by J. J. Holden
He sat in his office chair—a new one without the annoying squeak—and leaned back. He spared a moment to look at the simple paintings on the cinder block walls. A smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Butterflies, fairies, castles, unicorns—which looked, he thought, like Narwhals more than unicorns. He had told Amber’s daughter, Kaitlyn, that they looked amazing because, to him, they were. All twelve of them.
Once the slow HAMnet connection finished downloading the files, he flipped open his laptop and booted it. He always had a twinge of fear each morning when he did this, half expecting the dreaded green chatbox to pop up. His 20s handler, Watcher One, was the last person Ethan wanted to talk to after he’d randomly slaughtered a fifteen-year-old girl last year, using a 20s agent armed with a missile-launching quad drone. The agent had paid with his life, but that didn’t help the poor girl Watcher One had killed.
Screw every last one of them, Ethan thought. He had once thought the 20s were a patriot hacker group, but in the end, the 20s turned out to be nothing more than General Houle’s private intelligence network—and they’d made Ethan help them to kill the world. The EMPs he had helped them deliver had messed up almost every place on Earth just as badly as the first enemy EMPs had ravaged America.
No green box popped up that morning, however, just as with the last six months of mornings. Whew. He flipped his messenger app on with a quick double-click, but no one was online. He’d hoped to talk to his friends in Florida again, but since they’d kicked the ’vaders out of that state, the whole situation there had gone FUBAR. Florida was completely balkanized, and every day he wondered if his hacker friends had survived another day. Thinking of their possible deaths made him sad.
A ding alerted Ethan to someone popping into his chatroom, snapping him out of his somber thoughts. He didn’t recognize the name. “Well, well. Who do we have here?”
DarkRyder >> Howdy. ASL? Lol.
Aeon_Wretch >> Hello. 30s, male, Virginia. U?
DarkRyder >> 20s, male Pennsylvania. How did u find this place?
Aeon_Wretch >> PinkToes told me about it. You can thank him.
Ethan frowned. PinkToes was suspect. Specifically, suspected of being Watcher One. Ethan had no proof, but when you played Cloak ’n Dagger, you listened to your gut or you died. Still, that didn’t mean this Aeon Wretch guy was bad, but it was a definite strike against him.
DarkRyder >> That’s not a ringing endorsement.
Aeon_Wretch >> Maybe u should change ur /handle to Dark Ruder.
DarkRyder >> LOL ok fair enuf. So what do u want?
Aeon_Wretch >> …
Aeon_Wretch >> PinkToes said Watcher1 is trying to contact u
DarkRyder >> So? He knows where I am @ if he wants 2 chat.
Aeon_Wretch >> He has a message
DarkRyder >> so what is it, I have things 2 do
Aeon_Wretch >> PinkToes said, ‘Remember code Bravo 1-9-7-2? It’s playing on a loop.’
Aeon_Wretch >> Whatever that means…
>> DarkRyder has Disconnected
Ethan stared at the screen. No flipping way. His heart began to race. This was damn well not what he wanted to hear first thing in the morning. B-1972 was a 20s internal code for “get the hell out, they’re coming for you.” Who was coming? Watcher One wouldn’t have said anything so useful as the damn identity of who was coming for him. If anyone truly was—it could just be a trick to try to flush Ethan out of Clanholme. Why else would Watcher One warn him at all?
He thought of the jet fighters supporting Houle’s troops during the last battle for Harrisburg and shuddered. Though there had only been a few of them, they had almost overwhelmed the Confederation defenders in minutes once they began to launch missiles. Only another EMP had saved Ethan’s people, blessedly at the expense of half of all Houle’s machines of war. Ethan thought it too bad he couldn’t have taken out the other half, too.
But no, he didn’t think Houle would risk another fighter sortie. So it was either Houle sending some sort of death squad after him, or the ’vaders coming. He didn’t figure the ’vaders would announce their intentions to Watcher One. That left General Houle in NORAD, Watcher’s boss and the 20s leader. The note about “playing on a loop” seemed to indicate this as well, since Houle had tried that once before, but that wasn’t a certainty. Stupid cryptic references.
Shit. If Houle was again after him, that was almost worse than ’vaders. Houle’s SpecOps guys were among the best. Not as good as Michael, the Confederation’s general—a Marine major and SpecOps master—but almost as good and with many more of them.
Ethan picked up one of the dozen hand radios nearby. “Charlie Two to Lincoln One Actual, come in. We need to talk.” He hoped Michael would know what to do.
- 2 -
1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +600
CHOONY WALKED INTO the living room, which was still painted white despite Jaz’s continual complaining about the color all winter. How many times had he pointed out that paint was free and could be found almost everywhere? Yet she had never gotten around to it. Jaz had so much she wanted to do to that house to make it into a home, however long they would be in Hackensack, but their responsibilities kept her far too busy to play homemaker.
Yes, Choony mused, it really would be playing—Jaz wasn’t the homebody sort of woman, but she idolized the sort of quiet, domestic existence that would have driven her insane if she ever actually got to have it.
He sat on the brown leather sofa next to Jaz, who was reading through a stack of papers. “Anything interesting in there?”
