The American Dream

[spartasman]

This is just a prelude to the story, a little background info to base the whole thing on. More to come later.

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Addressed to His Imperial Majesty, King-Emperor Charles the III Of The New Empire.

As dictated by Governor General Sir Percival Winthrop

The Current State of the Crown Colony of North America

As of the year 2026


Article One: Current populations; both Imperial & native, as they exist on the Continent.

The Imperial population, as counted in the Census of 2025, currently stands at over five million eight hundred and twenty thousand. This counts both the Imperial subjects under His Majesties auspices, as well as the several native tribes that have been absorbed into His realms. The Imperial population on the continent proper, counting both the settled populations and the traders and garrisons in the unsettled areas, stands at four million and two hundred thousand. The Imperial population on both the islands of the Caribbean Sea, as well as the naval base situated on The Island Of Guadalupe number One million, five hundred and twenty thousand.

The Native populations, excluding those of the States of California, as well as the Mormon State of Deseret, number at near two and one-half million. Of that number, two hundred thousand are of the Seven Civilized Tribes of Texas, and with a further eight hundred thousand existing in the towns and villages of Mexico and Central America. Of the wild tribes of the interior; chief amongst them being the Cherokee, the Kaijun, and the Kumanch, number some one hundred thousand each. The rest of the native population is spread in smaller tribes existing in the interior and mountain chains, as well as several allied tribes that exist on the fringes of His Majesties territory.

Article Two: Current displacement of Imperial populations.

-Of the Imperial populations on the continent proper, approximately two and one-half million exist in the former area of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and New England, with the frontiers stretching down to the Chesapeake Bay on the Atlantic Coast.

-The coastal area of the entirety of Lake Erie is almost completely enveloped, with the furthest edges of Imperial Civilization stretching south from there into the Ohio River Valley, and north to the shores of Lake Huron.

-In the south of the former United States Of America, the enclaves of Tampa and Miami, whose populations combined are one hundred and fourty-five thousand, are nearing ever closer to being joined, with the interior of the Floridian peninsula populated by a few scant neo-savage tribes.

-The Gulf colonies; both those on the Yucatan peninsula and the enclave surrounding New Orleans, have both reached a population of two hundred thousand, with little differentiation in numbers.

-The population of Oregon, which includes the former U.S. State of Washington, has reached a population of six hundred thousand, not including the large population of adventurers and freebooters of which there are roughly forty thousand.

-The population of the enclave surrounding Charleston has reached a population of three hundred thousand, with a further sixty thousand Imperial citizens located in trading posts and garrisons throughout the unsettled East Coast and the interior.

Article Three: Current state of infrastructure in Imperial use.

-The Saint Laurence Seaway, connecting the River of Saint Laurence to Lake Ontario, has at long last been dredged clear. The new steam shovels that made this feat possible are now being re-located to aid in dredging and repairing the dysfunctional Erie Canal. Other Canals, principally those connecting the great lakes, are in various states of repair, with traffic between the Lakes of Ontario, Erie, and Huron now possible and open to ocean traffic. Because of this, it is to be predicted that the new colonization efforts in the former State of Michigan to flourish, with further efforts possible farther west as new channels become clear.

-The railways, the largest of which connects the city of New York with Montreal, is in good repair; as are the smaller rails running between New York and Boston, Montreal and Rochester, New York and Philadelphia, and Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. Unfortunately, our latest survey team has deemed that the railways of the Ohio Valley are virtually unrepairable, most of the track having been either destroyed or carried away by local neo-savage tribes. As per the orders of His Majesty, we have ceased the laying of new rail in this area until the Imperial population becomes more substantial. However, I must again note that we still have an insufficiency of engines to operate the rails at their full capacity; and additional five are needed to supplement our current four properly.

-The roadways of the New England colonies have nearly all been brought up to serviceability, and the roadways are being repaired as quickly as possible in all frontier areas. The construction of the new highway through Western Pennsylvania is nearing its goal of connecting the Ohio colonies with those of New York. the roadways in Oregon, as well as the New Orleans and Charleston enclaves are all undergoing a period of re-construction, after it was found that the repairs conducted in 1995 failed to ensure the promised fifty years of serviceability. Roadways in all other areas are currently serviceable, with new roads being constructed as needed in the Yucatan Colonies.

-The principal ports; Montreal, Rochester, New York, Boston, Charleston, Miami, Tampa, New Orleans, Port Royal, Havana, and San Yuan, are all currently serviceable. Last years hurricane was relatively small, as compared to the hurricanes that wreaked havoc on our southern ports over a decade ago. With the opening of Lake Erie, efforts to repair Cleveland for use as a major commercial port have begun in earnest, with full serviceability to all predicted commercial traffic to be attained within two years.

Section Four: Current state of arms in the Colony.

The Garrisons of His Majesties Imperial Army, with the recent additions allocated by His Majesty, brings the full number of men under permanent arms in the colony to approximately Thirty-seven thousand. Troop deployments are as follows;

-Twelve thousand men in the cities and forts of the New England colonies.

-Seven thousand men in the islands of the Caribbean, with a further eight hundred in the Florida enclaves.

-Five Thousand men in the outposts and towns of the New Orleans enclave.

-Four thousand men in the Charleston enclave.

-Six thousand men in the Oregon colonies.

-Five hundred men garrisoned in the various fortresses and trading posts of the continental interior.

-Two thousand men in the Yucatan colonies.

The Royal colonial militia, under the direct command of overall Army Commander General Sir Archibald Gordon, currently consists of one-fourth of the eligible male population. It may be of note to include here the fact that the gun restriction laws implemented in the peaceful and long-civilized areas of the colonies have met with little success, accept for in the major cities. As nearly one quarter of the militia has been caught in violation of these laws, a colonial decree has been ordered that all militia members are to be allowed to posses their own weapons; A copy of this decree was sent to His Majesties desk three months ago, and since no endorsement or condemnation has been forthcoming the colonial council has voted to keep it as a provisional law until such a time as the King Emperor comes to a conclusion upon it.

As the records of the exact displacement of Royal-Imperial naval vessels is unavailable to the colonial office, and as reporting as to the current locations of Royal-Imperial vessels has been declared top secret by the Imperial Political Service, such information will be omitted from this report.

Article Six: Current states existing in North America not directly under Imperial control (not including those areas under occupation by the Empire of Dai-Nippon)

The States of California:

- The Democratic Republic of Cascadia

- The Democratic Republic of Eureka

- The Theocratic Republic of San Francisco

- The Theocratic Republic of San Jose

- The Democratic Republic of Carmel-Salinas

- The Theocratic Regency of Los Angeles

- The Theocratic Regency of San Diego

States located in the Continental Interior & East Coast (including major native tribes, but excluding the various independent towns of the Mehk):

- The Mormon State of Deseret

- The Kumanch Nation

- The Kaijun Nation

- The Cherokee Confederacy

- The Confederacy of Texas (The Seven Civilized Tribes)

[DKeith2011]

Interesting, whats next?

[Simon_Jester]

He's thinking about writing something but it's still in the proofreading stage.

[checks PMs]

Wait... am I the source of the holdup?

[CaptainChewbacca]

Shot in the dark here, but perhaps the Spanish Flu epidemic got a whole lot worse?

[Razor One]

Spanish flu was worldwide and at a time when medical science had only begun to scratch the surface on what made most viruses tick.

If it was the Spanish flu gone bad, then the British Empire somehow figured out a way to dodge the worst of the pandemic, either by isolating themselves from Europe and the Americas or by figuring out how to vaccinate against it en masse.

[Simon_Jester]

This is set in S.M. Stirling's Peshawar Lancers timeline, in which Europe and North America are devastated by a Shoemaker-Levy style cometary impact that wrecks most of Western civilization in the late 19th century. The British and French empires survive in recognizable (but partially assimilated) forms, based out of their colonies in North Africa and India respectively. The Middle East is still ruled from Istanbul by a (quite prosperous) sultan; East Asia is controlled by an increasingly Sinicized Japan that took over China by stages in the 20th century. The US government effectively collapsed, and even the most advanced societies on the continent (in Mexico) are still at the iron and blackpowder stage. The west coast is dominated by a series of "theocratic city-states" which I strongly suspect were meant by Stirling to be Mormon or Mormon-related communities; east of the Mississippi the only really civilized territories are areas recolonized by the British some time in the mid to late 1900s. The rest of North America is populated by a mix of pastoral Iron Age communities (varying degrees of white and native ancestry) and more primitive Stone Age societies that collapsed into cannibalism in the immediate aftermath of the impacts and never really recovered.

[spartasman]

The Californian city states are theocratic, but not Mormon. The Mormon state is in Utah (Deseret), while the city states of the West Coast follow an odd religion made up of both Christianity and, apparently, Aztec myths; the only time a member of these states is described in the original book is of one in Delhi arguing with a Jain about "The first father and the Tree of Life".

[Simon_Jester]

Ahem: Jain, not Jane...

[spartasman]

Athelstane King awoke with a start, instinct taking over as he drew the steel chora out from underneath his pillow with a flash. It took him only a moment to realize that their was no danger, honed senses detecting no presence except in the bed next to him.

Setting the blade down on his comforter-covered legs, he reached over with both hands to still the writhing and muttering form next to him. "Yasmini" he whispered, one hand reaching up to the woman's clammy and sweat-chilled forehead. "Yasmini, wake up!" He was hissing now, his wife's body struggling under his hand as he pinned her shoulder to the down mattress.

