by J. J. Holden
“As far as our spies report, the North Pennsylvania invaders don’t have any warships.”
“We lucked out, because apparently they had been ordered to harbors near New York City just prior to the invasion. They were out of commission after the counter-EMPs, and the invaders either didn’t bother to scuttle them or didn’t know where they’d been moved to. Either way, they all still work. Well, they still float.”
“Which is their basic mission, more or less,” Taggart said. “Very well, then. Go ahead and order two boats up north. I want to keep at least one here, just in case we need it.”
Eagan grinned and raised his eyebrow. Taggart had a suspicion that maybe he should have read the other report before ordering some boats north. Eagan was never subtle.
“What now?” Taggart asked.
“The second report has to do with the Maryland invaders, sir. Ironic, huh? It seems they’re beginning to put some pressure on the Confederation’s southern border. Not only that, but it seems like they’re being pushed back all throughout Philadelphia. The Philly resistance has become suddenly much more effective over the last two months. Intel suspects they’ve finally been unified, or somewhat unified, under a single leader.”
“This could be a good opportunity for us, or it could become a major problem. It depends on what their new leader—if that’s what’s going on—decides to do in regards to their relations with New America.”
Eagan shrugged and said, “We’ve been supplying them with arms and food for quite a while, so we should expect their loyalty, but you know how it is with rebels.”
Taggart slowly nodded. “Nothing but a bunch of opportunists, usually.”
Eagan said, “I guess it’s a good thing that you didn’t send all three boats up north. If Philly gets rambunctious, we may need it.”
Taggart tapped one finger on his desk, thinking. Maybe they were viewing the problem the wrong way. “You know, Philly has all that good land just east of them on the peninsula. If they can get their shit together, they could be a very good ally. Maybe even a new state within New America.”
Eagan nodded. “I had thought the same thing. Maybe it would be a good idea to send a representative down there.”
Taggart considered this new information. Yes, that would be a good idea, assuming their new leader was friendly. If he turned out to be just a glorified bandit, as so many resistance fighters had been, Taggart would be sending the representative into a hostile situation with no intel. Sending an envoy couldn’t be avoided, though.
“Yes, make it so,” Taggart said. “And by the way, don’t let our Clanner friends find out about this. The Confederation is entirely too good at this whole politics thing, so let’s keep them out of it.”
* * *
1900 HOURS - ZERO DAY +612
Down in the bunker, Ethan had just shut down his computer system when he heard a faint knock at the doorway. He spun in his office chair, a big grin on his face, expecting to see Amber. Instead, he saw Michael leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. “Oh sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. Everything okay?”
Michael shook his head and heaved himself up from leaning on the doorframe. “Nope. Lucky for you, nothing’s going on. I just thought you might like to come up and get some air, maybe join me for dinner.”
Ethan tilted his head, frowning slightly. “Sure. I don’t mean to look surprised, but you don’t usually come down here, much less invite me up for dinner. You sure nothing’s going on?”
Michael laughed out loud, then said, “Yes, I’m sure. It’s just that, ever since the incident with the pemmican bar, you’ve been a hermit. It’s not healthy for you to stay down here so much.”
Ethan shrugged and said, “Perhaps. It might also be unhealthy for me to go up topside. You know what I mean?”
Michael turned his back to the doorframe and leaned against it once again, still looking at Ethan. “Sure, but you can’t live your life in fear. Besides, we’re not even sure that was an attempt on you. For all we know, it just got tainted with botulism. That happens sometimes, without refrigeration and all.”
Ethan shook his head. There was no way that’s what had happened. There were just too many coincidences. He also wondered why Michael suddenly found it so urgent to get him up topside. Or was that just his paranoia talking? Maybe Michael was right. Really, how long could he stay down there in the bunker? He had to go up sometime. “Well, I’ll tell you what. If you go with me from here to the chow hall, I guess I’ll take the chance. I’ll just feel better having you with me.”
Michael grinned and said, “This is coming from the guy who charged a machine gun nest before we ever got to Clanholme, the guy who saved all of us when we were pinned down.”
