Against the Storm: A Fortress Farm Novel

by G. R. Carter

  Tecumseh House – Governor’s Mansion

  Mt. Vernon – Capital City of Grand Shawnee Province

  Year 12.09 A.G.R. (After the Great Reset)

  One Week after the Battle for Kaskaskia

  “You can’t expect me to stand next to that self-righteous prig all night! Acting as though nothing was wrong and we’re one big happy family again,” Governor Eric Olsen snorted to his mother.

  “I expect exactly that, Eric. You may be governor of your own province in the Republic, but Alex is the Founder. No matter how we feel about that hypocrite, we have to remember he could still replace you.”

  “I’m a Republic Senator in addition to being a Provincial Governor, Mother. I have friends that will back me up,” he said huffily.

  “Do you think there's any way those friends will be enough?” she asked. “You think those allies of yours are going to risk their Fortress Farms to stand up for you in a fight with the Founder? Even if they do, what would you owe them after such a fight? Think this through, son, you’re not facing off against some local Unified Church Bishop who doesn’t like your reforms. It’s been a while since we’ve had royal visitors here, and part of being a noble is to maintain relations with people you don’t like,” she said, using terms foreign to them all before the Reset.

  Eric glared back at his mother, half pissed off at her being right and the other half dreading the thought of interacting with Alex Hamilton for the first time in over a year.

  “All right, mother,” Eric said finally. “I’ll play your game. But don’t expect me to be nice just because he’s a cripple.”

  “Of course, son. He’d think something was suspicious if you were back to being best friends all of a sudden,” Maryanne Olsen replied.

  Two Tri-S guards were in opposite corners of the ornate office, at ease but always attentive. Marcus Nielsen, formerly Malik Masen, stood a few feet away, trying to pretend like he wasn’t in the room. Eric caught the attempt out of the corner of his eye.

  “Marcus, what do you think? You’ve been a great sounding board since you got here. Mother seems to listen to you more than me, so what do you think I should do?”

  “Everything is an equation, Governor Olsen. By that I mean, what do you hope to gain by your actions? You’re a powerful man in your own right, but not yet as powerful as the man who holds the Founder’s Chair. You’re building a great network of allies throughout the Republic with the way you’ve turned around Grand Shawnee. Even some independents like Texarkana and Clarksville are contacting us for bilateral trade. Perhaps you might use your connections to get a trade deal past the Senate. That collects you a lot more quarters than settling an old score,” Marcus told him.

  “Look here, Nielsen,” Eric said with contempt. “That ‘old score’ you’re talking about is the death of my father. Understand?”

  “Of course, sir. I didn’t mean to imply someday you wouldn’t have a chance to avenge your father’s death, or that banking quarters was more important than honor. I’m just trying to help you think through the plan,” Marcus said contritely. Talk about a self-righteous prig, he thought to himself. The only reason you’ve got a quarter in the bank is because your mother listens to me.

  “Leave Marcus alone, Eric,” Maryanne spoke up. “You ask for people’s opinions and then you shout them down. Pretty soon no one will answer you honestly, they’ll tell you what they think you want to hear. Is that what you want?”

  “Sometimes, yeah! I’d like to hear what I want to hear instead of you and your cronies always trying to talk me into something,” he fumed.

  “Really, Eric? Together we’ve turned a religious backwater into a thriving province. You think that happened by accident? Or perhaps you think those Hunsingers did that for you instead of me?”

  Eric snickered at the change in his mother. Decades spent as a doting wife and mother gave way to a political animal when Clark Olsen was killed. Helping her along the way were a team of intellectuals handpicked from the wave of immigrants brought into Shawnee. Chief of Staff Marcus Nielsen was a constant companion who helped guide economic decisions. Together, Shawnee’s population had tripled, and quarters were filling the province’s coffers. Eric partially resented the brain trust, feeling as though he had become a figurehead in many ways. His mood settled, and he gave his mother the smile she always enjoyed.

  “At least I always know the Hunsingers are giving the whole story. In fact, Skyler thinks I should make amends with the Hamiltons,” Eric replied, referring to his wife’s brother. “He says it’s in Shawnee’s best interest in the long run, and Maleah and mine as well.”