She looked up, dazed and confused for a moment. She’d been so deeply into her reading that she must not have noticed him come in.
“Huh? Oh, the contracts. Well, Taggart’s secretary of state is demanding way too much in the way of tariffs. In the old days, we’d take him to court and then be bound by its decision.”
“And now?” Choony looked into her eyes.
“Just like the Confed’s deal with Bergenfield—we’ll walk away until New America gives us a solution that works for us both, Doug’s ‘protectionist policies’ be damned. The Confederation didn’t have enough of anything back then to just hand it over to Bergenfielders who were too stupid or lazy to provide for themselves.”
“We were still willing to trade.”
“Yeah, but we weren’t their nursemaids. And I feel the same about the secretary of state’s demands.”
Choony nodded. The Bergenfield thing was now an old argument, which they’d had to listen to all winter. Bergenfield wanted everyone to share everything equally, and the Confederation wasn’t about to do that. Even if some court said the Confederation, as a territory within New America, must comply with its new demands to support Bergenfield, how would the court enforce it? Not like Taggart would send his army in to enforce such a decree. He’d lose the whole Confederation if he did that, so he had helped delay the issue indefinitely. Cassy’s leadership had made sure the Confederation could go it alone at any time.
Jaz said, “Times are different now than before the war. There are no courts yet. But the idiot Taggart picked for SecState is one of those old-school local politicians. The guy was practically drooling at the thought of enforcing ‘federal authority over interstate trade.’ Screw him.”
Choony shrugged. “Doug Holloway seems to think things will go back to the way they were. I have tried to explain to him that that won’t happen.”
“You should have explained to him that survivor communities these days have no problem shooting up ‘federal agents’ who try to overstep their bounds or take what isn’t theirs. The Clan doesn’t pay taxes and never will. It’s theft. When they threaten to take your property or your liberty if you don’t hand over what’s yours, then you have the right to blow their damn heads off.”
Choony didn’t like when Jaz got this worked up. It caused her to be off balance—violent—which was never good for one’s Chi.
“Funny,” Jaz continued, “like, a couple years ago I would h
ave said the feds should have authority over everything if they could keep us safe, fed, and housed. Now it’s hard to believe people ever had relied on resources from thousands of miles away.”
Choony remained silent. He found it better to let her get it all out.
“Anyway,” Jaz said, “I have to write a polite ‘fuck you’ to Doug and explain that he can shove his tariffs and ‘mandatory’ trade agreements up his ass. He can take a hundred paper cuts to his butthole as far as I’m concerned.”
Choony thought it best to divert the conversation. She was getting downright brutal now. “Jaz, we sent a message to Taggart about the situation with Mr. Holloway. Has he replied?”
Jaz nodded, shuffling through the papers. After a few moments, she found what she was looking for and pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Here we go. He says that, while in principle he supports the idea of free trade with only government oversight, not regulation, such oversight requires tariffs to pay for it. However, he ‘understands’ that some communities may not yet be in a position to absorb tariffs. He welcomes a statement-of-facts from the Confederation about why Doug’s tariffs should be waived.”
Choony let out a low whistle. He could only imagine how Jaz wanted to respond to that.
Jaz continued, “He can welcome a few of my ‘statement-of-facts’ with a side of—”
Choony took the paper from Jaz. “Maybe that response is something I’m better suited to write.”
Jaz frowned. “If you want.” She paused for a moment and then said, “But if Taggart supports this guy’s agenda, he can kiss New America’s expansion goodbye, and both the Confederation and the Free Republic with it.”
Choony’s eyes glazed over as he became lost in thought about how best to respond. The answer that kept coming to mind was to simply deny anyone’s authority to impose a tax of any kind, and that until the new Constitution was ratified—with the Confederation’s signature—then the Confed maintained its right to refuse trade agreements, or even to refuse to remain a part of New America. Regretfully, of course.
He had no doubt the Confederation would walk away from New America membership before going back to the old ways. Encouragingly, from what he had heard over the winter in Hackensack, other survivor groups pretty much all felt the same.
Choony didn’t allow such problems as tariffs to rile him up, however. Things were what they were, and there was no point in getting upset over it. Doug Holloway would either go away or change his mind, or the Confederation would go it alone. Nothing Choony could do would force a particular outcome. Thus, he stayed calm.
Jaz, who had been silent for a while, looked up from her papers. “Doug is saying that we must return the two battalions of troops New America stationed with us last year.”
“What? Half of those men and women are married to locals now. They have homes. We can’t force them to leave.” Choony took a few deep breaths trying to stay, at the very least, even-tempered.
Jaz growled, “And we won’t. I know Cassy would punch Doug in his fat, red nose if she were here. That’s totally not even an option for us. It’s not like home is one non-stop flight away, these days. If they leave, they won’t get to come back.”
Choony shrugged. “It seems to me our only real option will be to release those who want to go and offer citizenship to those who stay in Confed territory. That’s as close as we can get to doing what Taggart says without causing a riot at home.”
“Good point, Choon.”
