The Fae Wars: The Fall

by Lucas Marcum

  At the convention center, it was a different story. Long, silent lines of bedraggled men and women in tattered uniforms snaked around the sides of the building and disappeared. A worn-out looking sergeant wearing a bright red armband with a clipboard stood nearby. He worked his way down the line. Here and there, other marked soldiers could be seen, their red bands standing out in the field of dirty green and gray camouflage uniforms like splashes of drying blood.

  Somewhere, a violin was slowly playing, the music indistinct, but cutting through the noise of the trucks and the quiet murmur of hundreds of soldiers.

  “Name, rank, and number.” A hard-faced major followed by a staff sergeant had stopped next to her. Acevedo stared at the man. His uniform was clean, and he wore one of the red armbands on his right arm. On it was a circular logo with a three-headed dragon. Acevedo noted there was no American flag on his right shoulder. “We don’t have all day, soldier. Name, rank, and number.”

  Startled, Acevedo answered reflexively. “Acevedo, Olivia, sergeant, 2269.”

  The major wrote it down without looking at her. “MOS?”

  “68G. Medical admin.” Acevedo looked around at the hundreds of other soldiers. Here and there, elven soldiers in pristine battle armor could be seen, watching over the masses of defeated Americans with bored looks on their faces.

  “See any combat?” the major asked, not looking at her as he spoke.

  “Yeah. Lots.” Acevedo could hear the violin again. It was clearer this time, and the music seemed familiar…

  “Room 315.” The officer tore off a piece of paper and handed it to her. “You’ll get an ID and a job if you need one from there.”

  Accepting the paper, Acevedo looked at it for a moment, then at the major. “Why are you working for them?”

  The major finally looked at her for a moment, opened his mouth, then shook his head silently and walked away. The staff sergeant pointed at a nearby door and walked away without a word. Numbly, she walked towards the door.

  The music grew clearer over the noise of the city. A lean black man with a large beard was playing the violin. Next to him was another man, of indeterminate age, with a guitar and microphone. His voice was a pure, clear tenor, and he swayed slightly as he sang, his eyes tightly shut.

  Acevedo stopped, listening to the men play. She recognized the music now. The familiar notes of ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ hit her, and a surge of emotion threatened to overwhelm her.

  “With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me

  As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

  His truth is marching on!

  Glory, Glory hallelujah

  Glory, Glory hallelujah

  His Truth is marching on.”

  The tears she’d bottled up for so long began to flow. With the tears streaming down her face, she stood, listening to the two men play. After what seemed like an eternity, the song ended. The man playing the violin smiled at her and said something to the man next to him. The man with the microphone opened his eyes and smiled. The violin player struck up another tune. The jaunty notes of the violin began to play, and the man’s clear voice sang.

  “When Johnny comes marching home again…”

  The soft crooning of the violin and the familiar notes of the song and the men’s kind smiles broke through her grief. She wiped her eyes, walked to the door, and pulled it open.

  “The men will cheer and the boys will shout,

  The ladies, they will all turn out…

  And we’ll all feel gay

  When Johnny comes marching home again…”

  The thick glass door swung shut, blocking out the music. In front of her was an open double door. Inside were three men sitting at a folding table loaded with old desktop computers and piled high with papers. Off to the side, another man was working a portable ID card printing machine. She joined the line, wiping her nose on her sleeve. A woman came up to her and looked her up and down with a practiced eye, then asked, “Small?”

  Acevedo replied with a wordless nod. The woman handed her a neatly folded bundle of clothing tied with twine.

  “Next,” the man at the end of the table called. He was staring at his computer, barely glancing up. “Name, rank, and DoD ID number.” The man sounded bored and slightly annoyed.

  Robotically, Acevedo repeated it back to the man. He tapped it into the computer, then asked, “Did you see combat?”

  “Yes.” Hesitating for a moment, Acevedo then added, “I thought everyone did.”

  “Not as many as you might think. It was over before a lot of units mustered,” the man replied, still not looking at her, his eyes focused on the screen.

  Acevedo shook her head. “I guess. I was in the whole thing.”

  The man continued tapping at the keyboard, then said, “I see you’re an admin specialist.” He finally looked up. Acevedo noticed how thick his glasses were and wondered how he could see anything. “We need trained typists and secretaries in the lord mayor’s office.”

  “But I’m a medical admin…”

  “Ah, dammit.” Reaching for a piece of paper, the man had knocked a mug of pencils onto the floor. He looked at Acevedo. “You mind?”

  “Not at all.” Acevedo knelt and picked up pencils. She reached for one that had rolled under the table, closer to the man’s foot, then stopped. The way the man was sitting made his pant leg ride up, and she could see a tattoo on his calf. It was a pair of crossed arrows over a dagger pointing up. Underneath it was a scroll with letters inside. Starting, she snatched the pencil and stood. She handed it back to the man, who looked back calmly. For a split second, she saw him smile. A tight, tiny smile that was gone almost as fast as it had appeared, leaving Acevedo wondering if she’d seen it at all.