“Charging that nest was just what it took for me to survive, along with everyone else. It’s easy to be brave when you have no other choice.”
Ethan saw Michael frown, but he quickly recovered. “Of course,” Micheal said, “I’ll walk with you.” Michael tossed his head to motion toward the entrance.
Ethan got up, straightened his tee shirt, and brushed off his trousers. “Okay, let’s go. I was just thinking about getting some food anyway, and I could use the company. We haven’t really talked much lately, since we’re all so busy.”
The former Marine—now the Confederation general and Clanholme’s defensive coordinator—stood straight and turned toward the door. Ethan wondered what had caught him off-guard.
They walked through the bunker together in an easy silence, and when they got to the ladder leading into Cassy’s house, Michael motioned for Ethan to go first. A polite gesture.
Ethan smiled in thanks and climbed up, emerging in the house from under the stairwell. The stairs were hinged and well-balanced, so when he pushed up from underneath, the whole assembly pivoted upward to allow them to exit the tunnel. “Do you know what’s on the menu for tonight?” Ethan asked.
Michael glanced around, probably looking for Cassy, but no one was in the house. He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I know that a cow got caught up in barbed wire and ended up dying, so it’s probably something to do with beef. It’s the first cow we lost that way, but I still asked Dean to redneck-engineer a solution to make sure it doesn’t happen again. He said it wasn’t possible, but I figure he’ll have an answer in a week.”
Ethan nodded. If anyone could figure out an easy solution with the resources they had on hand, it would be Dean. The man was a genius with scraps. “I hope it’s beef. I could use a steak,” Ethan said.
Michael opened the front door and began to walk out, then held it open for Ethan. Together, they walked across “the courtyard,” which was the open area between the house and the chow hall, and Ethan could already smell the mouthwatering aroma of cooking meat. They didn’t often have beef, or at least, not steaks. It wasn’t a very efficient way of serving up such a limited resource. Usually, meat went into stew, sausages, and pemmican bars. Next year, they’d have many more cows and a lot more steaks.
On the way to the chow hall, they passed what Ethan assumed was a donkey. He couldn’t tell for sure, being raised in a city. He knew what a cow looked like, but that was the extent of his animal husbandry skills. “When did we get a donkey?”
“What?”
“A donkey,” Ethan repeated. “Don’t you need a mule and a horse to make a donkey? I didn’t know we had a mule.”
Michael laughed and jabbed him in the arm with his elbow. “No, you idiot. You need a horse and a donkey to make a mule. That one belongs to a visiting merchant, I think from the Free Republic.”
“So is that one a mule or a—”
The mule’s head exploded, showering Michael and Ethan with blood, brains, and bits of bone; a cloud of pink mist hung in the air. Ethan stopped and stared at the donkey as it toppled over, seemingly in slow-motion. Since when did donkeys have exploding heads? His mind couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.
Michael lunged at Ethan, tackling him around the waist. The big man’s mov
ements were so quick that Ethan had no time to react. It felt like he’d been hit by a truck, and he and Michael toppled to the ground.
Ethan heard a ringing in his ears, which he assumed was from the blow, but over the ringing he could hear Michael’s voice. It sounded faint and far away, but he could understand the words.
“Sniper! Get to cover, now,” Michael shouted. Although Michael’s face was almost next to Ethan’s, he still sounded distant.
Ethan scrambled to his hands and knees and scurried toward the first cover he saw—the chow hall, some 20 feet away.
He felt someone grab him by the shirt collar and his belt, heaving him to his feet like a ragdoll.
“Run, goddammit, to the house.” Michael was half-dragging Ethan toward Cassy’s house, which was actually the closest cover, Ethan realized through his fog of confusion.