  “I’m sorry, son. You’re right. I just get tense when I have to be around those people. I swear I’d rather have a nest of Ditchers in the heart of Mt. Vernon than a group of Hamiltons. Let’s just see what we can get while they’re here, make use of their visit to profit the province some way,” she said. “Look, as long as you keep growing this place the way you have, there’s no way Hamilton can make a move to oust you. He gave you this figuring you’d fail and then he could assign you something out on the frontiers and get rid of the Olsens for good. Instead you’ve given the Republic just as much as his cronies running New America…or America, or whatever they call it now. Soon more quarters will be flowing through Shawnee than the Okaw itself. Just imagine how that could change the balance of power.”

  Eric nodded, finally allowing himself to appreciate his mother’s advice. At least until the next annoyance.

  “All right, Nielsen, tell me what we have planned,” he said, staring down at Marcus. The Governor was nearly six and half feet tall, with the broad shoulders and narrow waist of an athletic man in his prime. With reduced nutrition since the Reset, future generations would be shorter than their ancestors. But not the aristocratic families; they still had the protein intake, and the genetics and noble marriages, to keep the height and muscle developed over the years. Eric was aware that his Nordic features and large size got people’s attention and he used that to his advantage.

  Nielsen felt the weight of Olsen’s glare, pretending to wilt in front of it. He pushed his plastic-framed glasses up on his nose and pulled out a prized paper notepad, an increasingly rare luxury.

  “The evening will start with a reception in the capitol's assembly room, then dinner in the grand dining hall,” Nielsen reported.

  Gleaming white walls and pillars graced the provincial capital’s main hub, once serving as an Appellate courthouse. Twin black iron staircases wound around to the entrance, providing a beautiful contrast to the two hundred -year old building's classic Greek Revival architecture. Interior decorations were the grandest in all of the Republic, with wood and stone-arched doorways offset by antique rugs and paintings. The highlight was the assembly room, which housed Grand Shawnee’s House of Neighbors on the rare occasion that they were in session. More often, the gorgeous chandelier hanging under the twenty-two-foot-high ceilings were seen by important guests of the Olsens. Maryanne made sure to have a steady stream of dignitaries on the invite list to stay in Mt. Vernon. With travel being so hard and expensive, you had to have two visits booked if you wanted to have one show up.

  “We’ll have dinner in the great hall, and then drinks and cigars in the library,” Nielsen continued. “Maleah can entertain some of them, she does very well with a crowd,” he said, referring to the newest Mrs. Olsen.

  Eric laughed out loud, thinking of his great hall versus most of the Fortress Farms. “I’m glad we don’t have to have this in some drafty old machine shed a hillbilly Land Lord calls a great hall.” Their province building plans eschewed the Republic’s standard blueprint of building large fortresses out on the prairie, instead opting for a system of fortified villages along the still-passable main highways. Maryanne developed the system by studying the settlement plans of the French and British settlers who first arrived on this continent hundreds of years ago. With so much broken terrain and wooded areas in the land between the great rivers, the
sight lines of the Fortress Farm towers didn’t hold as much value here. Instead, Shawnee built a system of forts, except this time instead of wooden palisades their engineers used concrete boxes.

  Maryanne broke in, “Representatives from ARK and Vincennes will both be here. Evansville and Mt. Horab, too. Rumor has it that Hamilton will offer to make them all full partners in a larger alliance. I haven’t got all the details, but it sounds as though it might be a full integration, like a merger of equals.”

  Eric was stunned. “Why am I just now hearing about this?”

  Maryanne paused, not sure if he was angry with her or because he had not been informed by Alex about something so important. “I only confirmed the report tonight. We get a lot of rumors through here; 95% aren’t true. This one might actually be.”

  “How dare he pull such a stunt? And in my capital!” Eric fumed, building up the rage again that dissipated just a few moments before.