With a yelp and a frantic flutter of eyes, she awoke, reflex causing her body to attempt to rise but the strong, callused hand forcing her back down. For a few seconds, her head jerked around, her eyes seeking for something with a mixture of confusion and fear. Finally, her large green eyes settled on the pale blue ones staring down at her, and her body all at once relaxed.

Taking his hand off of her shoulder, he twisted his body so that he was kneeling in front of her, his other hand dropping to her cheek as she rose to sit. "What was it, another nightmare?" he asked, his face showing a mixture of relief, worry, and just a tad bit of annoyance. For a second, she didn't answer, her mouth opening and shutting several times before her eyes seemed to lose focus for just a moment.

Her hand reached out, gripping his own tightly. "No!" she gasped, frantic. "Not a nightmare, a vision!"

A confused look crossed his face, his eyes taking on just the slightest hint of fear. He always keeps it so well hidden she thought briefly, knowing that her own eyes betrayed her feelings much more readily. "How a vision, you said that they left you forever..."

For just a moment, the tiny hand gripping his relaxed, turning into a caress before quickly turning vise-like again. "It was not like any vision I have had before" she said, her small cat-like tongue darting out to clear the sweat on her upper lip. "I saw only one possibility, one me. Not like any of the ones I had before." Now her eyes shut, her face giving off a small cringe before they opened again.

"What did you see?" he asked tentatively, his curiosity battling fiercely with his concern. Her eyes once again lost focus, seeming to stare at nothing and everything all at once; "I saw a city, a city of steel and glass, one that could not exist in this world; I saw it engulfed in flame, and then suddenly surrounded by a great forest." At that her eyes regained their focus and turned upwards into his.

"Where was this city? What does it mean?"

"I do not know where it was, I - " she got no further, a heavy knock reverberating from the heavy oak door of their room.

"What in the thousand faces of god?" He said, placing the chora on a nearby nightstand. Reaching the door, he began to open it only to have it thrown open wide. "Damayanta, what is it, its nearly midnight?!" His old Ayah - nursemaid - began to answer even before he had ended his question.

"Master King, the child is in a fit, I cannot seem to put him at ease. Even my daughters have failed to bring him peace!"

Yasmini was up now, taking a thick nightgown off a hook on the wall, and rushing out the door with the ayah an Athelstane on her heels. She rushed into the nursery, the open door allowing King to hear the child's wails in the hall. Even being the elderly, waddling figure that she was, Damayanta managed to reach the door first. Inside, King took in the site of the ayah's daughter busying themselves around the child, and his wife stooping over the crib where the piercing shrieks came from.

Lifting the child from the crib in the crook of her arm, Yasmini began to half-whisper, half-sing a lullaby. He didn't recognize the tune, but the words were in hushed Old Russian, which his mind instantly translated;

"Baby, baby, rock-a-bye
On the edge you mustn't lie
Or the little grey wolf will come
And will nip you on the tum,
Tug you off into the wood
Underneath the willow-root."

The child gave a few more moments of noise before slowly drifting into calm, finally falling into sleep after half a bottle of warm goats milk and a burping. She gently replaced the child in the crib, taking a few moments to gaze lovingly at her child.

Giving a few hushed directions to the ayah and her daughters, Yasmini turned towards the door and walked out; Athelstane, a few steps behind her. He caught up to her in a few quick steps, wrapping one arm around her shoulder and leaned in close to her ear, "I've never heard that song before, what was it?" She turned herself, giving a shy half-smile, "my mother used to sing it to me, before she died." Her smile died with that, and Athelstane gave her shoulder a - hopefully - reassuring squeeze.

Back in their room, he stoked the embers in the large fireplace; winter in Kashmir was perhaps not the harshest in all of India, but it was still bloody cold. Taking the thick gown off of his wife and hanging it on a nearby wall hook, he enfolded her in a warming embrace, one hand wrapped around her waist, the other gently stroking the flax-colored hair buried in his chest.

"I think perhaps the child had the vision as well, I think that is what disturbed him," Yasmini said, bringing her head up to face his. Athelstane's face went white for a moment, before he silently gave an oath.

"I thought you said that he would not be like you, a dreamer."

She shied at that, her head bowing down back into his chest. Realizing what he had said, he gave her another squeeze. Her face went back up, her features tinted with shyness, but also defiance.

Amazing what a civilized lifestyle will do for a person, not to mention actually being cared for something other than a tool, he thought.

"I do not think he is one of the dreamers, only those with pure blood usually have the gift. But I no longer have the gift, and yet I had a vision, so I think that he too could have experienced it."

He nodded his head at that, accepting the logic for what it was; illogical. He had told Cassandra, his sister - and the Queen Empress! The thought still struck him - of Yasmini's gift during their grand adventure to save themselves and the royal family, but neither she nor any other scientist could explain what gave the dreamers their powers to predict the future.

"Can you remember anything else from the vision, anything at all?"

She shook her head, burying it into his chest. Instinctively, he brought both his arms around her, sighing. "It's all right," he said, bringing her head up with a hand under her chin. "We can deal with it in the morning." He gave her a kiss, and then helped her back into the bed, doing the same with himself after slipping the chora back under his pillow. He could sense that Yasmini was not going to rest easy, and dragged her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her. Her hand fell on top of his, his own grasping it with a squeeze. They both settled in and began to drift off.

How could she have a vision? Here I had thought all that business was over. The thought rang through his fogging head until he fell back into sleep.

[spartasman]

Next chapter up soon, here is a map of the world just for reference.

Updated 2/3/12

[CaptainChewbacca]

Interesting. I would think Brazil would claim a great deal more of the Amazon basin, and that the Raj would've stuck its' flag in Iceland and greenland.

[spartasman]

The map is based off info given in the book, so anything else is purely speculation. Little information is given about Brazil other than it is reigned over by Emperor Dom Pedro VII and ruled by a 'Cuadillo of the month'; its actual borders are never stated. As for Greenland , it is part of North America, and therefore claimed by The Raj, so I will fix that as soon as possible.

[spartasman]

Sorry for the delay.

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Daniel Kraft ducked low as he passed under a low-hanging branch, the horse beneath him shifting slightly from his actions. sitting back up straight, or as straight as he usually sat, he re-adjusted his official Indiana Jones hat, making the loose-fitting fedora lay as securely on his head as he could. The horses iron-shod hooves gave off hard-sounding thuds as it trotted down the old road, occasionally giving a muffled clack whenever it stepped on a half-buried brick or cobblestone.

Looking around, Daniel took in the sight of a city long dead, though it might be better to call it a forest, given the number of trees and vines growing over the half-broken stone and brick walls that had once made up a block of the city. Here and there, one of the structures actually took on some semblance of a building, usually no more that a slightly higher portion of wall with a rotted wood door or caved-in roof.

"You know, you hear about this sort of thing, ruins and that kinda stuff, but I never knew it was so... depressing" he said to the man riding the horse next to his with a theatrical wave of his hand, his voice just tinted with a southern accent. The man had a round face, but without much fat; That hadn't always been the case, and the flabby, half-sagging excess skin on his partners face paid testament to that. David gave a mental shrug at the old memory and listened to the man who answered with a deep but kindly voice, with an accent that would have marked him to anyone with half an ear as a Southerner. "I've never seen anything like it either, but it does have that effect. Knowing what it is though..." He left it hanging, and Daniel nodded solemnly in agreement. He had been to this city before, when it was alive. He had a terrible sense of direction, and the fact that the city was long-decayed didn't help, but he somehow knew that not far from where he and his group was was the bank where his mother had taken him to set up his first account. Yes, he thought, looking up at a large Dogwood growing out from the middle of what might have been a store, or an apartment complex, or somebodies house; this is the same city.

This is Charlotte.

The man next to him, Jim Cline, gave a shrill whistle, the other six men, four on horses and two in a Conestoga wagon bringing themselves to a halt. The wagon gave a creaking groan as it stopped, the sound making the two ponies pulling it shy and whinny. Damn things, I wish we could of just taken one of the converted trailers. The thought was pointless, and Daniel knew it; the decision had been a very simple one, and Daniel himself had come up with idea. No sense giving the locals or whoever else we meet on this trip any funny ideas. The Conestoga came to a halt, the driver jumping down to check the wheels and oil up the axles. Those were new - or old, if you preferred to look at it that way - too, a simple construct of iron and wood instead of steel axles with ball bearings and rubber wheels ripped off of cars and trucks. That had been one of Mr. Cline's ideas, given that the trip was dangerous and there was no real reason to waste one of those wagons when there was so much work to do around home.

Home

The thought struck him, making him pause and look distantly at the ground just before his feet. He hadn't felt at home for a long time now, something which didn't have anything to do with the several boarders that he had taken up during the first winter in his fireplace-heated house. His father had been a trucker, away when - Daniel still didn't have any name for it, and 'the event', the name everyone else seemed to have given it, just didn't seem to do the facts justice - it had happened, his sister working in Florida, and his mother had died early in the winter, a victim to diseases that she had staved off all her life with modern medicine. He hadn't found solace in his friends, and had tried to fill the void with several families that had either nowhere else to go, or would have frozen to death during the winter without electric heating. But nothing seems to fix it, and I can't even find a girl to help it along.