  “Here’s your ID and a ration card,” the man said, his voice again bureaucratically efficient. He handed the ID card to her, still warm from the printer, and continued, “This paper here is a number for you to call to update your living accommodations in our files when you figure out where you’ll be staying. If you don’t have a place, the Elven Authority will provide lodging for you.” He handed her a card and said, “Call this number to get started on inprocessing you for your job in the lord mayor’s office.” He tapped a few final keys, then added, “Someone from our office will be in touch.” There was a slight emphasis on the word ‘our’. He added, “Welcome to the Imperial Protectorate of Philadelphia.”

  Acevedo opened her mouth to thank the man, but he cut her off, “Next, please.” He returned to his computer, apparently having already forgotten her.

  Her mind spinning, Acevedo walked out the door. The band was now playing a cheery rendition of ‘Yankee Doodle’ to a half dozen numb, vacant-eyed soldiers standing around. The man playing the violin winked at her as he worked the bow over the strings. He flicked his eyes to the open violin case. Curious, Acevedo looked at it. There were a few quarters and a couple of crumpled up dollar bills. She turned to leave, but then stopped and looked closer. In tiny gold letters in the bottom of the case, she saw the same words she’d seen tattooed on the leg of the man inside. Straightening up, she smiled at the man, who winked at her again without missing a note on the violin. Acevedo walked away with the words she’d seen echoing in her mind: ‘De oppresso liber’.

  For a few moments, she walked in a daze. She stopped and looked at the card in her hand, then looked up. She saw a bread delivery truck with a black woman at the wheel yelling cheerfully at a young man unloading bread. The newly painted side of the truck read ‘Revolutionary Breads: Est: 2016’, with a colonial-era Betsy Ross flag under it. A large police sergeant across the street was arguing loudly with a man who wore the uniform of the City Works Department. The police officer had a small yellow Gadsden Flag patch on his bulletproof vest. The public works employee had an American flag bandanna stuffed in a pocket, barely visible. A bicycle messenger came whipping by, a balaclava covering his face, but his t-shirt clearly visible with the Pu
nisher skull in the familiar alternating red and white stripes of the flag.

  Sergeant Olivia Acevedo folded the pile of papers and stuffed them into her pocket thoughtfully. After a moment, she walked calmly into the warm summer afternoon with a strange, determined smile on her face, and a feeling of hope in her heart.

  Epilogue

  Fifteen Months Later

  Olivia sat in the Starbucks down the block from City Hall and scowled at her laptop. She’d gotten an email from the shipping department again. The problems with the North American supply system from the war were mostly smoothed out and functioning again, but there were still delays for some items. This one was a long, rambling email about office supplies, asking the Office of the Lord Mayor to conserve ballpoint pens. With an annoyed sigh, she snapped the laptop shut and picked up her latte. Taking a sip, she let her mind wander, idly watching the local news on the TV over the counter. Suddenly she stopped, her eyes glued to the screen.

  The newscaster was speaking in polished, professional tones. “In other news, the terrorist known as Anra’o Navi, or ‘The Black Widow’, struck again today, this time in Houston. We should warn you, the video is disturbing.”

  The perfectly made-up anchor disappeared, and the image of a man appeared. He was gagged and tied to a chair, with an American Flag draped behind him.

  A woman’s voice said, in a clear, familiar tone, “Captain Ellis James Kinley, formerly of the United States Air Force. You have been found guilty of the following crimes. Charge One: Operating in cohort with the Elven Military Authority against the people of the United States. Charge Two: Operating a drone and utilizing it in surveillance against the peoples of the United States. Charge Three: Taking part in and ordering drone strikes on American citizens, depriving them of their natural rights to a trial by jury. Charge Four: Breaking your oath to the United States Constitution, the United States Air Force, and breaking faith with the people of the United States. You pled ‘not guilty’ but were convicted by a jury of your peers of the aforementioned crimes against your nation and your people.”

  A slim woman stepped in front of the camera. Her face was covered with a bright red bandana and her brown eyes shone intensely as she said, “As we are a nation of laws, you have been sentenced in accordance with those laws. Unfortunately, as your peers were not unanimous on the punishment, we cannot apply the death penalty.” The relief in the bound man’s eyes was palpable.

  The woman continued in a grim, satisfied tone, “However, we cannot let these crimes against your people and government go unpunished. You have broken faith with your country, your fellow Americans, and the founding principles of this nation.” She turned and faced the man. “In the name of the United States of America, the Texan State Government in Exile and the Houston Chapter of the Sons of Liberty, I hereby sentence you to branding for later retrial under the laws of the reformed United States Government, when that body returns to session.” A sudden surge of terror filled the bound man’s eyes, and he began to struggle.

