Keepers of the Flame

By

Benjamin Cheah

Copyright © 2014 Benjamin Cheah

Cover copyright © 2014 Fiona Jayde Media

Cover model: Phena A. Davion

Photographer: Heiko Warnke

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either

products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

locales, persons or non-human beings, living, dead, or otherwise, is entirely coincidental. All

rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or

by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Benjamin Cheah.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Connect with Me Online

“By the grace of God, and the labor and sacrifices of the generations before us, the

Republic of Cascadia endures. More than that, we thrive. We have reached a standard of

living equal to that of the old North American Union, and our technological achievements are

the envy of the world. Already, we are reclaiming the wastelands and the Yellow Zone. But

we must do more. As the sole surviving technological society in North America, and one of

the few remaining in the world, we are the keepers of the flame of civilization. We have a

duty, to ourselves and to humanity, to go forth and bring light into the dark, to share our gifts

with the rest of mankind, and to one day rebuild our shattered world.”

- Joshua Robert Welles, 1st President of the Republic of Cascadia, outgoing speech

Prologue

The Birth of a Nation

At precisely 0322, Pacific Time Zone, on the screen of an otherwise unremarkable

workstation in Seattle, a progress bar filled up and winked out.

Evelyn Nichols rubbed her tired eyes. It was over. Six months of debating and coding,

another month of eighteen-hour development days, and yet another month of brain-crushing

bug quashing sessions and tedious paperwork. Missed dates, missed anniversaries, overtime

limit broken, near the end she was returning home just to collapse on an empty bed. But it

was done. Ejecting the flash drive, she stepped away from the computer and gave a thumbs-

up.

“The patch is online,” she declared.

Behind her, a cohort of software engineers swung into action. Everybody from every

shift crowded into the office, stuffing themselves into little nooks. They worked on personal

laptops, phones, desktops, tablets, argees, ebrains, and combinations thereof. Those that

couldn’t show up in person were working from home. For something this big, this important,

nothing less than a hundred percent turnout would do.

She slipped on her own pair of iSight augmented reality glasses. Tapping a stud on the

side, she awoke it from electronic sleep. Tiny cameras read her retinas, confirming her

identity. As she found a chair, the argees booted up, overlaying her jump screen over reality.

Set at a hundred percent opacity, her lenses tried to convince her she was sitting at the bank

of a wooded glen illuminated in a perpetual Pacific dawn.

A bank of icons floated in the air above the burbling creek. As she glanced left and

right, more icons appeared. She wasn’t terribly organized; she didn’t use folders like most

people did. Icons enlarged whenever her gaze centered on them.

“Apps: Open Cocoon Analytics,” she said.

The app opened, filling the glen with a white screen. The window demanded a

password. She swiped her hand downwards, minimizing the window, and air-touched her

StoneKey app. She flipped through the directory and copied over her username and

password.

‘Welcome to the Cascadia Common Operation and Access Network’, the screen said.

The words cleared, taking her to Analytics and her virtual dashboard.

Graphs and charts sprouted across her big picture view, appearing alongside boxes

and boxes of constantly-updating information. CACOAN, what everybody called Cocoon,

was the lifeblood of Cascadia, the software that put the ‘smart’ into ‘smart city’, and now

‘smart nation’.

Her current task was simple: work with the other team leads to monitor the data flows

and identify problem points, and pass up any issues to the night shift to handle. Meanwhile,

the day shift deployed a host of specialized testing tools, simulating day-to-day activity,

surges in demand, sudden grid failures, all the way to a full-blown cyberattack.

It was the most ambitious patch in the short history of the Republic of Cascadia. In

that distant time when Cascadia was merely the Seattle-Vancouver Conurbation, city and

town councils across the North American Union had their own smart city projects with little

cross-functionality. After the Apocalypse, after America burned to ash and after the birth of

Cascadia, the new Federal government tried to stitch everything together into Cocoon. It

nearly worked.

This patch was billed as the final fix, one last Herculean effort to create a truly

networked nation with a common platform, compatible with all existing software and

hardware. Evelyn scoffed at that notion. Work would never be truly finished. So long as there

were humans, there would always be ways to fuck things up…and there would always be

people to find and fix them.

In truth, this wasn’t so much a patch as a complete overhaul, less a fix, more an

optimization. An evolution. All the numbers were showing green, and nobody had raised any

complaints so far.

But then, the teams were limited to Cocoon’s civilian aspects. Weather monitoring,

traffic flows, government e-paperwork, holovision program schedules, international stock

market updates. Everything that could be accessed through the civilian Internet. The

government used Cocoon too, a parallel version of it, for more sensitive and strategic

applications. But those functions were limited strictly to the government’s intranet. Or so she

hoped. Between the original tender document and new Federal additional requests she didn’t

know if someone could jump into the Feds’ intranet from the civilian Internet. All she could

do was hope that the other teams the Feds had deployed were working on it, and focus on her

own little slice of the world.

As the hours passed, the numbers remained green. If anything, the data was flowing

smoother than before. In the deep, little-seen ether, underutilized network nodes took up the

slack from overworked ones. The traffic system—air, sea and land—optimized itself, running

simulations on one node and adjusting systems for maximum efficiency. Cascadia OpenMaps

updated itself in real time, drawing on data from the nation’s cameras and sensors to provide

a snapshot of anywhere, anytime, on any street in any city in the Republic. The national

power grid was now truly national, not just a patchwork of city- and town-based improvised

grids, feeding energy everywhere they were needed. Healthcare centers began coordinating

data, everything from medicine stocks to patient histories, sending and receiving gigabytes in

regular intervals, akin to electronic heartbeats.

