by G. R. Carter
Rebekah realized personal arguments were pointless; Alex was clearly in wartime mode. Plus, too little sleep and too many emotions clouded both their heads. She tried one more time with logic instead of sentiment. “Too many moving pieces, Alex. Why the Senate meeting, why attack Vincennes…why all of this all at once?”
Alex agreed it was too quick, too much to bite off for their available resources. But this had to be done, before they were squeezed by the constricting plans of those who would do them harm. “I need to know who’s on our side, Bek…this is going to get rough. Really rough. I’m going to crush each threat once and for all. One at a time, but make no mistake, this is going to happen. I’m tired of having to look over our shoulders all the time, waiting for the next attack. We always have to count on a miracle to save us. It’s time to make our own miracles.”
Chapter Four
Domicile of the Unified Church
Capital City of Shelbyville
Eve of the Vincennes Invasion
“Have you tried to talk him out of leading the attack against Vincennes?”
“Didn’t imagine it would make any impact. He’s made up his mind. Besides, I’m more interested in the health of his soul than the safety of his body.”
Douglas Hart nodded his head and looked away. The Senior Bishop of the Unified Church and close advisor to the Hamilton family could guide, read scripture, pray and even throw a fit to influence Alex Hamilton’s decisions. Ultimately, though, the Founder would decide for himself what was best for the Republic and her people. Even if Hart was now the leader of a faith tasked with guiding a million followers through this world and into the next, there was only so much he could do without hardening the heart of a man he loved like a son.
He was the Hamilton family’s pastor back when such things were a matter of quaint tradition. He held him at his baptism, led him through his confirmation vows, gave him his first communion—the Hamiltons still attended Church before the Reset, increasingly rare in a country that saw about 10% of the population attend worship any time besides Christmas. Even then, on the holiest of holidays, there were plenty of available seats in cathedrals once crafted for entire communities to gather for Sunday service and important town meetings. Some of those buildings survived until the time of the Reset, most as precocious little art galleries or local museums.
Bishop Hart wondered for a moment—even he was prone to asking God uncomfortable questions—why it had taken the death of nine out of every ten people to lead the survivors back to the houses of worship they had abandoned in more comfortable times. Logic would suggest people become thankful in times of plenty. Instead, the overwhelming suffering and pain run rampant in the darkness caused humanity to drag itself back to the Creator’s feet, humbled beyond the wildest imagination of any doomsday televangelist. I hope those hucksters really believed what they preached back then, he thought darkly. In the vocation of shepherd, misleading sheep was the only sin he found eternally unforgivable in scripture.
“You seem preoccupied, Brother Hart. Something you’d like to talk about?” Rebekah Hamilton asked with a sly smile.
Bishop looked up with surprise, then returned the smile. “That’s my line, Bek, remember”?
“Yes, well, you weren’t using it at the time. So I decided to borrow it. Since you Patriarchs let we fairer sex join the ministry, maybe I’ll consider a vocation of my own,” she replied.
“How many jobs would that be for you, then? Ten, twenty?” he asked with a chuckle. “Or perhaps you’re suggesting that guiding our flock isn’t a full-time job. Perhaps a part-time hobby?”
“I suppose if it’s done right,” she said. “You do a pretty good job at it, so why don’t you continue on? I’ll just encourage my children to stay awake during your well-crafted messages.”
The comfortable laughter of true friends echoed off of the wood and stone of the Domicile sanctuary. This was the spiritual home of the Unified Church, the place where Bishops came to train and study and pray. A pilgrimage place for the faithful to trek to and forge a closer relationship to their Creator. What was once a simple Protestant church now occupied an entire block in the heart of Shelbyville. In addition to the sanctuary were dorms, meeting rooms, numerous chapels and classrooms. What were not present were statues, no obscure symbols. Many would consider the buildings to be stark, devoid of what pre-Reset humans had considered beautiful.
What it lacked in daytime beauty it made up for in nighttime. Hundreds of candles cast shadows from each edge; eerie for many, but spiritual for most. Faint light illuminated stained glass windows along the outside walls and peaking two stories above the altar holding just a few sacred items. Some wood, some stone, water and a simple silver cross—not an ounce of gold was present anywhere in this Unified chapel or any others. Gold fever was considered by the Church to be one of the most dangerous and infectious of diseases. An affliction that killed more than just the mortal body—though it certainly took many of those—but the eternal soul itself. Perhaps unfair and illogical, but the yellow metal held zero value in any transaction or as an item of beauty in the Republic’s territory.
What held value were the things a farmer in the countryside could understand…stone, water, wood, grain, and silver-colored metal used as weapon and shield to protect those they loved. Every piece in the Domicile reflected nature, crafted and nurtured by the work of the common man. A warm embrace of home in a world full of perils for body and soul.
Rebekah turned her mind from her surroundings back to the subject at hand. “Do you think it’s smart for us to split the kids up? I hate having the family spread to the four corners of Creation,” she said. “It’s just that…” she hesitated and searched for the words to match her feeling, “…whatever is going on…this seems bigger, darker.”