"Dan?" That snapped him out of his musing, and his head swung up to see the face of Jim Junior, Jim Cline's son, looking at him with a mix of apprehension and puzzlement. At only sixteen, he was exceedingly fit with a football players physique, though if his father was any indication he'd be overweight by forty. "Everything's fine man, thanks though." He shook his head, stretching his legs a little, "fuckin' horses ya know, never realized how much ridin' em' meant bowing your legs." Jim Jr. laughed at that; a fake laugh, Daniel thought, but then I always think that. He started walking over towards the wagon, where the rest of their little troop was congregating, Jim Jr. right behind him.

He still remembered Jim Jr. as a little kid, a Cub Scout when Daniel had been a Boy Scout and Jim Sr. his scout master. He had met the younger son - both Jim Cline's sons were named Jim Jr. Unfortunately, the older brother had been away in college when 'it' had happened - again in high school, where Daniel had watched him become one of the star football players, him being two years behind Daniel when he had graduated. Still, Daniel was older, and the younger man probably thought of Daniel as the wiser kid. Playing leader is so much harder than playing the fool.

All those thoughts left him as he walked into the circle gathering around the back of the wagon, its center occupied by Jim Sr. who was observing a large atlas on the large fold-down door at the bank of the wagon. the inside of the wagon was occupied by several boxes, mostly wooden but a few cardboard, and a few wooden barrels. That cargo and the trade it would result in was one of the main reasons for this trip; that, and to eventually scout out the mysterious 'Empire' that they had heard about from the natives that they had been in contact with for nearly half a year.

Mister Cline had the atlas turned to a very large map of Western North Carolina, holding a magnifying glass over what the map said was the city of Charlotte, right below the non-existent Lake Norman. Running a finger across the map, he traced a line roughly south-west over several roads marked with a red pencil, several larges X's marking planned camping sites. "Once we get into town" he started, putting the magnifying glass and waving in the direction they had been traveling, "we should only be held over a few days. When we get some sort of official trade agreement hashed out with the Cataw, we'll head off to the nearest reported trading post, somewhere around here." His finger jabbed at a large blue circle, centered around the city of Wilmington. "Now, from what Old Jeb told us, the locals 'round here are ruled by some sort of council. That means it's probably gonna take a bit of horse trading to get any deal hammered out. We'll keep what we can, and send back whatever we get and the details along back home." The rest of the men shifted slightly at that; no one wanted to have to travel all the way back to Newton while his buddies went off on some grand adventure.

A soft crumbling sound caught on the very edge of Daniels hearing, and he turned in close to Mr. Cline, slowly. "When do you want to spring their little 'welcoming committee'?" Jim smiled back at him and clapped him on the back, "just about any minute now, want em' to think they're in control though." Daniel nodded, turning to two of the other men in the group, "Kelly, John, make sure you're ready to chase any of those yahoos out if they get too frisky." John Vale gave a solemn nod, his eyes darting out amongst the shrubbery and ruins, Kelly Jacobs gave a wild smile before nodding himself. Both of them still thought the fact of Daniel giving them orders a novelty, but they had known even before 'it' had happened that he usually knew what he was doing.

"Alright, mount back up" Mr. Cline ordered, folding the map up and handing it and the magnifying glass back to the wagons driver. Getting back on his own horse was an adventure each and every time, but it was an adventure that Daniel had completed enough times to do it without much difficulty. Off to the East, the way they were traveling, a few wisps of smoke rose above the trees and buildings. They had spotted those several miles back, and their shadows not long after. They wouldn't be attacked, of course; news of their arrival had been sent forward a weeks in advance by their native liaison Old Jeb. Jeb himself was a minor chieftain in the Cataw tribe, and had grown very rich by trading food for luxuries from the area in and around Newton North Carolina. The purpose of the excursion was not necessarily to establish contact with the other tribes, as much as to break Jeb's monopoly on their trade. It would not do to have competing chiefs try to raid their only friend, or to steal from the Americans.

The wagon was soon moving again, and Daniel and Mr. Cline took up positions at the head of the small column. Not but three minutes later, a lone mounted figure turned what had been a corner, and began to trot up to the two men in front. Mr. Cline turned back and told the wagon driver not to stop, Daniel and him both riding up to the figure a hundred yards in front of it.

"Howdy" Mr. Cline spoke in a genial tone, tipping the brim of his straw hat. Daniel nodded his head as well, taking in the form of the man sitting atop a brown-black mare in front of him; The man was in his late thirties, missing most of his teeth with the rest yellow, and was in the process of graying. The man nodded back, but his gaze was fixed on the wagon. He turned back after Mr. Cline had cleared his throat and said, "Y'all tha folk fra' up abau' Newton-town." That hadn't been a question, the only people that could have been coming from the west bearing such treasures could be the newfangled people from up the river. Mr. Cline nodded with a smile, sweeping his hand back to cover the wagon that was only a few dozen yards away now. "That's us. We're here to trade, and to talk with the council, see about making it a regular thing." The man nodded, once again staring at the lumbering wagon, which was now passing them by. "We'd much appreciate it if you'd call you're boys out from the shadows, it makes the horses jumpy" Daniel stated, nodding towards a broken brick wall that he knew held at least one native scout. The man gave an uncouth snort, leaning over to spit on the ground. He jestured for them to follow and began to trot towards the wagon. As they followed, he gave out a bird call that Daniel didn't recognize, and immediately three men stepped out of the brush and ruins on either side of the road; a fourth coming up from a side street holding four horses. "Ya got a gud eye thar youngin', most'a folk wouldna' seen em'." The man nodded with approval, leaning over again to let out another stream of dirt-colored saliva. The three of them passed the column, it's various members watching them. Behind them, the four scouts mounted their horses and began to ride back towards the outskirts of the city, disappearing once again after a few dozen yards.

When they reached the head of the group, the man fell in with Daniel and Mr. Cline at a slow canter, every so often looking back over his shoulder at Daniel, Cline, and the wagon and its riches. Daniel reached down and readjusted the rifle that sat in its saddle holster. The man, catching this out of the corner of his eye, gave another nod. "Y'all seem like keen folk, most'a tha outlander type we git around hir don' know'a bit abou' survivin'. Makes ya wonder how'n they keep alive a'tall, wherever they comes from anyways."

Daniel gave a glance to Mr. Cline, who gave a little wave of his hand back for Daniel to keep quiet. He nodded, accepting that diplomacy was not necessarily why he was on the trip. Jim said, "We hear that some traders come up here, from down near the coast." The man gave another snort, and once again a stream of brown spit flew onto the ground. "They come, sumtime' aroun' ha' a yeah ago naw. I suppo' they be back in a coupl'a munt', mabe' less. Neve' can tell, way they are." The man turned around again, looking both Daniel and Mr. Cline in the eyes, "ma' name i' sau' by tha' by, an' it a pleasur' to meet y'all." Daniel and Mr. Cline both nodded back and gave their own names. The man thanked them and pointed up towards the growing columns of smoke, off in the distance a few inhabitable structures seem to rise out of the desolation around them. "that there is Char'llte, bigge' town aroun' dese parts. I wish ya luck in ya' trade, an' wit tha' council too, Lord Above know mos' folk don' gettim ta agree on much; but then I figur' y'all ain't mos' folk." The man nodded again and trotted off down an unnoticed path through the rubble and trees, disappearing in a few moments.

Daniel turned back to Mr. Cline as soon as the man was out of site, "what do you think?" Mr. Cline looked back at the wagon and turned back to him all in the same motion, leaning over a bit. "Selling what we have isn't going to be a problem, keeping what we want may be. You and the boys ready?" Daniel gave a nod at that rhetorical question. "Yes sir, I got the Winchester, Kelly, John, and Stan got the twenty-two's, and Kelly's got that Thompson in case things get hairy." "Alright, I see you got things covered. Just don't let yourself get complacent, we can't afford to let this opportunity slip between our fingers."

Daniel laughed at that and said, "what's wrong Mr. Cline? Afraid these city-slicker types are gonna swindle us out off all our worldly possessions?" Mr. Cline laughed back and shook his head. Daniel left it at that and turned his attention back to the figures that were slowly growing before him. Not too many people actually lived in Charlotte, from what they had heard, no more than a hundred even during festivals or gatherings. But from what he had seen and heard of what had been the United States, that was just about as good as it got for a few hundred miles.

One day were really gonna have to figure out why that is he thought, looking once again at the low lying huts and small cooking fires that made up the 'town'. Shaking his head, he couldn't help but say "well, further up and further in".

[Satori]

Excellent. I always wanted to see more peshawar lancers stuff. It was the only non-collaboration work of Sterling's that didn't suck.

[spartasman]

The middle-aged attendee threw back the hand woven cloth partition between the outside world and the Chief of Charlotte's hut with a flourish. The man waved the travelers in with his left hand, which was heavily scarred and lacking several fingers.

The act was most likely meant to impress visitors. For a local trader who was used to dealing with the small villages and isolated farmers that dotted the Piedmont of North Carolina, the effort was most certainly worth it. For the three men who stepped into the hut, it was an effort to conceal their amusement.

The Chief himself was a fairly old man, given the type of life these people lived. Daniel would have thrown his guess at about sixty. The man sat in repose on a heavy wooden chair, ornately carved, with gleaming shapes cut from white quartz worked into the legs and cushioned in patterned cloth. He was dressed in a cotton coat, heavy looking pantaloons that lead down to leather boots. Rings of ruddy gold set with gems covered most of his fingers, and a large golden amulet on his chest had a single emerald the size of a thumbnail carved into a hexagon. Scars crisscrossed the man’s face, and he looked on with a sort of relaxed eagerness that Daniel had once seen on car salesmen.