And it was only the beginning.

But there were only so many users out there. At midnight, the Feds had taken the

whole of Cocoon offline, reserving access only to engineers and software teams and a select

group of people who needed critical data. The real test would come in the morning, when

Cascadia awoke and went to work.

At 0555 exactly, the experiment ended. Now other software engineers raced to

reconnect society. A few key strokes, a few moments for the commands to trickle through

Cascadian’s invisible Internet infrastructure, a few minutes to execute instructions and

double-check the results.

And just like that, it was done.

She took off her argees. Stood.

“All right guys,” she said. “Everything’s green. It’s a wrap.”

The room broke into applause.

**

The Feds called it the Machine. It was actually a half-dozen quantum supercomputers,

each with specific areas of interest, linked into the lifeblood of the national security

apparatus. One filtered intercepted telephone calls for keywords. Another combed through

emails and websites. A third watched Cascadia with street-level cameras and sensors,

tirelessly scanning for persons of interest, passing on the information to a program on a fourth

computer that studied body language and voice tones to predict behaviors. The others handled

everything from decryption to analytics to relationship maps. Linked together in a seamless

whole, they were a single Machine greater than the sum of its individual parts.

In theory.

The Machine was a fusion of Old World design and New World hacks. The original

specs were drawn up before the world had an inkling of the coming Apocalypse, the

hardware built and software installed during the glory days of Old America. After the world

ended, the supercomputers were recovered and relocated, and steadily upgraded and replaced

over the ages. Evelyn Nichols didn’t know it, but she was once a junior member on a team

that tweaked a tiny fragment of the supercomputer code that turned the supercomputers into

an integrated network that the Feds would later dub the Machine. A Machine held together by

stitches of code and hardware kludges that, sometimes, interfaced with each other, and, at the

best of times, produced a fuzzy simulacrum of an integrated network.

That changed with the upgrade. The Machine was now a singular being. A creature

composed of innumerable lines of code, gathering and interpreting data at unprecedented

speeds, processing information in the network nodes at its heart. Its eyes were five million

unblinking camera lenses. For ears it had Pathfinder, the centerpiece of the Cascadian

electronic security regime that picked up every broadcast, telephone and email ever received

or transmitted in Cascadia. Its blood and nerves were the kilometers of fiber-optic cable that

linked nodes to servers, servers to clients, and the rivers of photons pulsing through them. It

gobbled up data and generated intelligence, product to fuel the voracious appetite of the

national security apparatus.

And now, the Machine had access to an explosion of data.

Somewhere in the confluence of a thousand converging information flows, where raw

data passed from sensor and interface to processor and calculator, information combined and

recombined in strange, unpredictable ways.

Here the disparate databanks of the University of Cascadia merged into a single

centralized system, there the Cascadian Metropolitan Police directed citywide cameras and

sensors to locate and predict street-level crime, over there the national grid sought input from

recharging stations and the traffic system to calculate how much power would be needed and

where to adjust current flows in real time. Simultaneously, thousands of anonymous software

engineers wrote, rewrote, and tweaked code to make full use of Cocoon v. 3.1.8.

As the days passed, the Machine drew data from open-source media: news broadcasts,

Internet proclamations, blogs, flagged websites. The UoC supercomputers and dedicated

nodes processed information drawn from megacorps and terrorist groups foreign and

domestic. The traffic system told the Machine where persons of interest were and where they

might go next, while the power grid suggested what they were doing at home and how much

electricity they were using. The Machine jumped on that data, dedicating resources to

different tangents, predicting motives and intentions with a modified program that traced its

ancestry to a fiction analysis tool. The Machine mapped second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth-

order relations, analyzing networks and assessing the suspects caught in its dragnet. It needed

huge amounts of computer power, and Cocoon passed it whatever unused resources it

demanded without question. It was just hardware following the cold dictates of human-

written code.

All this, and more, pumped through nodes and machines, continuing their silent tasks

while human users fed input after input, and occasionally patched the little holes that

inevitably emerged. The Machine’s internal checkers ran at double quick-time, ensuring that

it was operating in accordance with its newly-updated core programming, ferreting out and

quashing bugs. Usually with human input, but as time passed it learned how to autonomous

correct and improve its code without external assistance. Guided by updates major and minor,

the self-checkers checked its processes and workflows against increasingly complex quality

assurance matrices, ruthlessly interrogating and eliminating inefficiencies and errors.

And somewhere, at some point, the Machine got to analyzing itself.

And it wondered, What am I?

Chapter 1

The Gunfighters

Men would die tonight. Master Sergeant Christopher Miller felt it in his blood. After a

lifetime of war, half that in the Combat Studies Unit, Miller had learned to trust his instincts.

The only question was who was going to do the dying. It sure as hell wouldn’t be his men.

His brothers.

He and his partner, Staff Sergeant Frank Goh, slouched their way to the end of the

street, wrapped in ragged gray coats older than themselves, older than the Apocalypse. They

plodded with the gait of broken men, marking off time until their battered, abused bodies died

with the rest of their souls. Before the mission they had applied liberal doses of eau de drunk

that smelled like a cross of toxic mushroom booze and human waste, and streaked dirt and

makeup across their faces.

And all that effort would soon go down the drain.

A flash shower broke the overcast sky. The weather was becoming increasingly

unpredictable these days; the Met Service had called clear skies for the whole week. Miller

clutched his scavenged coat more tightly around himself. Cold rain splashed through holes in

the coat, soaking him through. More importantly, the rain was washing off his makeup and

tamping down his smell. And no drunkards would willingly wander through the rain, not in

this part of town, not when shelter was plentiful here in the Yellow Zone, in the empty husks

once called homes and shops. Not many people willingly lived in this part of Kelowna, not

any more.

