One of the vessels it turned out belonged to actual pirates, caught in US waters. That is their ship you see in the harbor, built by insurgents to steal the hard work of fellow Americans. We have no need for it, so we thought we'd put on a little show for you to remind you that we are still here, fighting the good fight. Enjoy!"

He stepped down. The people politely applauded. The lights dimmed, and slowly rising from speakers all around came the swelling sound of a classical piece. It built up toward a crescendo, bells rang, the spotlights danced on the Basin's surface, and she expected it to reach a climax in voice or horn.

Instead came a cannon. A shore battery, usually posted facing the Chesapeake, had been moved where it could fire on the pirate ship. The explosion was the harshest sound she knew, and its echo carried on long into the night. It startled her, and she let out a high-pitched squeak. Declan didn't notice. He just watched the ship, his face focused and stoic.

A second went off. She saw its shot splash into the lake. The music was still going, excited and fluttering, but it was easy to forget behind the sound of guns firing and fading away.

A third shot! A fourth! On the fourth, the shot hit its target, and the front of the tiny ship was smashed into splinters. The bow fell off, leaving the center of the ship mangled and gaping, the water swallowing it quickly. There was no more taking turns. The artillerists fired at the sinking ship as quickly as they could, pelting it and the water around it with iron as the people applauded from the shore. Just like that, the main event was over and the music faded to silent.

People went back to the party, but Declan looked on, watching the spot where the ship went down. Izzy feared she might have to leave him thoughts, and she dreaded doing that and putting herself at the mercy of the event.

"The capital is a beautiful place." he said.

"I've heard good things about Richmond."

"Yes." he looked behind them, toward the Jefferson Memorial festooned in lights. "You've done a better job of keeping the important parts of your city intact. Look at that! Other places would've fortified it, or pillaged it for the stone, or used it to house a water purifier for the Potomac. But you kept it a monument to an old American hero."

"I haven't seen that many cities." she said. "Though I would like to someday take a tour of the country."

"That wouldn't take long." Declan said.

"No, the whole country! I've read about places like San Francisco and Los Angelas. But even if I couldn't go that far, maybe see the civilized places, like Richmond, and Boston."

"New York?"

"Those old men? My father says they are no better than slavers..." she paused, horrified by what she said. "I'm sorry..."

There was a pause. "Don't worry." Declan said, smiling politely. "There hasn't been a slave in Richmond for ten years."

"We are one country." she said, still blushing. "We should host your family at the White House some time."

"That would be lovely." Declan said.

[Dinh AaronMk]

New Jersey

Long Branch

“Now, you see that over there?” Calloon gestured, leaning over the side of the bus to point down into the street with one hand as another held against his knee a bottle of beer. His jeans were cleaner at least this day, or were a cleaner more orderly pair. He also wore a starched white T-shirt tucked into his pants complete with a light summer jacket.

Alex followed his hand and looked down at the passing street. Things were clean in Long Branch, the sidewalks swept clean and broken glass windows replaced. The reflection in them of the bus was waving and distorted betraying the home-made quality of panes made from melted down beach sand. But more importantly at the corner of the street they now galloped through was a clean family-style restaurant. A sign hung over the door with the words, “All Come, All Serve. Pay if you may, help if you can.”

“How do you keep it running?” Alex asked, turning to The Boss.

They rode with an entourage atop an old school bus that had been painted and retrofitted to tour the streets, doubtlessly for profiles as high as he. The roof had at one point been cut away and replaced with a flat deck. A team of horses pulled it along the street. The ride provided a view, but the neglected shocks were either hardly working or nonexistent and every bump and pothole was exaggerated at their passing.

“I buy or receive donated farm produce from the countryside to feed to the people here in the city.” The Boss explained with a gentle smile, “In the case of donations I send a few boys out to do some work out around the area to pay them back. Not all of it goes to my restaurants, my Soul Houses; I keep a little, mostly to pay back the men I send to return the favors.”

“Seems like a lot of effort to keep some diners open.” Alexander said.

“Oh hardly.” The Boss replied, taking a swig at his warm beer, “A little bit of food can go a hell of a long way. It's hard shit, I ain't going to fucking lie about that. But the appreciation people have towards someone seeing them through another day is a pound of gold in your pocket. Besides, for the most part I don't hardly have to worry about keeping these places up and running, just see they get supplied with what they need: either that day or later people pay back what they owe in volunteer work and I don't have to do much.”

“I see.” Alex nodded as they rode along.

The two weren't the only ones on the bus. A few odd others came with, a representative from the Factory across the bay and individuals best described as courtiers to the Boss. Several were armed, with the faintest hints of handguns showing underneath light jackets or underneath the legs of their jeans.

“I can tell your not exactly impressed.” The Boss remarked.

“I can tell these don't really stop the Federalists down south.”

“They don't.” The Boss said, a little different, “But they served me something more important than armed thugs and cannons ever had or ever will. You see, when your people destroyed the regional government in Atlantic City it was these diners that saved my skin, and my people's skin from the threat of violence. While the whole rest of the country-side went into revolution once local government lost the support they needed to hold on I held on.” he leaned in close to Alex, a dour look on his face, “It was hard, but I fed my people and gave them a pillar of stability in trying times and I will be that pillar.”

“As you will remain.” Alex said with a polite smile.

The Boss took the compliment, smiled and nodded his appreciation.

“So really, what made you keen to do something like this? Or anything down here? I don't think in my whole knowing you I was ever told.”

“There was a good man in the past.” nodded The Boss, “He was renowned nation-wide so it was said and spoke to the common man as a common man himself. He was born here, in this city. Not in any big white house or mansion, but a set of tenement buildings long lost to us. With a guitar and his voice he went out to talk about America and to do good by your brothers and each other. And he did so too, doing good by him self by doing good upon each other.

“It wasn't no easy fight, but when I found the legacy he left behind and picked it back up I knew I had the long hard fight ahead. But it was the good fight all the same. And now...” his voice trailed off.

“And now you're standing on the edge again?”

“Damn straight. So why doesn't New York come down, and do right for people for once?”

“A good question, and one I'm not directly able to answer.” said Alex, looking passed The Boss to the town life around him.

“Though, I have one small question to ask.” Alex continued as they rode away from the diner. He nodded towards it for emphasis, “How is the food situation in these parts of New Jersey to keep these going?”

The Boss hesitated a bit, staggering for a moment as he began to speak, “Well, we do well enough.” he said, his voice straining, “Or I suppose well enough on peas and cabbage to be honest, pal. But to tell the truth I have to import a fair bit from the Amish. We make ends meet by refining most of it abroad.”

“Like to us.” Alexander said with a thin smile, “Yeah, but I don't get involved with that directly as you remember. But, ah-...” he stopped, a chill shiver rattling the men and his posture dropped and he thumbed at his bottle. Alex could tell in that moment not all was well in Jersey. “Wait until you see our clam divers though!” The Boss announced proudly, “Them boys can hella work.”