The attendee walked in front of the group, which consisted of himself, Mr. Cline, and Jim Jr. He whispered in the chiefs ear, as the elderly man repositioned himself in his chair. After a moment, the chief nodded at the man, and a slight grin appeared over his chest-length beard. The chief spoke, "Y'all'a welcome he', must'a been interestin' trav'l, down fro' tha' mountain's. I'm Maya' Will'am, the otha' townmen'll be along shertly.

Their knowledge regarding the politics of modern-day Charlotte had been a bit sketchy. Most of the information pointed to a rudimentary town council, with a hereditary leader at the head. The system sounded more like what he would have expected from a tribe of Indians, not a town forty miles away.

That wasn't particularly surprising in itself, though; the other locals they had encountered were usually included into a tribe merely because they lived in the same area. To the south were the Chawsee: and the war that they had stirred up, since they had the habit of raiding and attacking farmers and civilians.

To the north was a collection of loosely confederated farming hamlets, interspersed with isolated family enclaves and prickly to outside interference. It had been a touch and go thing, trading with them for food before the winter, and they had ended up stealing food from some of the smallholders who refused to barter. The northerners still thought the ‘New Tribe’ was better than Chawsee raiders, but kept them at a distance.

Daniel and his party were offered no chairs, and after a few moments the three sat awkwardly on the ground. No signs of amusement or shock appeared on Chief William's face, so it must have been expected. Silence settled in, and after a few minutes of waiting Daniel bent over to confer with Mr. Cline in whispers.

Their strategy here had been pre-planned, so Daniel simply offered his observations and concerns. "I don't think there’s more than a hundred people in this town,” he said, “whoever we’re waiting on must be important for him to wait." The man in question had gone stiff, leaning back into the furniture to observe his guests with a distant look, plucking at his beard.

Mr. Cline nodded a few times, his brown eyes roaming over the interior of the hut while he listened. Daniel had done a quick survey of the room when they had entered, but soon his eyes followed the older man’s lead and began to soak up details. A few scattered tables sat along the walls, bare except for doilies and candlesticks. Knickknacks hung from the wall: everything from a collection of deer antlers to the rotten stock and rusted barrel of a gun Daniel couldn't identify. A tall vanity sat off to the left, holding various jars and containers, as well as a flat, upright-standing rectangular plate that gleamed dully in the light that came through the hut's open windows.

It took a moment for Daniel to realize that it was a tin print photograph; the gloom and position of the plate made it impossible to see make out details. An urge to stand up and examine it nearly overtook him, but he quelled the impulse and instead made mention of it to Mr. Cline, who nodded again in understanding. No sooner had the ponderous motion ceased, however, than did the cloth partition open behind them, followed by two more men coming in led by the attendee.

He would have preferred not to sit with his back to the entrance, but the position of the Chief’s chair was obviously meant to put his guests in such a position. It didn't really matter, though; the rest of their little expedition would be keeping guard outside, and the weight of the pistol on his left hip was reassuring.

Twisting his neck to track the newcomers, it dawned on him that making them wait was probably a political move on behalf of the Chief. He suppressed a momentary feeling of irritation as he readjusted himself in place.

The two new men sat down on either side of their guests, legs akimbo. One of them was about the same age as Mr. Cline; a beak-faced man with hooded grey eyes and a pair of thin lips upset by a faint scar. The other was rather young; about twenty, with scraggly brown hair, blue eyes, and a long, thin nose. Both were dressed similarly, cotton and fabric frock coats with billowing pants, with the younger man sporting boots with small iron plates worked into them over the toes. Both men stared at the trio of visitors, judging them silently for a few moments. For his own part, Daniel stared right back, though he heard John Jr. shuffle nervously beside him.

"Awright," the Chief spoke, having returned to a state of animation, "Naw I hea' tell y'all'a lookin' fer a trade?" That wasn’t particularly true, but close enough to be skirted around for now. Mr. Cline nodded deeply; a congenial smile creasing his loose-skinned face. "That's right, trade with the northern towns is well and good, but we're interested in makin’ other arrangements."

Chief William nodded back at that, turning to the older townsman beside him. "Ossald he' can seh' ya'up inna town, he run mosta' tha' work outta he'. Y'all can find'a cuppa' trada's up fro' sout'a'here inna' tav'n." Mr. Cline nodded, meeting the eyes of the grey-haired townsman who looked back calmly. Chief William nodded towards the younger man now, clucking his tongue once and rolling something along his cheeks, momentarily peeling his lips back to show green-black teeth. "This'a my boy, he runnin' tha' scou’ parties most'a the times. Y'all probly seen Neb'et when ya' comin' in. Hi' boy's been takin' up tha' fuedin' we goin' on with tha' mountai'folk befer' y'all show'd up."

The pidgin that the Chief spoke - that everyone in this place spoke - was extremely hard to follow. Only long hours of talking with Old Jeb kept him from getting lost in conversation. The fact that the older man was missing most of his teeth didn't help either, but Daniel kept up well enough, and knew that Mr. Cline was too. Now that introductions had passed, the senior members of both parties began to converse.

Most of the conversation revolved around various compliments with some surprisingly gentle questioning. Particularly, the Chief’s son seemed interested in how the newest tribe in the area was faring against the 'mountain folk'. Mr. Cline had not been authorized by the Catawba County Emergency Council to talk about the campaigns against the mountain-inhabiting cannibals, or the southern tribe from Spartanburg. which was to say they had been told they'd be thrown in jail if they gave away any information. After a few tries, the Chief gave up, apparently leading to the next level of negotiations.

Each of the other locals took turns speaking, not sparing much attention to Daniel or Jim Jr. For Daniel, that was just fine; he didn't want to speak to these people. This sort of dickering was not his game.

The older townsman mostly spoke about accommodations, insisting that they spend the night at the local tavern, which he owned. 'A veritable house of luxury, I'm sure' thought Daniel.

The man's voice was shrill with age, and the accent seemed to amplify it. "I g'urantee ya won' be dissapointe', y'all won' be findin' betta' stayins fo' a long ways'a'way. I'll make'i werth'ya while." Mr. Cline seemed to blanch slightly at this, but refusing what was - for these people - an extremely gracious offer would be tantamount to insult. Against the man that apparently controlled most of the traders for the next forty miles, it would be a bad idea to snub hospitality.

He didn’t doubt that the taverns women would be what made it ‘worth their while’, and felt his stomach knot slightly at the thought. He would have to make sure the other men on the team understood that no womanizing would be allowed, even if that was in itself an insult.

After Ossald had dickered for around half an hour, he relented for the Chiefs son to speak. The younger man gave Daniel a glance before speaking, again attempting to get information about their war with the Chawsee.

After Mr. Cline had diverted the conversation once again, the man gave Daniel another glance, and spoke to him directly, "I he' tell of'a war been startin' up wit' y'all an'tha' Chawsee down sout'a'here. Alway' been' bad blood tween us'an them. He' tell they been whupped a goo' start close'ta y'all. An’ Trav'lers been talkin'bout big'ol party been stir up tharabout, them callin' up fro' kin they got down sout’.”

'Ah,' thought Daniel, 'and so the board is set.' Giving away information like that was a move that even he could understand. Now they would be obligated to share some information of their own, which could end with you giving away your secrets if you weren’t carefulll.

Mr. Cline started to answer, but Daniel half-turned his head and raised it slightly to his senior, and Mr. Cline halted himself - after a moment - and gave a slight nod back. Turning back towards the Chiefs son, he launched himself into the conversation. "We've heard much the same. A few of the Spartans northern tributary hamlets have come under our protection, and they help us scout out the movements further south. We've even been in contact with a few disloyal folks in Spartanburg, as well."

The younger townsman took a few moments to latch onto Daniels accent and words, but soon caught back up, blinking away his confusion. "Ye' talk lik'a pries' boy," he said with a small chuckle, one that he quelled when both his father and the older townsman gave him sour looks.

After a moment, the Chiefs son gave a huff and continued. "Ya'll hear a'lott'a folk from aroun' thar', always talkin' fer vittins er' fur's. Can'ever tell when them’s talkin' de' truth er' tellin' tales. Twenny yur's back them folk been helpin' us fight tha' mountai'folk, befer' them sout’rons showed up, rollin' over li' dawgs when they come steppin' on em'. Bes'ta be careful when ya’ listen ta' them." Daniel nodded, "sound advice, thank you." The townsman seemed to want to speak more, but held himself back after a shifting glance towards his father. Daniel almost let out a sigh of relief.

Chief William took back over after that, offering a few more niceties before they rose to leave. The attendee opened the cloth partition with the same flourish that he had used to open it.

The Chief's son, who had finally been introduced as Jeseh, took his leave after an impartial farewell, but not before directing a stare at Daniel when he thought he wasn't looking. The smells outside were a bit of a shock after the still air of the Chief's hut. A settlement this small couldn't really get too bad of a smell to it, but countless generations of cooking, shitting, and general living had ingrained an odor into the dirt itself that had his nose twitching for a moment before he could readjust.