“Well,” Choony said with a wan smile, “one of us should write a letter to Taggart to let him know our official position on this issue.”
Jaz pursed her lips, then said, “I’ll send a letter to Cassy informing her of what we’ve done and ask for further direction. You send one to Taggart about the troops, along with the trade tariff thing.”
Choony nodded and slightly bowed. Grinning, he said, “As my moon and stars wishes.”
Jaz laughed; he loved how her face lit up. Her only answer was, “Nerd. You do know you’ll never see that show again, right?”
Choony knew. But it was worth the sadness that came from reminding himself of that fact, just to see her smile so brightly.
* * *
0700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +601
Nate Runke strode through the battlefield with his rifle over his shoulder, the very picture of confidence, heedless of the danger all around him. Months ago, when all this began, he had quickly decided that his militia fought better when he led from the front.
Doing so had been terrifying at first, but since then, he’d seen so many cowards hiding behind cars or rubble still get taken out by a stupid stray bullet, even as he walked untouched in the open among them to bolster his troops’ courage. When it was one’s time to go, it was their time, no matter what anyone did to avoid it. Fear only crippled people in the meantime.
Today, however, Nate felt much safer than he had in so many other skirmishes. This one had seen his enemies slaughtered, instead of standing victorious at the end. In the back of his mind, he had a feeling, a tingling of his senses, that told him the tide had finally turned against the invaders. The ’vaders were being pushed back all across the city and with every skirmish the Arabs and Koreans lost, Nate’s militia gained more guns, ammo, intel, food, and enemy uniforms to use in upcoming raids. It felt good to no longer have to hit the enemy fast and then run for their lives. Now, as the commander of the entire Philadelphia resistance movement, he felt like a lion with his pride, devouring a Korean gazelle. The thought made his heart race from the sheer thrill of it.
Nate nodded at his bodyguard. “I gotta say, Robert, I’m pleased at all the land we took back from the invaders today. Half of it is already planted, and the other half has the seeds and gear right here. It’ll feed another hundred people if we can figure out the Clan’s methods.”
Robert smiled. “Maybe we should capture one of their teachers.”
Nate laughed out loud. “Yeah, right. That would sure piss them off. New America, too. Besides, I’m not convinced it’s in our best interests to ally with either of them when we finish liberating Philly.”
Looking at the squad of ISNA soldiers they’d just ambushed in the mostly-open land east of Philadelphia, Robert grinned. At six foot six, he towered over Nate, but it was his intelligence and cunning that made Nate consider him to be such an effective second-in-command. “And to think, two years ago, you were a construction foreman,” Robert said.
“And one year ago, we were slaves. What’s your point?”
Robert shifted his weight but said nothing.
Nate continued, “Now, we can arm another dozen militia with AKs instead of zip guns and rocks.”
“You can’t ally with the ’vaders,” Robert said out of the blue, frowning. “This is the birthplace of America. It’ll piss off George Washington’s ghost or something.”
“Then let New America join us if they wish. But right now, the ’vaders have more of what we want. When Philly is liberated and the East Territory is ours, we’ll have something to trade to New America—food. Their general is a pragmatic guy. He’ll see the value of an alliance with us. Let him and the ’vader general have a bidding war for our friendship, though, so we get the most we can for our efforts.”
Robert shook his head. “Doesn’t feel right even talking to the Korean bastards, much less considering an alliance with them.”
Nate shrugged and nodded. “Yeah. I get that. But I have to be ruthless and just as pragmatic as they are if we want to survive in the long run, Robert. Trust me. Would I steer you wrong?”
Robert shook his head, but didn’t reply.
After that, they finished their tour of the land they’d taken in this battle. Nothing was written in stone yet, anyway, so he let the topic drop. But Nate had sworn he’d not only free his people, but one way or another he’d give them a better life, too. Philly and the East Territory had everything he’d need to accomplish that.
He had to finish taking it, first.
&nb
sp; * * *
1100 HOURS - ZERO DAY +610
“Come in,” Gen. Taggart said. He looked up from his papers to glance at the door, annoyed. When the door opened, he saw that his visitor was Doug Holloway. Oh great, this day was just getting better and better. He forced a plastic smile.
Doug walked in with his usual easy smile and waved at Taggart. “How is your day going, sir?” The man was a reptile, cold-blooded, and his perfectly-performed smile made Taggart’s skin crawl.
Taggart needed the man’s services, so there was very little to do about the situation. “I’m doing alright, I suppose. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this fine morning?”
Doug had a stack of papers in one hand, which he waved in the air as though they were very important.
Taggart was certain it was nothing he wanted to deal with, but such were the burdens of leadership. The way Doug focused on those papers reminded him of old McCarthy videos, and Taggart was certain his day was about to be ruined.
“Sir,” Doug said with a pitch-perfect voice, “we’ve got to discuss these upstart Confederation people.”
Taggart decided Doug must practice his lines in front of a mirror. His delivery was camera-ready. Perfect.
Doug continued, “If you want to be able to launch patrols to make travel safe for traders—who come from every region that claims loyalty to New America and beyond, I remind you—then it’s imperative that we raise at least a few tariffs.”