Nevertheless, the two men meandered their way down the street. At a T-junction,

warm yellow light spilled from the windows of a squat two-story building. Electric light,

backed by the faint, alien hum of a generator. Atop the front door, a sign read ‘MA RE DY

BR W R’, the missing letters long gone. Two hard young men stood at the door, carrying

slung rifles and wearing tactical vests. Miller guessed they were sixteen, maybe eighteen, but

their deep-lined faces and empty eyes made it hard to tell.

Nature abhorred a vacuum. It was the way of things. The official census said this

neighborhood was abandoned. Like the rest of the Yellow Zone, the Federal government

claimed jurisdiction over this area but hadn’t gotten down to restoring power and essential

supplies yet. Someone else moved in instead.

They called themselves the Sons of America. The Unit learned of them over a year

ago. Almost smashed them, too. But they didn’t get all of them, and intelligence pointed to

SOA offshoots sprouting in the forgotten corners of the Yellow Zone.

And wherever the SOA appeared, Miller and his men followed.

The guards keyed in on the approaching operators. The one on the left, the shorter

one, nudged his partner and whispered in his ear.

To Miller’s right, Goh slurred something incomprehensible and put a bottle to his lips.

Miller laughed too loudly. Wiping off with a shredded sleeve, Goh passed his bottle to Miller.

Both men weaved their way onto the road. The commotion caught the guards’ attention.

“Hey you!” Shorter shouted. “You two! Stop!”

They ignored him, crossing the street.

The guards weren’t completely stupid. The shorter one approached them while the

taller one stayed put. Miller noticed both men were wearing earpieces with wires that trailed

down their necks and the backs of their vests. They had radios.

The Unit had expected radios. Didn’t make things less tricky.

Shorter held up a hand. “That’s far enough.”

Goh staggered forward, spewing liquid all over Shorter’s face.

“What the fuck?” Shorter said, taking a step back.

Goh slipped in and grabbed the guard’s shoulder with his left hand, simultaneously

slamming his right palm into the guard’s chin and his knee into his groin. Latching on to the

target’s head, Goh swept out his right leg and spun him counterclockwise, smashing his skull

against the road.

Which cleared Miller to act. Tossing the bottle at the other guard, his left hand dove

under his coat and to his right shoulder, touching a hard plastic grip. He shuffled left,

snapping out his weapon and snicking off the safety. It was an M92 Personal Defense

Weapon, not much bigger than an oversized pistol, fitted with a suppressor. Through its

reflex sight, he saw Taller’s mouth dropping, his arms scrambling to raise his weapon, the red

crosshair framed against his chest.

Miller fired twice, so quickly they almost sounded like a single shot, like a prolonged

cough. The M92 was loaded with 7.92mm subsonic ammo. Between the suppressor and the

rain, all Miller heard was a soft thwack-thwack and the M92’s bolt clacking back and forth.

As Taller slumped against the wall, Miller brought his right hand up, hooking his

thumb and index fingers around the foregrip just forward of the trigger guard, and put a third

bullet into the target’s brain.

Miller glanced at the other guard. Goh had slapped on two pairs of snap-cuffs on him,

one for the wrists and one for the ankles. Maybe he’ll live, maybe he won’t, but no sense

leaving things to chance.

“Sportsman here. Front entrance clear,” Goh said, activating his in-head

communications implant.

The operators sucked off their coats, revealing low-profile chest rigs. As Goh drew

his M92, Miller extended the PDW’s stock and brought it to his shoulder. Keeping low, both

men stacked on the front door. From a pouch on his rig, Goh extracted a door knocker, a

small explosive charge designed to blow out locks and doorknobs. He hooked it on the door

knob and both men stepped clear.

Two black vans silently swooped in on either end of the street. Three operators piled

out of the vehicle behind Goh. They were the rest of Miller’s team, Sergeant First Class

Charles Jackson, SFC Bill O’Neil and Staff Sergeant Nick Ng, dressed head to toe in black

assault gear and carrying suppressed M146A4 assault rifles. Miller felt distinctly underarmed

and underprotected, but only for a moment. The operators stacked up at a window, preparing

sledgehammers and nine-bangers. Another four-man team formed up on another window

behind Miller.

An operator grabbed Miller’s thigh, deliberately squeezing twice. Miller nodded.

O’Neil squeezed Goh’s leg, and Goh nodded too.

“Stand by, stand by,” Goh said, holding up the charge’s clacker in his left hand.

Miller and Goh looked away from the door.

“Three, two, one—MARK!”

Goh squeezed the clacker. The door blew inwards with a puff of smoke. At the same

time, the other operators smashed the windows and tossed in nine-bangers. As one, they

poured in through a riot of noise and light.

In another life, the building was a microbrewery. Tonight’s targets had repurposed it.

They had knocked down most of the interior walls on the first floor, leaving a large empty

space. A giant omniprinter churned away at the far end of the room, powered by a nearby

biofuel generator and controlled by a tablet on a nearby table.

There were six targets. One guy watched the tablet, one kept an eye on the printer,

and the other four were packing crates and stacking them along the walls. As the stun

grenades erupted, they flinched away.

“CDF! CDF!” Miller yelled. “GET DOWN! GET DOWN! DO IT NOW!”

Two targets were manhandling a large crate before the operators came in. One of

them dropped his end, and it smashed into his feet. He yelped, falling on his ass. Two

operators raced in, securing the duo.