“It is,” Hart replied and grabbed her hand. “Trust your instincts, Rebekah. He gave you those instincts for a reason.”
“Why doesn’t He just draw us a map?” she pleaded. “Why do we have to interpret these signs and feelings all the time? If we’re fighting evil, why doesn’t He help?”
“One miracle isn’t enough for you this week?” he asked.
“You told me Alex’s recovery wasn’t a miracle, just his body remembering how to function because his brain let it.”
“Alex’s brain or body listening to anything is a miracle, is it not?” he chuckled. She didn’t appear amused, but he went on. “Do you not consider your children to be a miracle?”
“Of course.”
“And yet, billions of children have been born on this planet since the beginning of time,” Hart replied.
“I don’t take your point, Bishop,” she replied testily to her old friend.
“Just because something happens every day doesn’t mean it’s not a miracle. The sun rises each day, not too close, not too far, to provide just enough light and heat to keep us from becoming starving icicles. No other planet, that we know of, has such an arrangement. A miracle?”
Rebekah shrugged. “I guess.”
“A tiny seed, barely visible, becomes a huge plant by taking what it needs from the soil and that distant sun and gives us nutrients with its fruit. How does that happen?”
Rebekah raised an eyebrow. She, and every other person in the Republic, knew how botany worked. They were farmers to the core; even those who barely touched the soil these days knew exactly how nature functioned. “Come on, Bishop. This is science you’re talking. You know exactly how seeds and genetics work.”
“Ah yes. Science. The god of our pre-Reset forefathers. But the stumbling block for the priests of that fabled faith was a simple seed. When did the first plant get the idea to drop a seed? How did the plant decide the best use of limited resources was to try to create a genetic replica of itself? Why does it care? Of what use is a replica? The plant will die soon. The replica will not provide shelter or food to extend its life. In fact, it may very well compete for resources if the mother plant does not die right away.”
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Rebekah considered her answer. There had always been a fine line for those who pursued knowledge; the more one acquired, the more questions arose. An infinite loop of doubt and indecision could easily lead a student to forget what the question was in the first place, or even why they asked.
“It’s a paradox, of course. We accept the story of Creation, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The Creator made the first of everything, and then set us loose to do our work after sin,” she said, satisfied with her answer.
“So, the first plant: did it or did it not have seeds?” Hart asked.
Rebekah looked away, watching the shadows dance on the oak beams rising from the floor. “You know, Bishop, I liked you a lot better when you were just a small-town preacher. You’re starting to get very confusing in your new role,” she huffed. “I don’t know, I just take it on faith that these things were provided to help us.”
“A perfect answer,” he said simply. He patted her on the shoulder. “People, especially we religious types, can talk circles all day long about such things.” He waved a hand in disgust. “How many angels can dance on the top of a pin? A ridiculous question…”
“What’s the answer?”
“Who cares!” Hart nearly shouted. “Of what use are dancing angels to men whose children are starving? We learn what makes a plant grow so that we grow better plants, feed those that the Creator has charged us with caring for, but do not get caught up in how the plant became a plant!”
She recognized the lesson, this time disguised in a different setting. “Simply accept the gift, and use it as best you can to help those who need it,” Rebekah murmured to herself.
Hart nodded his head. “Do not ask how or what changed Alex, or what created him the way he is. Seek to use the tools you have been given to guide him and your children. Do your best, and trust that future generations will be around to question all our decisions!
“To answer your original question,” he continued, “splitting up the Founding Family for a while probably helps ensure that survival.” His smile returned. “Call that a miracle, or call that good planning. We’ll discuss such matters at the foot of His throne after we’ve left this world.”
“You’re okay with the little ones and me staying here?” she asked.
“Please don’t tell me you’re actually questioning if I would allow some of my oldest friends to stay here. Let alone the Founding Family.”
“This is supposed to be a place of peace and worship…” She looked over at her Silver Shield guards standing just outside of earshot. She knew everything about the men and women watching over her children right now, knew their families. “The last place of peace and worship the Hamilton family stayed at ended up in the middle of a battle.”
Now it was Hart’s turn to shrug the notion off. “Just as we accept the good miracles in this world, we must also accept the notion of pure evil. I imagine I’ll have to answer for giving close combat and weapons training to those who preach the Holy Word when I stand to be judged. But the account will be balanced by the innocents a well-armed preacher can save.”
Rebekah felt a small chill at the sight of Hart’s grin. He and the co-founder of the Unified Church, Father Steve he was called both before and after the Reset, became mean as a snake when innocents were threatened. If there were any reservations or doubts about violence in the matters of self-defense, neither ever showed it. In fact, they appeared to enjoy a fight, and both had been in plenty of tight spots in the years following the Dawn of Darkness, as the Reset was referred to in the Church.
“Remember,” Hart continued, “our Founder already assigned a detachment of Silver Shields for the Domicile anyway. The only thing we have to worry about is them revolting against be posted here instead of going along on the Vincennes attack.”
“They’ll be spread pretty thin. Some will go with Phax to Fortress Northgate,” she said with concern.