The rest of their party shuffled about when Daniel and Mr. Cline came out, Jim Jr. exiting from the hut a moment later. John and Kelly were sitting on the wagon tongue, looking relaxed but wary. Jerome Hendrix sat in the seat, reins in one hand, the other one supporting his face as he chewed on something. His eyes were lazing about the town, occasionally staring down anyone who stopped to openly gape at him.

Daniel had noticed that, both here and in the hideaway farm towns to the north; that there were no blacks. He'd heard that some had been seen in Chawsee war-parties, but none to the north or east.

Stanley Campers was leaning on the wagons side, just next to his brother, Paul. Both of them were short and stocky, and they had both been rather pudgy too, before seven months of farm work and heavily lifting had left nothing but thick muscle.

The horses were all tied to the sides of the wagon, and as he walked toward them he pulled a carrot out of his pants' cargo pocket and fed it to his own ride. Sometimes taking care of a horse was a bit more pleasing than taking care of a car. And always a bit more dangerous he noted to himself as the animal curled its lips and made to bite at his hastily retreating hand.

A few of the locals had stopped their daily chores to watch the strange new people and their wagon of treasure. A group of children, stark naked and filthy, stood nearby giggling, apparently daring each other to run up and touch the wagon as one of them darted out nervously to touch one of the conestogas wheels. An old woman popped out of one of the nearby hovels that made up most of the town, shrieking at the children as they ran for cover. The boy who had touched the wagon wasn't so lucky, and the old woman snatched him up and started spanking him in the middle of the street.

A bit awkward, but Daniel did approve. A good lesson, really; if the wagon were moving or if something were to come loose, the kid could lose his whole arm. He'd seen that once, a few months back. The man had howled endlessly until a doctor arrived to deal with the mangled limb.

A few girls were staring, too, most about Jim Jr.'s age. Full, round faces blushing lightly as they talked and laughed amongst themselves. They wore fabric blouses and long skirts, with leather boots that laced halfway up the calf. He noticed that one of them was looking quite intensely at Jerome, who seemed to have chosen to ignore the attention. They obviously hadn't seen, or didn't recognize, the wedding band on his left hand.

He would have to make sure all of the men in their little expedition understood that the local women were off-limits. They wouldn't like that. Hell, he didn't like it himself; but the trade agreement was more important than some yahoo's cherry, and quite a bit more fragile.

“Alright, down the road a little bit, let's go,” he shouted, waving his hand to where Ossald had already started walking. Kelly and John jumped down to walk alongside the wagon, as Paul and Stan climbed up to hang off the back. Jerome gave a quick flick of the reins and the two ponies began to strain forward.

Daniel with Mr. Cline as they followed Ossald next to the vehicle. The man looking rather pomp as he showed off his guests, strutting a bit and calling out to the townspeople.

Bending down, Daniel whispered; "He looks like a fuckin' peacock showing off his feathers." Mr. Cline chuckled a bit at that, slapping Daniel in the back as he replied. "Don't let looks fool you. He's a mean customer, no doubt about it. Keep your eyes open and make sure everything's under guard tonight." Daniel nodded and gave a muttered affirmation.

The town was mostly deserted now, most of the men who lived in the shanty huts and stone-and-turf dwellings having left to conduct the days work. They had passed farms sprawled out for miles around the old city, hidden away amongst crumbling ruins and copses of trees. Few of the town's population seemed to be craftsmen, and there were only a few people other than them walking about.

They passed a few bow-backed women sitting on a rough-planked porch covered in an awning of dried grass, spinning jennys and looms before them as they turned cloth and wool. Most of the buildings were dwellings, stacked logs on top of waist-high walls of loose-fitted stone or brick. An open-air market was set back from the main road, a wide plaza of packed earth that held only a few stalls that vendors leaned against as they talked with their competition.

A smithy sat a few houses down from the chief's hut. A thickset man with arms like knotted trees stood over an anvil within, his hammer beating a rod of cherry-red iron in a steady staccato . Clang clang-tap...clang.

A tow-headed apprentice was stoking a domed clay furnace, compressing a giant billows with a sound like a giants sigh. As the wagon passed, the teenager stopped to gape, eyes wide and mouth gaping as he stood poised over the wood and leather contraption. His master began to yell at him before he himself caught sight of the vehicle, staring curiously for a few moments before turning to shout the boy back to his work.

The Tavern itself was a few hundred yards down the road, spaced well away from any surrounding buildings. Its base was a four-foot high wall of ancient brick, messily mortared together and coated with a crumbling layer of yellow-brown plaster. The rest of the two-story structure was built log cabin style, with fitted boards taking up the spaces between the logs. There were a few windows on the second story, covered in a yellow-brown colored animal skin of some sort. A small open-faced stable was built on the east side of the Tavern, two shaggy horses within neighing at the approaching group.

Ossald led them through a small gate next to the stable, and the conestoga creaked to a halt in the yard that waited beyond. The acre or so behind the tavern was cleared, though he could still see a few brick foundations amongst the trees that grew around the tavern.

"I wonder why they just don't re-pave the streets? They have enough bricks and stones lying around here to do it." That was John, coming up behind Daniel. He responded, "I guess they never thought to bother. These are mostly farmers, around here. Too busy plowing fields or herding cattle. Everyone else is either a trader or a freebooter." John grunted in response, Slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He followed Daniel as he strode up to the front of the wagon, where Jerome and Jim Jr. were busy unhitching the team.

Daniel grabbed his own horse, untying it from the iron loop on the wagons' side and leading it over towards the stable. He took a long look at the two beasts already stabled as he tied his own in and closed the wooden gate; They were well-fed, if that meant anything. The whole place smelled of damp, urine-soaked hay and horseshit, but he had spent enough time around animals the last few months to not be flummoxed about it.

They stabled the other horses quickly, and tipped off a wide-eyed stable-boy with a few copper pennies. The tavern obviously didn't get heavy traffic on a regular basis, as the two ponies had to be led into an independent corral that bordered the woods on the far side of the courtyard.

They pushed the wagon so that it sat vertical to the tavern, giving them the best view of it from the tavern windows. They would still have to post a guard during the night, but a little extra advantage never hurt.

Townsman Ossald had watched the whole affair from the covered porch that leaned off the back of the building, eyes glimmering with interest and perhaps just a bit of disappointment.

Daniel stepped up into the wagon to make sure everything was secured, checking three times that the weapons case was locked tight and nailed solidly to the wagon floor.

He left Paul and Stanley outside for the first guard shift. They both just nodded dejectedly and took up seats on a pair of barrels next to the corral. Daniel thought to say something about that, but after a moment just shrugged and turned to follow the rest inside.

[DrMckay]

So I'm a little lost here. Is this an ISOT event of our earth into Peshwar Lancers USA?

[spartasman]

Yes. I realized after a while that I could make a story using the PL universe without the ISOT element, but this route opens up more possibilities.

[DrMckay]

The ISOT is a good immersion for people who haven't read PL, but it seems like you need to establish that it is an ISOT, and what has been ISOT'ed. (in terms of area, population, and resources) otherwise just starting with a trading expedition, (While well-written) with people from our time who have already sorta survived this event left me a bit confused. just my 2cents.

[spartasman]

I have neither the time or patience to write out this story in that sort of detail. Besides, describing how people survive and ISOT scenario has been done before, and to tell you the truth it all seems a bit pretentious. More information regarding their survival will crop up later, but I'm not going to detail it as part of the narrative.

[LadyTevar]

I'm just insulted that they turned the Appalachian folks into Cannibals. *snorts* Personally, if they ever travel the New River Valley to the Ohio, I'm betting they'd find a nice connection of towns living off the land, off natural gas power, and off water power from the many creeks in the area.

[spartasman]

I'm just insulted that they turned the Appalachian folks into Cannibals. *snorts* Personally, if they ever travel the New River Valley to the Ohio, I'm betting they'd find a nice connection of towns living off the land, off natural gas power, and off water power from the many creeks in the area.

The Appalachian cannibals are my own creation, actually. S.M Stirling had an additional short story in this universe based in North America, but that was in Texas and the only cannibals there were African-American descendant swamp people. If your insinuating sarcasm regarding 1632, well, I'm not too good at detecting such things, at least not online.

[spartasman]

Corporal Christopher Burke whistled as he marched down the dirt road. He stopped whistling for a moment to lean over and spit, the damp spot quickly trampled dry and forgotten in the hot midday sun.

The road was lightly shaded by the birch trees that lined the shoulder, and sunlight flickered through the mid-spring leaves to describe sparkling patterns over the columns of men. He squinted a bit as the light danced across his eyes for a moment, and began whistling ‘Iron Man' again, from the beginning.

He was fairly talented, which was one of the reasons why the men marching beside him hid whatever annoyance the sound may have engendered. The other reason was that Chris easily outweighed any two of them put together.

He had always been a large man, graced with the sort of build that grew muscle and clinged to fat as a matter of course. Once upon a time, he had been the star of the Brighton Missouri Highschool football team, and had taken his build and natural strength for granted; lugging a machine gun around Iraq for five years had cured him of that particular sin.

Men in green camouflage fatigues were stretched out by platoon along the road, rifles slung and rucksacks bouncing in step. Beside them rode some of the more daring officers on horseback. Every so often one of them would throw himself on his mounts neck to dodge a low-hanging branch, and occasionally a foot-slogger would trip over a rock or tree root that the bulldozers and roller hadn't gotten.