  “Governor Olsen, if I may,” Nielsen said, bowing his head slightly in reverence. “Please, sir, see this as an opportunity. Geographically, Grand Shawnee is closer to ARK and to Vincennes. If they are admitted as full partners, with complete voting rights, that in itself has already changed the balance of power in the Republic. Founder Hamilton is so anxious to create a new version of the United States, he fails to realize the political implications of adding so much so quickly.”

  “Hamilton has never once said anything about creating a new United States. Where do you get that idea?” Eric demanded.

  “I believe it’s apparent in his actions. Ever since the defeat of the Americans, he’s been trying to integrate their people and their territory as quickly as possible. Supposedly it’s to guard against invasion from the Caliphate, but I think that’s only half of it. Look how distracted he is, he’s let you and Mrs. Olsen carry out your economic reforms with almost no interference. Even let you run most of the Buckles out to Mt. Horab. Julia Ruff was supposed to be here looking over your shoulder, instead he’s had her working with Vincennes and Evansville. And of course you already know how close he is with ARK,” Nielsen said.

  “How do you know all this? Besides my mother’s rumor mill, I mean,” Eric demanded.

  “I read the paper,” Nielsen said with a smile, pointing down at a library table holding a stack of Republic Times, printed on discolored paper recycled from every remaining scrap the publishers could find.

  “Hilarious, Nielsen. Lucky for you the only thing I hate worse than intellectuals are the Buckles and the Jijis. Will everyone be staying at Tecumseh House?” Eric asked, referring to the former Jefferson County Courthouse now serving as the Governor’s mansion. Nearly matching the Capitol in architectural beauty, the Olsen family was still converting the building’s office space into palatial VIP apartments. It was mostly complete, at least the part that their visitors would see.

  “Everyone but the Hamiltons,” Maryanne answered. “They’ve decided to stay at the Unified Cathedral with Bishop Bonner. No surprise there, I suppose.”

  “Of course they would stay there, putting on the pious act as always. I’m sure they’ll get an earful from Bonner about us harassing the Buckles. Oh well, it will keep the pig stink out of our new rugs,” Eric chuckled.

  “It also helps you in another way, sir,” Nielsen offered. “The Founder’s absence at the palace gives you the undivided attention of the allies coming to visit. Surely you and your charming wife can take the opportunity of less formal meetings at night over coffee and wine to discuss future endeavors?”

  Eric glared at Nielsen for a moment, considering what the Chief of Staff’s motivation might be for making such a comment. Even after all this time, he still felt suspicious of any servants working for Shawnee. He always wondered who they were reporting back to, just as Maryanne had paid ears in the other capitals. Satisfied to detect no deception, he flashed his smile at Maryanne again. “Okay, Mom. I’m starting to see why you keep this Nielsen guy around.”

  “I only wish to be helpful, sir. The glory of Grand Shawnee is my only goal,” Marcus Nielsen said with a warm smile.

  Chapter Nine

  Grand Tower Island

  Mt. Horab Forward Operating Base

  Mississippi River (Southern Flow)

  Year 12.09 A.G.R. (After the Great Reset)

  One Week after the Battle for Kaskaskia

  Levi Marshall finished picking up the last of the tools left out from the day’s work. The metal sheeting was damp and a little slick but not so dangerous if he took his time. He already sent his crew in for the evening, giving them the chance to be first in the supper line and get the best chance at a second mug of beer before the rack bell rang. He had another motive, though: being out here in the relative quiet helped him think.

  The day had started well enough, getting enough done during the morning to promise the bossman they’d be done with the whole thing by the next day. But by the afternoon, the bossman was gone and Levi found himself in charge of the river rats. Certainly wasn’t what he wanted, but you took the job you were asked and you didn’t complain. Still, the extra responsibility worried him, especially since the Electors were looking to expand into multiple job sites all at once. Meaning he’d be losing some of his experienced guys to lead other crews and training a bunch of new guys for his own.

  The last bit of sunlight faded out leaving only the solar storms and moon struggling to shine a little through the gloom. He looked at the River Belle: lights glaring from every window, just as they were 24 hours a day. The enemy of the dark, and the things lurking in the dark, was light. The Electors made sure the workers out here always got their fuel allotment to run the generators. Keeping the lights on was a priority; most everyone still remembered vividly the weeks right after the Tribulation killed the electrical grid, and demons crawled out from the shadows.