“Where will Alia go?” Hart asked about the Hamilton’s second-oldest child. Her given name was Alexandria Julia, but those who knew her best called her a combination of the names.
“She’s going to the Hunsingers in Harrisburg. Alex thinks it will be good for the two families to get to know one another better. Eric is expected to make a full recovery, and with Maryanne Olsen dead, he’ll need his in-laws’ support now more than ever.”
“That’s pretty close to the front against Vincennes. Are you sure that’s wise?” Hart asked. There was genuine concern on his face. “What if the battle goes poorly? Harrisburg will be right in the line of fire.”
Rebekah nodded, fighting off tears accompanying the idea of her two eldest children being away from her side for a period of time. “The Hunsingers survived the Reset, survived lots of others trying to destroy them. We’re confident they’ll survive whatever comes their way, they can protect Alia…and they’re loyal to the Republic.”
Her face tightened, strength flowing back into her eyes, which sparkled in the firelight. “And don’t worry, Bishop. Alex won’t fail.”
Assembly Yard
Just outside the walls of Shelbyville
Massive metal steeds sat quietly on the assembly yard just outside the Shelbyville city walls, dwarfing their human handlers. The steel was cold right now, though inside the machines lay the heart of the Republic’s Self Defense Cooperative. Since shortly after the Reset, the first men and women who laid the groundwork for the Red Hawk Republic relied on technology to survive. The irony that today’s cutting-edge equipment would have been considered obsolete junk to their grandparents didn’t register with the hardened young men and women making up the tip of the Republic’s spear.
Alex smiled at the thought. Phillip Hamilton and his friends started a fire here on the prairie, a blaze still burning brightly and providing a light to millions of people. Even those who didn’t live in the Republic’s borders still looked to them as a beacon of hope, a chance for common people to survive and thrive against nearly insurmountable odds. The smile reflected pride in his family, past and present. They led Alex to reach a conclusion his father refused to consider.
The Republic would never be able to stop fighting.
Both Founders spent every day of their tenure hoping to reach an elusive peace and safety for the ones they loved. Phil had believed that with the right government type, a fair chance at making a living for everyone, the world would align correctly. Alex picked up the same dream, albeit in a different world. The second Founder of the Republic had believed that if everyone just banded together, joined a unified nation, a golden age could begin. Every child safe, every person fed and warm…
Alex wasn’t sure if it was the night in Mt. Vernon that changed him—likely the change had been coming over the last few years. Rebekah knew his heart but couldn’t grasp his soul—not completely. That wasn’t her fault. He realized he was a complicated mixture of his genetics, an ever-evolving mixture of his pre-Reset upbringing and the life-and-death choices he faced every day. Perhaps if he had been able to serve with his father for a few more years, circumstances might have been different.
But this was his world now. Like it or not—and he wasn’t sure which truly applied to him—people insisted on him making decisions for them. Fine, if they really wanted a leader he would give them one. He would no longer be just an overseer who decided petty disputes and made sure food production quotas were being met. His thirty years on this earth had built him for a grander purpose, he realized that now. Many, or maybe most, would despise him for that eventually; that was an unfortunate realization he reached at the same time. But better to be despised by those he saved than beloved by those he failed. His children’s children would inherit a safe and secure Okaw, buffered from outside evil by miles of surrounding surrogate states made prosperous by their association with the heartland of a vast Republic.
He would rebuild the United States in the image of his father’s dream: a true republic, an eternal republic…a United Republic, and a strong cocoon to protect his belove
d homeland.
The capital city wouldn’t rest in some coastal megalopolis, separated from the land and the people by thousands of miles and an alien culture. The real heart would be here, on the fertile plains where people were fed. Where work and toil brought forth a harvest. Where you could see the fruits of your labor, literally. No more shenanigans of politicians and their moneychangers. Good honest people here, prosperous yet generous, and with a common faith that would bind them all together—not forcefully, but through a desire to be part of a larger force for good. For too long relationships were based on convenience. He would forge blood ties with the citizens of the Republic and give others a path to become fellow citizens. But there would be no negotiation on what citizenship meant. Each person would sign their own copy of the Articles of the Okaw and internalize that charter which outlined the responsibilities of a citizen to the Republic. In return, the Republic would leave them alone to pursue their dreams within the bounds of the law.
None of those dreams were particularly new. Anyone who knew the Hamilton family would recognize these visions passed on by their father and nurtured by their mother. The difference would be that Alex would no longer hope and pray the changes would come to pass. He would do something about it. He had the power to forge the future, or at least get the process started. Perhaps the United Republic would be fifty or a hundred or five hundred years in the making. Phax and Alia or even their great-grandchildren might still be working to perfect the dream. But he would fan the flames of his father’s spark starting now. He would build the framework, a system replicated over each inch of ground brought under the Republic’s shield.
Alex wasn’t delusional. He would need help to accomplish what needed done, even those who might think he was losing touch with reality. To an extent he was, but that was the point: he had to suspend thinking rationally. He had plenty of advisors and scholars to take care of the day-to-day problems. His talents were wasted on reviewing reports, and frankly, he wasn’t really good at it anyway. He would return where he belonged – the sharpened edge.