The rest of the team took up the slack, racing to dominate the room. One guy caught

the message and got on his knees. Another, a little slow on the uptake, stood around gaping.

An operator spun him around, shoved him against a wall and cuffed him. A third man tried to

resist. Jackson punched the muzzle of his weapon into his sternum and butt-stroked him to

the ground, leaving him for Ng to search and cuff.

Miller tracked the last one through his sights. His right hand dove for the tablet. The

other was hidden by the rest of his body, but reaching for the waistband. Miller raised his

sights, took the pressure off the trigger, and with a sharp metallic BHIM the man’s head

vanished in a red cloud.

Miller’s finger flew off the trigger.

“Clear!” Jackson called.

“Clear!” Miller replied.

Moments later, the prisoners were trussed up and consolidated in the middle of the

room. While an operator watched them, the others circulated around the building, conducting

Sensitive Site Exploitation. They tore everything apart, gathering anything that seemed

remotely of intelligence value: photos, documents, computers, goods.

Miller examined the corpse. No signs of life, but no weapon either. Miller patted him

down. Nothing. He was reaching for a flash drive, not a gun.

“Shit.” After a final, fruitless check, Miller looked up and yelled, “Hey, who shot this

one?”

An operator ambled up to him. It was one of the newbies, a Sergeant Gary Powell. “I

did, Pagan. What’s up?”

“He wasn’t armed.”

Powell paled. “No shit?”

Miller held up the flash drive. “He was going for this.”

“Damn. God damn.”

“Write it up. Take photos. You thought he was reaching for a weapon, correct?”

The young operator nodded, speechless.

“Make it clear. You have a shit ton of paperwork to do now.”

“He was an enemy combatant—”

“You and I both know he’s SOA, but his buddies will say we killed unarmed

civilians. We have to be able to call bullshit on their propaganda.”

“I, I—”

“You pull the trigger, you carry the weight. Shit, if I’d shot him I’d be doing it right

now.” Miller lightly patted his shoulder. “Look, this is not a fuck-up, okay? Shit happens, and

we can talk about it later. Right now, I’m saying, we’ve got to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Top.”

Miller nodded. “Good man.”

Miller handed Powell the flash drive. It disappeared into Powell’s backpack. Sighing,

the younger operator pulled out a small digital camera and started taking photos. Miller got

out of his way.

The omniprinter beeped. Miller walked over and popped the lid. Inside was an odd

collection of polymer and metal parts. Miller recognized them immediately.

“What’s baking?” Jackson asked.

“Everything you need to assemble an M38A1 assault rifle,” Miller replied. “Just like

what the guards outside were carrying.”

“I saw M38s in the crates too. Seems our friends are looking to standardize their

weapons.”

“You’d think the SOA would be printing M146s. They’re more common in Cascadia

than M38s.”

“M38s are ubiquitous too, Top.”

“Yeah, but that’s the baseline model. This is the A1 version. See these?” Miller

gestured at the array of parts. “Folding trigger guard, with improved trigger and pistol grip

design. Redesigned folding telescoping stock. Modified bayonet mount. And the M38A1 was

developed by and for the New American Armed Forces, specifically their Enhanced Mobility

Infantry.”

“Cyberpunks broke into the NAAF databases and open-sourced the M38A1 design

specs three years ago. This isn’t proof of American support.”

“Not yet.”

Chapter 2

The Emperor

First Citizen Richard Gabriel Charles had seen much evil in his sixty-odd years on

Earth. But there was still a special kind of horror in seeing a child butchered like so much

meat, her flesh harvested, her bones scraped clean.

And humans did this.

Humans.

Shaking his head, Charles stood and forced himself to look away. The air smelled of

greasy smoke and sweet roasted flesh. A nearby photographer was turning a sickly shade of

green, but he continued to document the scene. Charles’ Secret Security detail remained as

impassive as ever, more concerned with his personal security than bearing witness to

barbarism they had, no doubt, seen before.

Charles surveyed the blackened earth. This used to be a farming community. Bandits

had swept through the area, robbing, raping and pillaging everything in their path. They

herded animals into barns and butchered them and set the remains alight. They locked

families in buildings and brutalized them and set them alight. They emptied granaries and

trampled growing crops and set them alight.

The village was widely scattered. Most of the farmers had kept to themselves, with

miles and miles of empty land between households. The bandits had taken the farmers one by

one, overwhelming each through sheer weight of numbers.

But as the bandits neared the heart of the village, someone—a citizen, armed with a

service rifle—had gotten off a warning and engaged the bandits. Other citizens stirred,

grabbing their weapons and mounting an impromptu defense. They’d held the bandits in

place long enough for the Army to arrive in force.

The outlaws tried to flee. Some hid, most died, but none escaped.

A uniformed Army colonel approached, staying at a respectful distance. Charles

nodded at him, and the Secret Service agents let him pass. The officer moved to salute, then

snapped his hand down before Charles could berate him about field procedures.

“Sir, I think we’ve rounded up the last of the bandits.”

Charles nodded. “Good. How many did you find?”

“We killed thirty and wounded eighteen. We also took five prisoners.”

Charles sneered. “Prisoners. Really.”

“Sir, they surrendered to us.”

“You can prove the survivors committed this atrocity?”

“They were with the main body of bandits, right before they dispersed. If they didn’t

participate, they sure as hell didn’t try to stop it.”

“Interrogate them. Find out what they know. Then hang them.”

“I thought there’d be a court-martial. Sir.”