  The woman looked off camera and said calmly, “Sergeant at Arms, you may carry out the sentence.” There was a brief glimpse of a massive figure stepping into the view of the camera with a glowing poker in his hand. The scene froze for a moment, the poker shining bright red in the middle of the screen, then the screen went black.

  The image of the news anchor returned. “As you can see, the terrorists continue to harm law abiding citizens of the Elven Protectorates. If anyone has any information on the identity or whereabouts of the terrorist known as the ‘Black Widow’, you are urged to contact local law enforcement or the regional Elven Authority.”

  The camera angle shifted, and the anchor looked into the new camera and continued smoothly, “In other news, the longshoremen’s strike here in Philadelphia has continued into a third week, as talks between the Delaware River Port Authority and the Union officials have broken down over whether orcish bondsmen who have completed their military service should be allowed employment as longshoremen, and if they are, whether they will be allowed to be full due-paying members of the union. For more on that story, we go to our local reporter, Destiny Johnson, who is reporting live from the strike at the Navy Yard. Destiny?”

  Sitting back in her chair, Olivia Acevedo smiled slightly as she sipped her latte and thought to herself, CJ, you ruthless bitch. God, I miss you. Her email chimed, and she opened the laptop. She had a new email from the office. The email header read ‘Update: Packages coming in tonight’.

  Olivia,

  Please let the lord mayor’s staff know that there will be a shipment of office supplies coming in tonight. It will be there at 7:30, but someone from upstairs will have to sign for it. Should be enough for everyone for a couple of weeks. Also, the Phils are playing the Sox this week. I have a spare ticket. Last home game before we miss the playoffs (again!) Interested?

  Jay

  Jay Carello,

  Operations Director

  Receiving and Shipping Department

  Office of the Lord Mayor, Elven Protectorate of Philadelphia

  With a smile, she hit ‘reply’ and typed,

  Jay,

  Someone will be at the loading dock at 7:30 to sign for it. Thank you so much!

  As for the Phils tickets, yes. I’ll bet you a drink they hit a home run this game. It’s a great time of year for some baseball—and we do so love sending a message to our friends in Boston. I’ll call you later.

  Olivia

  Olivia Acevedo

  Assistant to Chief of Staff,

  Office of the Lord Mayor, Elven Protectorate of Philadelphia

  As she read the email, a man walked by her table. Without pausing, he set down a folded newspaper beside her, and without breaking his stride or looking at her, left the cafe.

  After a few moments, she took a napkin and set it down over the paper. A few minutes later she picked it up, opened it and examined what was concealed there. Then, taking out a pen and stationery from her bag, she wrote freehand.

  To the Honorable Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee of Correspondence of Greater Boston,

  Dear Sirs and Madams,

  It has been decided by a 14-3 vote of the Philadelphia committee to join your proposed body. This letter shall be accompanied by a Mr. Jay Carello, who is known to this committee and nominated by them to serve as the initial voting delegate from the city of Philadelphia. He shall be joined by a Mrs. Ida Lopez of Allentown and Mr. Endo Idoke of Harrisburg, who represent the interests of certain parties related to the former Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. They are empowered to vote, in conjunction with the representatives of the body, as they see best for the city of Philadelphia and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

  It is the hope of the committee that the Third Continental Congress shall convene on or around March 15 of the coming year, and we are working with our compatriots in the other states to ensure this goal is met. As always, remember to keep the faith.

  With deepest respect,

  Ms. Olivia Acevedo,

  General Secretary and voting member of the Committee of Correspondence of the City of Philadelphia.

  Setting the pen down, she folded the paper, replaced it in the newspaper, and set it beside her. She closed her laptop and put her cell phone and pen in her purse. She picked up her laptop just as the waiter came over to bus the table. As she walked away, from the corner of her eye, she saw the lean young man with the double nose piercing and bright green hair sweep the paper up smoothly, fold it, and deposit it in his apron pocket.

  As she exited the warm coffee shop, she shivered in the biting fall wind and scrunched deeper into her coat. She thought about the baseball game later that week and smiled. Jay was cute, fun to hang out with, and most importantly, he knew people. People who took what she learned in the Lord Mayor’s office and used it. People who were already hard at work, planning and preparing. People who, like Sergeant Olivia Acevedo, had never surrendered.

  The End … and The Beginning.


  Don’t forget to check out Volume One if you haven’t yet!

  To really stay up on our work and the other great authors of Cannon Publishing, join our mailings list. No spam, just book releases, and you know how social media throttles posts so you miss everything. Send an email to Contact@cannonpublishing.us to join our newsletter!