Halfway there, his mind seemed to catch up suddenly, and he could have just kicked himself for trying to head to the chow hall. Obviously, his mind had been in Code Yellow, that space where you see things but you aren’t thinking, aren’t aware of your surroundings. Otherwise, he would have known to head toward Cassy’s house, which was both closer and bulletproof. With each step, Ethan expected his own head to explode if there was a sniper—he and Michael were running across open ground. Somewhat to his surprise, however, they both made it to Cassy’s house, and Ethan slammed back-first against the wall, panting heavily.
“Thanks,” Ethan said to Michael. The man had just saved his life. Again.
Michael didn’t seem to be out of breath in spite of running and his obvious level of adrenaline. His head was in quick, constant motion, looking all around for the source of the bullet that had demolished the donkey. Or mule.
“Yeah, don’t thank me yet. There’s a sniper out there somewhere, and I suspect that was a fifty-caliber rifle round.” Safe for the moment behind cover, Michael unclipped the small radio at his belt and clicked the button. “All units, all units, we’re taking fire by the chow hall. Probably a fitty-cal. Only line of sight is southeast, all units scramble and engage. Eliminate any tangos found, and ask questions later. Better to receive a wrist slap than a bullet.”
Ethan managed to catch his breath as he listened to the various units radio back to Michael their understanding. Then he said, “Still think that pemmican bar was random?”
“No,” Michael said. “Someone’s definitely trying to kill you.”
- 5 -
0700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +613
CHOONY AND JAZ wandered in the early morning market, shopping for their day’s food. There were many wagons set up throughout the Hackensack market space, impromptu vendor stalls hawking wares ranging from eggs to bullets, and Jaz often made a point to talk to as many of them as possible. They were the face of the Confederation, or at least of the Clan, and it was their responsibility to make sure relations stayed warm with these independent traders. Many of them became wandering merchants during the off-season, trading off the many wares they had taken in as payment during the spring agricultural season. It would be handy to have them stop by Clanholme.
Jaz stopped at one wagon that displayed myriad handcrafted jewelry. Necklaces, earrings, and bracelets dominated their inventory. But it was a collection of bands that seemed to catch Jaz’s eye. “Hey Choon,” Jaz said, “look at this. It’s tungsten, I think. Pretty much indestructible, just like us.”
Choony looked at the bands Jaz was referring to. “It’s nice but I don’t think you can weld four of those into brass knuckles.”
Jaz laughed. “Oh come on,” she said, “don’t you want to make an honest woman of me. Being a harlot upsets my Zen or Chi, or whatever it’s called.” She held up one of the black rings, each with a thin gold-inlaid line running around the circumference, analyzing it.
“You are already the most honest woman I know, and you’re not a harlot.”
“You know, tungsten is the hardest material used for jewelry,” Jaz said, “so you may be on to something with the brass knuckles. I could wear four of them, one on each finger and then—” She glanced over his shoulder and her face went rigid for a microsecond. He recognized the expression, having seen it often enough. Something had grabbed her attention and set off her warning alarms. It was exceedingly difficult not to turn around and see what she had looked at.
As she held the bands up as though to show them to Choony, she smiled and said, “I see two men standing at the wagon that sells pemmican bars and other durable foods, you know the one. They seem to have an unhealthy interest in us. One has a rifle, and I think I see a pistol under the other’s coat.”
Choony nodded and leaned forward, pretending to examine the rings. “Is their body language telling you they are up to no good? Perhaps they appear angry, or secretive?” Even here in eastern New America, there were many people with anti-Clan sentiments, mostly the refugees from the former Empire. It paid to be alert, especially if one wore the distinctive clanmark as he and Jaz did. Most Clanners did, these days. Both he and Jaz had their clanmarks on display today, visible on their arms. The benefits outweighed the occasional setback they caused.
Still smiling, Jaz said, “No. They seem pretty open about it, actually. I’m not getting that threatening vibe. I don’t think they’ll start any trouble here in the middle of the New America capital. Hackensack seems well-policed, don’t you think?”
Choony considered their situation. She was right about Hackensack being a fairly safe place, at least on the main path through the market, by modern standards. “Perhaps we should show our hands, let them see what cards we’re holding. Let’s go talk to them.”