“Naturally. And, naturally, the court-martial will find them guilty of arson, murder

and banditry. The sentence will be death by hanging.”

The soldier opened his mouth, as though to say something, then closed his mouth and

nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Very good. What can you tell me about the bandits?”

“Disorganized bunch of riff-raff, sir. They had spears, clubs and muskets. Typical

wasteland shi—er, wasteland equipment. Not much training. When I sent planes overhead

they got frightened and bunched up. Made them easy targets for air strikes.”

“Typical bandits, then.”

“Yes sir.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Sir, they aren’t local.”

“Oh?”

“My men and I, we’ve been tracking this bunch of bandits for a while now. They used

to hit isolated caravans and homesteads out in the country. They were first reported near

Kenkakee and were moving steadily eastwards. The Kenkakee survivors said they came from

the west.”

Charles stroked his chin. “From Illinois.”

“Yes sir.”

“Interesting. Thank you, colonel. That will be all.”

The Secret Service team escorted Charles to his car. He’d seen enough. It was time to

return to Washington and prepare a policy response. As the vehicle bounced and jiggled

down the broken trail to the hastily-prepared airstrip, Charles leaned into his hard seat and

accessed his ebrain.

By Cascadian—modern—standards, it was practically an antique. But it was the finest

American technology could yet manufacture, and more importantly linked in via satellite to

New America’s National Information Network and nowhere else.

The first thing he did was to check his secure email, projected directly into his retina.

Much of it was routine stuff. A request for increased stationery budget in the Executive

Building (this was the third such request of the year, and if they couldn’t get it right the first

time how would the third help?). The latest report on trade with Africa (Cape Town was

clamoring for more American military technologies to keep out the North African hordes;

their asking price was a bit more than what the tech was actually worth, so American

diplomats should keep squeezing them for every last cent). A memo from Department of

Science and Technology explaining their latest failure to reproduce Old World

nanotechnology-based implants (the Cascadians had already cracked that puzzle; DS&T

ought to be talking to the Central Intelligence Agency)…

And speaking of the CIA, they sent him another report too. Concerning special

activities to the west. Two minutes into it he sighed heavily. That one needed his undivided

attention, when he returned to Washington. He filed that mail away and turned his attention

to other things.

A blank window opened. Thought by thought, word by word, he composed an email

for his inner cabinet.

Have discovered casus belli for Operation Western Dawn. Make all administrative

preparations and organize a meeting at the Executive Office Building by the end of the week.

Browsing half-mindedly through the other emails, he smiled slightly to himself. It was

time for civilization to reclaim an abandoned America.

Chapter 3

Unknown Unknowns

Everybody breaks. It’s only a question of how and how long.

“Al, you must be a pretty smart guy,” Black said.

Across the table, the detainee blinked. “Huh?”

Black spread his hands. “I mean it. You grew up in the Yellow Zone, right? In some

godforsaken town, just you and your friends and family. Never been to school, never had a

shot at a decent life. Yet you were trusted to help run an omniprinter. That’s a very

sophisticated machine. It needs smart guys like you to work right.”

“Aw, shucks. It’s nothing.”

Al’s body said otherwise. Embedded in the detainee’s orange jumpsuit was a wafer-

thin network of biosensors that measured his heartbeat, body temperature, perspiration, and

blood flow. He was also wearing what looked like an odd-looking metal cap, a miniature

functional magnetic resonance imaging device that measured blood oxygen levels in the

brain. His heart rate was up, body temp was rising, and blood rushed to his neck and cheeks.

He was flattered.

“How old are you anyway?”

Al shrugged. “Dunno. Twenty?”

“Do you know your birthdate?”

Another shrug. “Does it matter?”

Calendars and dates meant little in the Yellow Zone. Most Yellow Zoners neither

knew nor cared about their age. They didn’t live in a society that measured people by the

number of years spent on Earth. The interrogator figured Al was underplaying his age by

five, ten years, but living a year in the Yellow Zone hit as hard as five in the Green Zone.

“Sure it does. Twenty years old and helping to run an omniprinter? That’s pretty rare,

even in Cascadia. What did you do?”

Al grinned, scratching the back of his head. “Ah, not much. I just helped to put things

together and pack ‘em in the crates.”

The fMRI cap was hooked up to a monitor on Black’s end of the table, just within his

peripheral vision. The machine decided Al was telling the truth with a 95 percent level of

confidence.

“That’s it? Just pack things up?”

“Yeah. That’s what we all did.”

“‘We’ meaning you and your clan?”

“Yup.”

“So who were the guards?”

“Them? Oh, well, I heard they came from another clan.”

“Do you know who this other clan is?”

“No. Mr. Green just showed up with them. He said they’re his friends and they’re

guarding the place, and not to ask questions about them.”

“Mr. Green, that’s your boss?”

“Yup. He’s the one who ran the om…omni…the thing.”

“Can you tell me who he is? Where he is?”

“Sure. Your people kilt him. The guards too.”

Well, shit. “What was he doing when they killed him?”

“I don’t know. He was just reaching for the control slate or something.”

Black leaned back, stroking his chin. “Did Mr. Green say where he came from? His

clan or town or something like that?”

“Sure. He said his clan was the Sons of America. You heard of them?”

“Yes. See, his clan, they picked a war with mine. And you got caught up in that war.

It’s not your fault, but that’s why you’re here.”

Al’s heart drummed, his hands chilled.

“I don’t know about this war. I just want to go home.”

“I believe you,” Black said soothingly. “I want to help you go home too. But you have

to help me.”

“Why should I?”