  A shadow was exactly what Levi watched cross in front of one of the lower deck windows. Then another, then a third and fourth. Evenly spaced and skulking, not swaggering like the river rats would have on their way in for food and beer after a long shift. He tried to think about what might be going on. His mind ran first to the Stewards; perhaps they were doing a sort of drill? No, Chief would have never pulled a stunt like this before running it by me. Too many bad things have happened in the past to go scaring guys like that, he assured himself. Terror struck him. Ditchers? No, they’re never that organized or disciplined. Thieves? Maybe, but why go where all the people are?

  The thought made his stomach drop. Worse than Ditchers or thieves could only be…

  An ear cracking bang–bang! thundered from the River Belle. Shouts and screams arose as the lights flickered and then the whole ship went dark. Levi ran towards the boat as quickly as he could without slipping, trying to keep his eyes on any kind of movement inside. He felt naked, no weapon of any sort save for a foot-long wrench he still gripped in his hand.

  Gunfire ripped through the darkness, making him flinch involuntarily. On he ran until he got to the gangplank leading from the pier into the boat. He stopped right outside the door, throwing himself up against the wall and letting his breathing calm down for a moment. He could hear men moaning, and some sort of commotion just inside. The moon’s reflection caught the long black barrel of an assault rifle peeking through the door, moving slightly left, then back right. Without thinking, Levi grabbed the barrel in his strong right hand and pulled with all his might. The rifle came forward with resistance until a man dressed in all black with goggles and a blacked-out face stood in front of him. In an instant, Levi swung the wrench across the side of the man’s jaw, bringing a sickening thud. The crunching bone vibrated through the wrench’s metal handle, knocking the man unconscious as much from the pain as the blow. In the heat of the moment, Levi brought the wrench back, again swinging straight down onto the goggles.

  “Levi…” a voice rasped. “Levi, they’re downstairs. They’re going after the ARK guys. Levi, you can’t let them get our plans.”

  The fog of confusion
finally wore off, and he realized who the voice belonged to. “Mr. Cooper? I don’t understand. Who are these guys?” he whispered back.

  “ARK. They’re here to take back their ships and their men. It has to be them. They think we’re all down, they’ll search through the offices upstairs. You can’t let them see the plans. Promise me.”

  “Okay, Mr. Cooper. I need to get you guys some help. Where’s the Chief and the Stewards?” Levi asked. He was getting worried; the ARK men might show back up at any time.

  “All dead, or down at least. The first grenade got them. They had silencers on their rifles. Chief barely got a few shots off. It’s up to…”

  The sound of men climbing upstairs from the lower level stopped the conversation. Levi heard a brief whistle, then another after a few moments. Silence pounded in Levi’s ears.

  Finally a booming voice called out. “I don’t know who you are, but if you got our man, this is going to end bad for you. Now let him go and start running. We won’t chase you. We’re just here to get what belongs to us.”

  Levi didn’t know what to say. His heart was pounding. He took a better grip on the dead man’s rifle still in his hand after the fight. “We’ve got three ships on the way here now,” Levi shouted back with whatever force he could muster. “They’ll be here any minute, so maybe you better throw down your weapons.” He waited a moment to see what the reply would be. Instead the doorway exploded with splintered wood as the ARK commandos unloaded their weapons on the area where they thought Levi hid.

  Levi fell prone on the deck, trying to crawl away and still cradle the rifle like he had learned in militia training. He reached the corner of the outer wall, then sprung up and stuck his rifle through the shattered window. He pulled the trigger and click. He cursed himself and clicked off the safety, then stuck the weapon back through and squeezed the trigger again. The night lit up bright as day with the muzzle flash, the sharp cracks shocking to his ears even without the sound that typically accompanied an automatic weapon. Without waiting to see the results he fell back to the floor and waited for the return fire. As expected, the window and wall exploded with splinters, showering him with debris even as he crawled toward another window.