Jaz got a mischievous grin, then. She set the rings back down on the wagon counter and said, “After you, oh fearless leader.”
He spun on his heels and walked directly toward the two men, who still stood at the wagon Jaz had pointed out. He kept his pace to what he thought would be neither aggressive nor timid. He crossed the open space between the two wagons, Jaz right behind him, and stopped about ten feet from the men.
Before he could say anything, Jaz beat him to it, saying, “Good morning, gentlemen. I see we have your attention, but I’m curious, is it my ass you’re looking at, or our clanmarks?”
Choony tried hard not to frown. Of course, Jaz would begin the conversation like that, scandalous and aggressive like the woman herself. He glanced at the two men, but to his relief, they were smiling. At least they had taken Jaz’s comments in the spirit she intended.
The shorter man wore his goatee in two long, woven braids like some sort of modern Viking, and was the first to speak. “Sorry to disappoint you, honey, but it was the tattoos.”
Choony immediately thought of the trouble they’d had in Harrisburg due to their clanmarks and said, “I hope there is no problem.”
Viking shook his head. “Naw. They’re pretty cool. I’m always on the lookout for a cool new design. You can’t see them under my overcoat, but I got full sleeves on both arms.”
Choony cocked his head. Full sleeves? He got the impression that didn’t mean what he thought it did.
Jaz seemed to understand, though, because she grinned. “Well, they’re totally just for the Clan, but thanks. I dig them, too. So what are you two dudes doing in the market at this time of morning?”
The shorter man shrugged. “Same as you, I imagine. Getting breakfast.” Then he paused, looking back and forth between Choony and Jaz’s arms. “You know, at first I thought your tattoos were identical, but up close I see they’re a little different.”
Choony took the opportunity to interject himself further into the conversation. “They are both very symbolic and personal. The crescent moon on top represents the scar our leader has running down her face. It’s a symbol of adversity and triumph, and a copy of the one she used to highlight her scar.”
As Choony paused, Jaz cut in saying, “Yeah, that’s Cassy. She’s pretty much a legend in those parts. And then the stuff below and around the crescent moon is done in the same st
yle for every Clan member, but each one is different. Something personal for each Clanner.”
The short man smiled and nodded. “Every tattoo should be unique and personal. So what do yours mean?” He glanced back and forth between Jaz and Choony.
“They are all done in Celtic knotwork style,” Choony said, “with mine, if you look at it a little bit sideways like one of those find-the-sailboat pictures, you’ll see that it’s basically an abstract Buddha figure. I’m the Clan’s token Buddhist.”
“A buddhist, you say?” Viking said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a buddhist before.”
“At least not in today’s world,” the short man said. He turned to Jaz. “So, what does yours mean?”
She replied, “Mine is a stylized Phoenix. The old one dies, but a new one rises even stronger than before.”
The short man nodded slowly, as though weighing her words. “I imagine that’s true. Then again, in a way, we are all like a phoenix since the EMPs.”
“True,” Jaz said. “So now that we offered some information about ourselves, what about you? Who are you guys?”
“Where are my manners?” the short man said. “Allow me to introduce myself—I’m Squirrel, and my friend here is Lance. We’re traders from Philadelphia.”
The larger man blatantly elbowed the shorter, who then hastily added, “I mean New Philadelphia. I was leaning toward Free Philly, but I was outvoted.”
Choony glanced at Jaz and saw her glancing at him as well. That was brand-new news. He’d have to include that in his next report home. Given the rumors about the Maryland invaders mobilizing, that could be very good news indeed. He said, “How interesting. When did that happen? Clearly, that makes us natural allies.”
The short man stuck his hands in his pockets, and Choony got the sense that his words may have rubbed the man the wrong way.
“You’d think so, right? But the Dude is keeping Philly’s options open. The rumor mill says he is negotiating for trade with NewAm. Personally, I’d rather trade with your people, from everything I’ve heard about it, although you’re the first two people I’ve met from the Confederation, much less the Clan.”