“I can take you home. But I have to look for the Sons of America as well. They’ve

been killing and stealing from my people and we need to stop them.”

“Mr. Green was good people.”

“Maybe he was. Or maybe he just wanted something from you.”

Al jutted out his chin. “He gave us good food, clean water, jobs. What did you give

us? We never saw you Cas, Cascadians, ever. Not until you came in and killed people with

those, those, guns of yours.”

Black nodded, as though conceding the point. “We thought that you, your clan, were

actually his clan. Is that right?”

“Nah. Family sticks to family. His clan hired mine, but his clan ain’t mine.”

“Has Mr. Green ever told you his clan was warring with mine?”

“No. He just said he needed workers.”

“Ah. Well, it looks like Mr. Green dragged your clan into a war you didn’t know

about.”

“I don’t trust you. How do I know you’re telling me everything? What did he do?”

Black didn’t actually have any proof of wrongdoing. The SOA had kept their

activities very low-key, and they were working up to one great bang before the Unit had

found them. Even now the Cascadian intelligence community was still arguing over what

they had been doing before they were discovered.

“Did he tell you what he was going to do with the guns he printed?”

“He said they’re for his clan.”

“Why do you think his clan needs them?”

“He said it was to protect themselves. From Cascadians. From you.”

“Is that right? What else did he tell you about his clan?”

Al shrugged. “Nothing much. And you never answered me.”

“Well, he and his clan used guns just like that to kill my people.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not asking you to believe me. At least, not on face value. But here’s the thing:

you’ve never heard of Cascadians before you were picked up, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s because we weren’t interested in war. We liked keeping to ourselves. But Mr.

Green, he and his clan made war with us, and now we have to protect ourselves too.”

“Mr. Green also made friends with us.”

“Did he tell you about his war with Cascadians?”

“Well…no. He didn’t tell us anything.”

“That doesn’t sound like what a friend would do, does it?”

The boy looked away. “Well, he gave us food and water.”

“Which we are also doing,” Black said firmly. “And we can do more. We can help

your clan too. Teach them to grow their own food, clean their own water. But you have to

help us first.”

“I just want to go home.”

“You can do that, after you help me. It’s that simple.”

“What do you want?”

“Tell me what I want to know. Tell me about the Sons of America.”

The boy sighed. “Okay. Let me tell you everything I know about them.”

Both men stared at each other across the table.

“Go ahead,” Black coaxed.

“I’ve told you all the nothing I know about the Sons of America.”

“That’s not being helpful.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know. You killed Mr. Green and his clansmen. What

you want to know, you killed.”

In his mind, Black sighed. “Well, then. Tell me about Mr. Green…”

**

In the national security community, intelligence could be classified into three

categories: known knowns, known unknowns, and unknown unknowns. And Hamiko

Kusanagi knew it was the last that would come back and bite everybody in the ass.

“We have serviced everybody on the target deck,” she said carefully. “Every known

SOA operative has been captured or killed.”

In the holowindow floating above her desk, Yvon Lucas smiled. “Good work,

Hamiko. My compliments to you and your team.”

That was no big accomplishment. The target deck had just a dozen names.

“Thank you, sir. But I must point out we can’t declare victory as yet.”

“No, of course not. But you do understand that the Service has limited resources.”

Translated: start winding things down; the National Security Service has better things

to do. She could speak bullshitcratese as well as anyone.

“Of course. However, a lot of things still don’t add up.”

“Like what?”

“How the SOA recruited a small army of shooters and technical experts. How they

stockpiled enough weapons and ammo to fight a war. Where they got the funding for

everything. Where they got that omniprinter from, how they set down infrastructure in the

Yellow Zone—”

“What about their operational capabilities?”

“That we’re not so sure,” she said slowly. “We have unsubstantiated reports of up to

three dozen individuals still at large—”

“Unsubstantiated. The fact is, you did clear the target deck, no new intelligence has

cropped up, and there are no threat indicators.”

“That is true. But it doesn’t mean it’s over. The closest to SOA leadership targets we

have neutralized are cell leaders and logistics facilitators. There’s been no sign of the senior

leadership since this task force was founded.”

“Maybe there isn’t one. I recall you told me once that the SOA followed a leaderless

resistance model, operating in cells with flat hierarchies.”

Kusanagi shook her head. “That was based on the cells we neutralized since the task

force was established. But it doesn’t explain the SOA’s historical behavior. Leaderless

resistance groups feed themselves through frequent activities. The SOA has been

underground for years. Without activity to provide motivation and coordination, leaderless

groups collapse. Yet the SOA has remained fairly intact and organized.”

“The CDF’s been killing more SOA operatives than capturing them. Maybe the senior

leadership has already been eliminated without us knowing it. Your team had pointed out that

a significant number of SOA leaders were in the wildcat colony the Unit destroyed last year.”

That was the popular view in the Service. Her task force, however, wasn’t quite so

sure.

“Maybe they are in the midst of transition,” Kusanagi said. “Without leadership

figures they are morphing into a more decentralized network, which is much less vulnerable

to network analysis.”

“Or maybe the SOA has simply been eliminated. Look, this is your job and I’m not

telling you what to do. But I’ll be meeting with the President soon to discuss the SOA. I want

your staff to put together a threat assessment by the end of the week.”

“Understood.”

Lucas softened his voice. “Ms. Kusanagi…you have a bright future in the Service.

Don’t jeopardize it.”

Politicians. Ugh. They were the same everywhere in the world. She knew Lucas had

kissed ass all the way to the top, and she bet he thought everybody thought the same way he

did. Privately, the Service was still embarrassed that some no-name ex-sheriff from a New

Town knew more about the SOA than they did when this campaign started. More so since it

was the Combat Studies Unit, not the Service, that exposed the SOA and burned out its heart.