A glen ran off to the right of the road, the soothing bubbling of the stream mixing in with the constant buzz of the cicadas. Holes like miniature caves lined the steep sides above the water where burrowing creatures had lived, before the noise of men and machinery had driven them away.

The entire area had been swept nearly a month ago, but it had taken the engineers two weeks of chainsawing and bulldozing to carve a navigable road through the nearly twenty miles of wilderness. Hard work, and thankless, given that at the end of it they had to clear out a clearing large enough so that the Army could make camp.

They had left Lincolnton cantonment behind at dawn, marching out of the small hamlet - grown significantly larger in recent weeks - for the two day march to Shelby. He had read once that the Roman legionaries could march twenty five miles a day.

Career soldiers though, and fuck all if I could do that. He himself had been out of the Army for two years, but the endless patrols in the arid deserts and scrubland surrounding Kirkuk had given him a strong and lasting countenance for the mindlessness of marching. It had also taught him to be aware of his surroundings, which came in handy as the man ahead of him carelessly toyed with his rifle straps, almost knocking him in the teeth with the muzzle. He growled a warning that had the man looking over his shoulder nervously.

A jeep rushed by on the opposite side of the road, a fountain of loose earth and dust rising up behind it. The marching soldiers waved their arms and give out catcalls as it drove by, coughing and wiping at their eyes and cursing when it had passed. A couple of sergeants shouted for quiet, but most of the soldiers simply ignored them and continued on.

As the day dragged on, men began to break up into small groups, conversing amongst themselves. Chris kept his squad in order when he saw them start to do the same, more out of old habit than anything else.

He looked about for one of the platoon sergeants, so that he could tell the lazy bastard that his job meant keeping the men in order, but found the nearest two embroiled in their own conversation a few yards away.

Just as he stepped out of the formation to talk to them, a gruff voice barked from behind him. "Get back in formation, Corporal!" Not even turning to see who it was, he obeyed the command. The two sergeants up ahead had heard the voice as well, and both glanced back. As their eyes widened slightly, he heard a low muttering, like a growl from a pitt-bull, "I'll take care of this."

The owner of that voice stomped past menacingly, and he got a glance of a Sergeant Majors insignia. The sergeant’s roar rose above the steady surf-sounds of moving humanity and nature. "What the hell do you think you're doing!? Get these men in marching formation goddammit, or I'll have you digging out the shitters for the next three weeks!"

The two sergeants scrambled to carry out the order, suddenly yelling at men who quickly fell back into formation, all warily eying the newcomer.

The Sergeant Major was short, thin yellow-grey hair on a head that looked like the folds of a blanket. The Guard uniform hung a bit loosely over the mans shrunken frame, but was laden with various bits of gear, even a few grenades. A wrinkled, craggy face writ with fury glanced back at Burke for half a moment, and then the little sergeant bolted forward, shouting and cursing at anyone getting in his way.

He nodded silent approval as the platoons reorganized on the move. Most of the men here were either ex-military or weekend warriors, with a few policemen and deputies thrown in. Discipline for these men had either lost meaning years ago or had never been learned. That could be fatal, if you let it go on. He had left all that bullshit behind himself, along with two tours in the desert and a host of repressed memories. He’d had a little money saved away, a G.I bill-backed education to look forward too. His entire life to plan. And then, space and time and god had grabbed him by the neck, bent him over the table, and gone to town. Figuratively speaking.

"You know who that was?" He turned slowly towards the man next to him. Benny Rodriguez was short as well, a stout five-two topped with black hair. Army reserve and selling computers when the Event had occurred. His blunt Mayan features displayed something that might have been a smirk, watching the retreating figure of the Sergeant Major.

"No, you?" he asked, reaching up to adjust a strap from his rucksack that was biting into his neck. Most of the camp gear was following up on wagons, but his personal kit still weighed close to seventy pounds.

Benny nodded, taking a swig from his canteen. "He was my history teacher a few years back, ex-ranger from 'Nam. Tough as shit, but Christ he's an asshole." Chris nodded, re-adjusting the M-16 on his back. After years of lugging a SAW around, the rifle seemed almost like a toy to him; but precious few machine guns had come back through the Event, and the Guard armory had held plenty of the rifles.

A horn beeped far behind them, and Chris craned his neck to see what vehicle was coming up next. Cars and trucks were few and far between these days. Most had been confiscated, stripped down of anything valuable and then hauled to the scrap yards for later use. All owners had been properly reimbursed, of course; he himself had been given twenty dollars stamped for his Honda.

It was a truck coming, he saw. More than one, actually: a detachment from the Mobile Force. He watched the camouflaged vehicles trundle past, dust-covered butterfly suspensions visible and straining as they navigated the uneven road. Almost all of them were heavy-duty Fords, but a few open-topped jeeps brought up their rear. He could see empty pintle mounts sticking out of the truck beds, the machine guns that mounted them removed for travel.

There had been talk of keeping the Army of the Republic - as it was tentatively being called - fully motorized, but what little gas had remained after the first winter was too little to support that sort of operation for any length of time. Even the Mobile Force would have to be retired in under a year, if the war didn't die down.

Of course, that was what the Army was doing down here. Ending the war. There had been reports of a large force of Chawsee war-party moving up from the south. Burke had heard that they had even sent a helicopter to scout them out a few days ago. He figured they wouldn't still be marching out through the wilderness if there wasn’t something worth killing.

"Aww shit," Benny spoke, "It's the El-tee." He heard the whining voice of his platoons CO before he saw the man himself.

Few officers had come back with the Event, even fewer had been active-duty. Lieutenant McMason had been Coast Guard, straight out of basic and home on leave when the Event happened. The man was, in his own opinion, a whiny little shit that would have led a more productive life if he was working at McDonald's, if any had still existed. Still, the Army was hurting for trained officers, and the Emergency Council had pounced on anyone with training or experience.

"I hear you men can't stay in formation. You think this is some sorta' parade? You think you can act a fool like that?" Chris rolled his eyes. I'd laugh if he wasn't serious. A glance at Benny showed that he had a similar look about him, albeit a bit more constrained.

The Lieutenant continued, "When we get to camp, you're all going to be doing extra details digging latrines. If I see one man step out of formation without permission again, I'll personally inform the Colonel that this unit has volunteered itself to dig the latrines for the entire camp!" He squeaked where he meant to yell, but after a moment continued, "Do I make myself clear?" A chorus of monotone 'yes sirs' resounded through the formation, though someone purposefully made his voice crack. The Lieutenant’s face went red, and he stuttered something before turning on his heels and disappearing again.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed at Benny, "What is this, middle school?" Benny just shook his head and responded dully. "Whatever man, he's just a clown."

A snort later and Chris quipped, "Bozo's Roughnecks?" That got a chuckle, and after a minute they resumed the drudgery of a silent march.

[spartasman]

Count Alexandr Denisovich Ignatieff did not shy from the spray, nor did he attempt to wipe it away, allowing the salt water to flow freely down his face and into his trimmed beard. His thick oil-skin coat shed the water quickly, to pool down around his galoshes before spilling through the gunwales and back into the sea. Behind him an ass brayed, shifting about with a sound of wet hay ground beneath hooves.

His nose twitched slightly at the unpleasant mix of animal dung and saltwater. Gripping the wood and iron guardrail firmly, he forced himself to take a deep breath, and swallowed the resultant bile back down his throat.

Above, the dull light from an oil lamp shined through the ruddy glass windows of the ferry's upper rooms, bathing the wood and grey-painted iron of the ferry dimly as the sun retreated behind the Caucasus. Most of the boat’s other passengers had sequestered themselves inside, but he felt no need to mingle with corpulent horse merchants or half-witted boyar's sons. Pathetic beasts.

It was still possible to make out the shape of the coastline, with the growing lights of Petrovsk gaining brilliance in the twilight. The steam ferry had been expensive, true, but the oar-driven alternative would have taken more of the day from him. Traveling overland would have been even cheaper, but even he would not risk the roads; not without a small army behind him, at least, and he had need to travel light.

Most of his entourage hung beneath the overhang of the ferry's upper balcony, huddling in front of their Master’s baggage to shield it from the spray. Gesturing with his right hand, one of Ignatieff’s retainers detached himself from the group. The man was slightly smaller than Ignatieff, but compared to him as an ox does to a horse. Obeying quickly, the man came forward, heavy feet thumping solidly on the fitted wood deck panels despite the padding of his valenki. Coming up beside him, the man gave a half-bow, slightly upsetting his papakha, before waiting for Ignatieff to speak.

"When we reach the city, you are to seek out Cemil the Turk. Inform him that we have business to discuss." His man gave another half bow, affirming his understanding with a curt "Da, gospodin," before stomping back to rejoin the rest of Ignatieff's servants.

The man was of one of the bond-families that served as overseers on his family's land, sworn before the altar of the Peacock Angel to be his servant unto death, as their fathers and grandfathers had been for over a century. Most of his party were such men, though a few of them were ordinary cattle; beady-eyed Uzbeks rank with the smell of fear. Cleaner than average though, as he had picked them from his personal retinue, rather than from one of the many selos that dotted his land. They would still run, if given the chance, but so far from home they would likely have their throats slit before the week was done; they knew it, too.