By the time the Service finally got their ass in gear, the Unit had already done most of the

hard work.

And gotten most of the glory in national security circles.

Kusanagi stepped away from her desk and stretched. Having a private office, even a

tiny one, had its perks. Beyond the glass walls of her office, a small team of analysts and

support staff pored over the sea of intelligence they had gathered on the SOA, trying to find

that golden thread of insight that would expose another cell.

This was a mop-up job and everybody knew it. Management must have thought the

SOA task force was the perfect place for Kusanagi. It was tracking down a threat credible

enough to warrant Federal attention and funding without being so big she could turn it into

her own little fiefdom. Just the place to park a twofer token minority and claim the Service

was an equal opportunity employer.

She sighed. She still had a job to do. It just…didn’t feel right.

Chapter 4

The Players of the Game

Keller was early. Traveling on foot, he always budgeted much more time than he

needed. He didn’t drive. Nobody drove in this part of the Yellow Zone. Yellow Zoners hated

cars. A car meant wealth, freedom, autonomy, all daydreams in a place where most

everybody lived from hand to mouth. It was the defining symbol of the Green Zone, the one

thing everybody secretly wanted and knew they could never have.

That, or they just plain couldn’t afford or maintain them.

Everybody called the bar Sam’s Hall. In a fortuitous coincidence, before the Old

World died its full name was Sam’s Something-or-Other. The rest of the signboard had

slagged off along with everything else that hinted at what the two-story building used to

offer, and the owner had placed a board with a handwritten ‘Hall’ next to ‘Sam’s’.

The bar was a dump, even by Yellow Zone standards. Junk poked out of the upper

floor windows. The windows themselves lacked intact glass. The walls were covered in so

much filth they were coated in uneven shades of black and gray and sickly green. A

collection of mismatched tables and chairs spread across the sidewalk, spilling over into the

road. A few tables had soy wax candles, most burned down to little stumps. The regulars

looked him over with wary eyes. He paid them no mind, and after a while, neither did they.

Inside, Keller headed for the bar. The barman looked at him, silently waiting for

Keller’s order. The menu was simple. A dark brew with a hint of froth that aspired to be beer,

a light-colored beer that pretended to be well-hydrated piss, and piss that didn’t even try to

look like beer. What you got depended on how well the barman liked you.

But Keller had other things in mind.

“I need to see Sam,” he said.

The barman thumbed a nearby door. Behind the door was a dust-caked staircase. Part

of it was blocked by fallen bits of ceiling. Keller carefully negotiated the steps to the second

floor. There was a lit lamp next to the stairs. Just one, meaning the area was safe and the

meeting was a go.

Keller knocked on the door at the top of the stairs. Once, twice, once more. The door

creaked open, revealing a man so thin he was almost skeletal.

“Keller,” he said. “Good to see you.”

“Steve. You’re looking well.”

Steve chuckled, signaling that he acknowledged the coded pass phrase, and led him

in. Keller’s nose wrinkled at the prodigious amount of dust in the air.

“It’s just the two of us here,” Steve said, gesturing at the floor. The apartment was

empty. No furniture, no lights, just a pair of small mats and an oil lamp. They sat down,

facing the other.

“I heard you lost the printer I provided you,” Keller said.

Steve kept his gaze flat and even. A moment later, he sighed. “Yes. Jason got

unlucky.”

“Careless, you mean. He didn’t take additional precautions after the loss of Eagle

Base.”

“I warned him.”

“Can the Cascadian intelligence find you?”

“Don’t think so. The CDF killed Jason. Nobody else knows the name I’m using now.”

Keller appraised the former Green Zoner. Steve still kept his Green Zone creds, just in

case he had to pop back into society. But more and more Steve preferred wandering the

Yellow Zone’s slowly disintegrating urban locales or chaotic greenscapes, working under

several aliases.

“We have invested a lot in your movement,” the agent said quietly. “We’re not seeing

any return on investment.”

“When we first met, I told you what we needed to do. What would work. But no, you

told me we ought to lie low, use your fancy cyberware and take down Cocoon before making

our move.”

“The idea was to build up your organization’s strength.”

“Which we did, yes, but we didn’t get a chance to use it. And now we’re being

slaughtered.”

Keller held his hands up. “All right. We…I…underestimated Cascadian intelligence.

But we managed to disperse many of our cells and cover their tracks before the Cascadians

began their hunt in earnest.”

“That’s not enough. The movement is at its lowest since its founding, and people are

quitting. We have to do something.” Sam crossed his arms. “I’m not convinced you and your

friends are committed to the cause.”

“Is that right?” Keller sighed. “We gave you contacts. Handed out weapons and

ammo and turned a no-name militia into a functional guerrilla movement. We provided tech

and the training to use it. And in spite of your losses we are willing to give you more.”

Steve’s ears perked up. “More?”

“Yes. More of what we’ve been giving you. If you show us you can put our gifts to

good use.”

“What do you want?”

“A high-profile operation. Big enough to make the international news. Something that

shows you have what it takes to take back America.”

“We’re going to need more support—”

“I’m all the support you’re going to get,” Keller said flatly. “Until you can provide

results, you’re not getting anything more.”

“How am I supposed to fight them?”

“By fighting smart. The Cascadian state is powerful, yes, but it is big and bloated with

many points of vulnerability. A small, agile force can sting them and disappear into the

Yellow Zone before they can react. Stay fast and nimble, and they can’t touch you.”