Turning away from the rail, he ordered his servants to prepare the baggage for departure. Alone, he bounded up the stairs to the ferry’s bridge. The crew were not of the Imperial Navy, wearing instead dull coats of muted green with scarlet sashes across their waists. But at the sight of one of the greater lords of the Czar's court, they became stiff all the same. The captain greeted him with the traditional subservient display; head lowered slightly, arms stiff at his side as he bowed from the waist up.

Ignatieff did not spare the man the reciprocal gesture, which for a man such as himself was a custom in its own right. "When will we make port?" The tone was slightly menacing, as expected from any noble speaking to a lesser being.

The captain responded, a noticeable tinge of fear in his voice. "One half-hour, gospodin." Ignatieff gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement, sweeping his green eyes over the still-stiffened crew for a long moment before leaving the cabin. The half-slam of the door hiding the sighs of the sailors.

The hereditary castle of his family contained a small library. Most were pre-Fall books that had either been carried through those harsh years, or stolen later in his family's service with the Okhrana. Amongst them, a copy of The Prince was the greatest treasure: Every male member of the family was required to read it, a tradition passed down for generations. Alexandr had taken to the manual with gusto, and smiled as he recalled one of his favorite passages. In the lands of the Czar, it was far, far better to be feared.

By the time his servants and baggage were properly organized, they had entered the harbor. Petrovsk was one of the central hubs of commerce in the Caspian sea. Goods and travelers from all over the Empire came through here, as well as what trade was allowed from the Caliphate.

The harbor was alive with such activity, even at dusk: sail-barges carrying sacks of unidentifiable goods, a cluster of pausiks filled with heaving, sweat-drenched oarsmen. Dhows bobbed at anchor at the end of long granite piers, chain-mailed guardsmen with spired helmets patrolling them.

The sun had since disappeared over the Caucasus, the darkened green waves of the Caspian Sea flashing against the lamplight like cut glass. Odd bits of wood and the bloated body of a woman floated stagnantly in the calm waters of the harbor. Off in the distance, the dark shape of Tarki-Tau rose behind the city, Fort Petrovsk squatting malignantly on its plateau.

There was no party awaiting at the pier, as would have befitted a man of his status. He had informed no one of his route, made no plans. Such things could be found out, paths stalked, ambushes or assassins planted. Things had become... dangerous, for Ignatieff.

As the ferry slowed its approach, a gang of serfs assembled on the docks. Crewmen came out and threw thick ropes out to the cattle, who took them up and began to haul the boat in with a rhythmic grunting. An obese overseer came out of one of the blockhouses at the end of the pier, cracking a thick leather whip and shouting at the wretches in slurred Georgian. After a few minutes of labor, the ferry was brought to rest against the pier.

His own servants were quick, trained, and fearful of the consequences of sluggishness as they rushed his baggage off the boat. He had brought little with him, and few luxuries. Still, almost every one of his servants carried at least one bag, as well as a few of the retainers.

His bond-servant did not check to confirm Ignatieff's orders, bounding onto the pier even before the boat had come to stop, walking quickly off into the dockyards and the city beyond. The man was well-trained, and despite his size and girth was quite capable of stealth and discretion when those skills were needed. Ignatieff felt confident that no bandit would attack him, but mentally shrugged at the possibility. Bandits were many, and so were servants and cattle to do his bidding.

Night had fallen now, the darkness of the pier broken only by the dull light of torches and fire, though the pungent smells of fish, offal, oils and humanity remained cloying in the air. Most of the dockside shops and warehouses had closed, padlocks the size of a man’s head chained to the sturdy looking loading doors.

One of the warehouses was still alive with activity, workers frantically carrying crates that clinked painfully in through large doors as the night drew in around them. A few hired watchmen walked the alleys between buildings. Still more rested on barrels and crates and slept.

The winding streets beyond were nearly empty, only the foolish and the drunk braving the night. Most of those who remained quickly retreated at the sight of Ignatieff and his party, ducking into side alleys or back into dim-lit taverns with wide eyes and open mouths. One drunkard was slow to get out of the way, but the barking yell and the flash of a curved knife from one of his guards had the man howling and running away, cradling his arm as it dripped red.

Soon they had left the dockyards, wood and mud-brick buildings giving way to plaster and stone as they entered the city proper. Buildings two- in some cases three- stories tall stretched out along the wide, straight cobbled street.

A few men skulked in the dark between oil-fueled streetlamps, half-hiding in doorways and glancing at Ignatieff and his party with a mixture of keen interest and cautiousness. His bondsmen let none come near, and Ignatieff gave hushed orders for his servants to move ever more quickly.

The street let out onto Skobelev Square, lined with the offices of the large western trade companies and the civil building that served as residence for the mayor and meeting place for the city’s notables. The town hall was a fairly recent construction, built of large granite blocks behind thick columns of gilt limestone. High windows lined the second story, save for where a crenelated balcony thrust itself out over the main entranceway.

The center of the plaza was occupied by a large marble-base statue of the White General himself. Cast lifesize in polished bronze, his white nickel-plated horse rearing as he gallantly waved his sword forward at some imaginary enemy, eyes glaring over outrageous mutton chops and mustache. The city had claimed the general as its hero, after he had destroyed the Turkmen and Avar tribes here during the Fall.

There was a temple to Tchernobog here, as well. Its onion-domed towers and obsidian-faced walls built somewhat away from the grey and white of the square. Torches had been lit in the windows, setting dim light flickering behind the stained glass and carved stone figures of demons, their clawed hands and ghastly features reaching out into the night.

Still, he could hear no screams, nor the moaning chants that would indicate a sacrifice. Ignatieff nearly frowned at this, but kept his features schooled. Sacrifices were to be given unto the Black God at the dusk of every day, and usually lasted for hours. True, there were fewer of the faithful here in the western Oblasts of the Empire, so far from Bokhara and the designs of the archpriests of Tchernobog, but the nightly ritual was not only to honor Him, but to keep the local cattle fearful and meek.

For a moment he considered ordering an audience with the head priest, but dismissed it immediately. It would be in his right as a member of the nobility, and no man, even now, would dare refuse him, but he did not have time for such distractions, nor did he wish to have his person within the city limits any longer than was required. He would simply include this lapse of piety and custom in his reports, when he reached Novorossiysk.

Much unlike his father, he did not consider himself a man of absolute faith. If the triumph of the Black God on this earth was indeed inevitable, as the priests proclaimed, then why devote his life and being to His conquest? His father had let his servitude to the Peacock Angel drive him to madness and folly, nearly destroying the very faith he sought to serve.

The price of his father's actions had been heavy. The priesthood had been culled of 'traitors and blasphemers', the Imperial courts shaken by a rash of assassinations and confiscations, and the Sisterhood of True Dreamers had been temporarily moved to Samarkand, to be watched over and cared for by the priests of Tchernobog that operated directly under the Czars orders.

And yet the toll of his father's betrayal had fallen hardest on the house of Ignatieff. The loss of influence and power alone had been near-fatal. He had been made to pay tribute to the Czar, groveling before the Serpent Throne in Samarkand for his life; then had been forced to sacrifice two of his brothers on the altar of Tchernobog, to appease Him and cleanse his own name of sin.

He could still remember the shock and anger - not to mention the unhidden horror and fear - writ upon his kin's faces as he had plunged the ceremonial dagger into their hearts at the height of the ceremony, and the sickly-sweet copper taste of their blood as it ran warm down his chin...

He shook himself free of the memories, focusing on the growing lights of the venue of Cemil the Turk. He had known the man's business before on one of his travels in earlier years. The caravaneer’s service had been discreet and satisfactory, and for the man's own sake Ignatieff hoped that they remained as such. His bondsman was waiting outside of the building, watching alertly for any interlopers, one hand resting on the long-handled kindjal strapped across his lower back.

"The Turk awaits your presence, gospodin." The man bowed slightly and sidestepped as he talked. Ignatieff spared the man a moment’s glance and a nod before he swept through the doorway. The inside of the shop smelled heavily of incense, the walls lined with lanterns hanging from intricately carved hooks above a low bench that ran around both sides of the room, save for the door and a short counter. The man was not the Turk, but bowed low as he swept open a door next to the till. Through this door was a hallway that led off to several offices, most of them closed.

The door at the end of the hallway, however, was open. As Ignatieff stepped in, a corpulent dark-skinned man rose behind a carved ashwood desk and bowed. There was a chair in front of the desk, but Ignatieff did not sit. Hardly missing a beat, he began; "I have need to travel to Astrakhan, with as little notice as you can manage, and I must leave tonight."


The Turk stood still for a moment, but resumed breathing as he began to shuffle a small pile of papers on his desk. He very wisely did not sit down. "I can have a caravan arranged within two hours, Gospodin," he spoke with a heavy accent, "I will arrange all the particulars. Your retainers may rest in the warehouse, I will have one of my men show them." Ignatieff nodded, and the Turk barked out a harsh sounding string of words he could not follow out of the door. There was a startled affirmation by someone he couldn't see, and a hurried shuffling of feet.

"Da, this is good." The Turk did not offer or suggest a price, instead offering Ignatieff tea and refreshment. Ignatieff assented, both of the men now taking a seat. A small boy of around twelve entered the room carefully balancing a silver tray laden with tea and small plates of fresh-baked ma'amoul pastries. Ignatieff payed no attention to the boy as he retreated, but noticed the Turk’s eyes lingering for a few moments.

The tea was excellent, a dark rize blend, flavored with cardamom. The ma'amoul was good as well, the sweet spongy resistance of fig and dough giving way beneath his teeth.

"You are in luck, gospodin." The Turk proclaimed, having just finished one of the delicate pastries. He was dressed in a kaftan made of blue-dyed silk, cloth-of-silver, and a thick jacket of some sort of fur- dazzlingly white with streaks of black and light grey. The Turk took a delicate sip from his cup, setting it down before continuing. "The Atamans of the Terek and Kuban Hosts have agreed to a peace, just this past week. The roads should be much safer."

Which was to say that they were still dangerous, but tolerable for any man willing to pay the right price for protection. Even with a treaty signed, the sotnyas of the various Cossack lords would skirmish with each other, either out of unquenched animosity or boredom. Travelers on the roads were even more welcome targets, and Ignatieff was not foolish enough to think that some imbecilic half-barbarian would bind himself to a piece of paper.

"I will require guards for the journey, though they should be kept few enough so as to not attract attention." The merchant nodded in assent, scritching down something on the parchment in front of him with an eagle-feather pen. Ignatieff let the man continue writing, finishing off the tea and delicacies before wiping off his hands on his trousers. At last the writing ended, and a heavy wooden stamp came down onto the parchment with a resounding 'thunk'.

"I have the particulars down, gospodin. A troop of my best men has just returned from a run to Dakhovsky, I believe they shall prove adequate for your needs." He grunted a response at that, staring absentmindedly at one of the crystal inkwells that sat on the Turks desk. After a moment, Ignatieff's eyes flicked up, capturing the other’s corpulent features. He knew the effect his gaze had on lesser men, and had used it many times before to intimidate without words. The man's many chins quivered slightly, then he averted his eyes. Ignatieff ground out, "No one must be aware of our dealings, absolutely no one. Do you understand me?" Cemil nodded vigorously, still not meeting his eyes. "Ochen horosho."

The boy had come in to replenish the tea, and Ignatieff's eyes didn't shift a centimeter as he raised the silver to his lips. Cemil was still trembling slightly, a sheen of sweat covering his brow. Undoubtedly, some of that was the Turk’s acting, as the boyars always delighted in seeing gestures of fear in their underlings. Setting the cup back down, Ignatieff smacked his lips once before he spoke again. "Now, the price..."

[spartasman]

Lord Manfred Warburton supped lightly from the fine bone china cup in his hand. The cup was adorned with stylized scenes of the Himalayas, and rimmed in gold and silver. The saucer was similarly ornamented, a hand-painted caricature of Kanchenjunga delicately styled in the center. Frivolity, really, as from where he was sitting he could quite easily look up at the great mountain itself.

Springtime in Darjeeling was a bit colder than what he was used to, that being predominantly the muggy swelter of Delhi, though he felt the wool duvet about his legs was quite warm enough. The slightest pangs rose up within him, for his crowded office in Metcalfe House, and the smoke-filled cafés where his work so often took him. Though he had to admit, a vacation had been a long time coming now.

It was hard to believe that it had been over a year since the Crisis, though at the time it had seemed to drag on for an eternity. It still dragged on, really, in the back alleys and parlour rooms of the Empire. But for himself, at least, the majority of the task was behind him.

At least, that’s what he preferred to tell himself.

It had taken six months to truly clean up the aftereffects of the King-Emperors murder. First had been the inevitable state funeral; with no body of course, as the man himself had been blown apart somewhere over the Baluchistani coast. Millions had attended the service, and the coronation of Charles the Third that had been held days later, choking the streets of the Capitol and most of the other cities of the Empire for a week.

Then had come the inevitable unrest. Minor uprisings, actually; Bengali separatists, Muhammadan rampages in the Sindh. The usual assortment of malcontents, taking advantage of what they had perceived to be their moment of triumph. Horribly misinformed, really. The uprisings had been put down within a month, the major conspirators all executed or imprisoned.

The Political Service had predicted, with the unthinking cynicism that was its purview, that a generation of peace could be expected in those regions at the very least. And when informed of this the King-Emperor had made it clear that the peace would reign for the duration of the Empires tenure on Earth.

He had chuckled at the time, before the ruler of half of mankind had affixed him with a glare that told Lord Manfred that the young man was completely serious. He sighed playfully, 'ah, to be young and full of conviction'

Setting down the cup and saucer, he stretched out languidly on the wicker chair, shifting his feet on the tuffet before him. The scenery was quite pleasant. Mist-ringed mountains loomed nearby, terraced hills covered with budding rows of tea criss-crossed with dirt tracks, a few well-manicured mango orchards in bloom between.

The sanitarium was quite far away from the main town, and the only nearby habitation was a simple plantation with a few white-washed workers houses. Further down and on the opposite side of the valley was a corniche road, lined with secluded villas and walled studios, rows of neatly-trimmed trees offering protection from the eyes of neighbors and passers-by.

He spotted a single carriage winding its way up the crushed-stone path towards the sanitarium, the driver dressed in a black-grey suit with a plain white turban. Coughing into a kerchief, he resumed his tea.

The uprisings had merely been the symptoms, not the cause, of a far more dire and deep-seated issue. It had been immediately after the Crisis that the witch-hunt had begun. Agents had swept down from Delhi like a horde of locust to root out the traitors and foreign agents that had conspired against the Empire.

No one had been beyond suspicion; Lords and Ladies, Generals and ministers. It had taken weeks to sort through the flurry of complaints that had been sent from every flustered clerk in the Empire, all of them asking why it was they who were being held under suspicion.

The initial cleansing of the Political Service had been violent enough. He had known three of the men found guilty within the first week, though merely as acquaintances. Agents of the Czar, of the Emperor of Dai-Nippon, of the Caliph in Damascus and men under the employ of the more far-flung nations of the Earth had been found in offices ranging from the Provincial Mounted Police in Quetta to the Office of the Resident of Travancore.

It had gone on for months. An endless trail of leads and rumors, misdirection and conspiracy. Like trying to pull up a rather large fish on and endless line, never sure if the prize beneath would reveal itself or twist away once again.

If not for the efforts of Sir Malusre he doubted they would have caught half the men they had. The freshly-Knighted Maratha detective had worked like a man possessed, eager to prove his worthiness of the splendor the King-Emperor had given him following the Crisis. The man deserved it, though, as much as anyone else that had played a part in those days.

Quite truthfully, though, he could have done without all of the excitement. He doubted he'd have naught but grey hair in a year, and besides from the new scars he had noticed the wrinkles getting quite a bit deeper on his face. Of course, his age more than likely played a part in that, but he knew he still had fight in him, damn-all what the doctors said.

Dabbing his lips with a white silk napkin, he heard a small bell ring behind him. light footsteps dulled by felt padded towards him, and a small Bengali butler in an off-white nurse-cum-servant's uniform leaned in beside him. "There is a man here for you, Sahib, with papers from the Government."

The butler wasn't one of his regular servants, the doctors had forbade any but their own staff be allowed to attend him. The nurse was a professional though, and the hospital staff had all been screened beforehand anyway. "Yes, send him in. And more tea, for me and the guest, if you would." The nurse gave a small bow before turning back to allow the visitor entry.

This didn't sit well with him, not at all. The King-Emperor had all but ordered him away not two weeks ago, assuring him that his offices and responsibilities would be left in able hands. He severely doubted that, of course, but then again he had been at his work for the better part of his life, so he was perhaps a tad biased.

The clacking of dress shoes on tile brought him out of his ruminations, and he sat straight in his chair as his visitor came to stand before him. "Sahib" the agent said, bowing slightly, handing Lord Warburton his card.

The man was dressed in a blue-black suit, trousers piped with a thin line of silver. Even the man's face was standard Government Functionary; close-cropped brown hair thinning slightly at the top, narrow black eyes gleaming with intelligence below a mid-high brow and above a long, thin nose. The man was Konkani, skin lighter than even his own weather-beaten flesh. After observing the agent's card for a moment, he gestured to his seats twin across from the wicker-work table. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea? It's quite excellent."

The man assented, taking his seat stiffly and accepting the tea from the butler who discreetly removed himself after refilling Lord Manfred's own cup. Both men sipped for a moment, before the junior Political officer set his down. "Sir, I have a sealed message to be delivered, read by your eyes only." Lord Manfred nodded, continued to drink, and accepted the small brown envelope when it was presented. The message delivered, the messenger awaited silently. There was no movement or offer to leave as he began to read, which spoke volumes.

The envelope was official enough, the dual seals of the Director of the Political Service and the King-Emperor untampered with and genuine to his eye. He flicked a small knife from his sleeve - and watched from the corner of his eye as the younger agent blinked back surprise. With a slight smirk, he deftly sliced the seals open, snapping it out of the envelope and tilting it to better catch the sunlight.

Mumbling softly to himself, his eyes traveled down steadily, flicking back up to read the letter twice more before giving the signatures his attention. He 'hmm'd a for few moments, before placing the letter back into the envelope.

Throwing back the duvet about his waist, he took a moment to put on his slippers before striding over to the small fireplace within his apartment, throwing the parcel into it. Taking up an iron poker from a stand, he made sure the envelope and letter were burned quite thoroughly.

When he was done, he turned to find the young Agent - though he absently realized that the man had to be in his mid-thirties - standing silently at the open french doors, the Himalayas rising behind him in dreadfully poetic grandiloquence. He set the iron poker back into its stand, gave a small sigh, and addressed the man.

"I'll be dressed in ten minutes, I can send for my things later."