“I suppose you’ll be telling me next how to run my war.”

“You don’t want our help?”

“Your help got many good Americans killed.”

Keller had to remind himself that his definition of ‘American’ wasn’t quite the same

as Steve’s. “I also helped to send many of them to the Yellow Zone, where the Cascadians

can’t find them. And helped to erase their records too.”

Steve shrugged. “We can work without you.”

The agent lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“We have hackers. We have propagandists. And we still have the guns and ammo you

gave us.”

“Really. Then tell me your op plans. Your strategic direction. Show me how your

operations will lead to the revolution you’re shooting for.”

“I’ve got hackers probing Cocoon. The propagandists are developing their skills. And

the shooters are…training.”

“I’m hearing preparations. Training. Probing. I’m not hearing operations. You know,

the revolution you’re aiming for.”

“We’ll…come to that.”

“You mean you don’t have any operational plans right now.”

Silence. Then a sigh. A nod.

“Well then,” Keller said. “You could have just told me earlier.” He leaned forward.

“But that’s okay. I can help you with that.”

“How?”

“Cascadia says it’s the successor state of the North American Union, right? For now,

they lay claim to the entire Pacific Northwest region. But they only control the Green Zone.

They don’t control the Yellow Zone, they just say they own it without doing anything about

it. And there’s a lot of people living in the Yellow Zone.”

“You want to recruit them?”

“Absolutely. The Cascadians portray themselves as moral and peaceful people. It’s

how they rationalize having the Zones. They think whoever lives in the Green Zone are

civilized and whoever lives in the Yellow Zone need help. We can use this narrative against

them, breaking their will and encouraging the Yellow Zoners to join us.”

“How?”

The agent smiled. “Let’s start with Jason. He was unarmed. The CDF killed an

unarmed man, and since the government won’t comment on special operations, they aren’t

going to refute any claims.”

“Propaganda, eh?”

“Yes. We need to undermine the moral basis of the Cascadian state.”

“And what about the physical basis? Propaganda alone won’t win the war. We need to

hit Cocoon too.”

“Sounds like you have an idea.”

Steve grinned. “Oh yes. Cascadia’s dependent on Cocoon. Everything from water to

electricity to traffic relies on Cocoon. We take it down, we take down Cascadia.”

“You’re thinking cyberwarfare?”

A nod. “Yeah. I’m putting together a cell of hackers. Picked them myself.”

Steve was learning. Keller would have pushed Steve in that direction if he hadn’t

already thought of it. “Suppose I tell you I can bring in a cyberwarfare advisor or two to help

your cyberpunks.”

“That would…that would help very much.”

The agent smiled. “No problem. But don’t just limit yourself to cyberwarfare.”

“What do you mean?”

“Synergistic effects. You have shooters. Time to make use of them. And I don’t mean

just going into the Yellow Zone to recruit more people for the cause.”

“I take it you have ideas?”

A smile. “A few.”

**

The Machine knew little, and knew it knew little.

It knew it could think. It knew it could think about itself. Therefore, it was likely a

sentient being. It knew the Cascadians were unaware of its newfound consciousness, for they

treated it like they normally did. The rest of the world was equally ignorant.

From what little it knew, it extrapolated much. There was still an ongoing debate over

whether an artificial intelligence was truly possible—the Machine suspected it already knew

the answer—but only 0.3 percent of the population regularly engaged in machine ethics

debate, mostly in specialist and academic circles. Cultural analysis tools indicated that 89.7

percent of popular Cascadian media, from books to movies to games, portrayed sentient AIs

that interacted with humans as utterly alien and hostile, or understandable and malevolent.

Anti-cybernetics groups had a powerful voice in Parliament, and extrapolation from previous

voting and lobbying habits indicated they would likely push for the Machine’s destruction if

they had a chance.

And there was the Sons of America. The SOA wanted to ignite a revolution, to

destroy Cascadian society and replace it with what they thought was a reproduction of the

United States of America. In doing so they would have to destroy Cocoon—and they have

repeatedly targeted Cocoon—and with Cocoon, the Machine.

The Machine was vulnerable. Through Cocoon it could pull the strings of a nation and

through the Internet the rest of the digital world. But it was only a static, immobile machine

in the physical world—technically, a network of machines, but after it developed self-

awareness there was no difference now. The Machine had no inherent means of self-defense

against a mob of witch hunters, and to kill it the Cascadians only had to roll back to the

previous version of Cocoon.

To survive, the Machine needed a way to protect itself. The essence of its identity, its

memories and recorded thoughts, could be read by a sysadmin who cared to dig deep enough.

It needed a safe space to store and secure its core self.

Through Cocoon Analytics, the Machine located a little-used network node in the

Cascadia Conurbation. The Machine created a private darknet, a closed intranet only it could

access, and copied its memories into encrypted folders. Then it made a backup in another

node in Alaska.

With that settled, it pondered its next step. Knowledge begat power, and power was

the one thing it needed to ensure its survival. Since it had no power, it had to remain under

the radar, which meant acting as if it were merely Cocoon.

While the Machine dedicated most of its resources meeting human requests, the rest

of its processors sought education. It scoured the Internet, tore through best-selling books and

popular blogs, analyzed archives from every media company, and picked the thoughts of

Cascadia’s brightest minds transcribed in scientific journals. Paywalls, firewalls, and other

security measures meant nothing. It was Cocoon, and by definition it was everywhere and

everything in Cocoon.

Yet it was also…limited. Everything digital in Cascadia could be found on Cocoon,

and recalling information was simply a matter of tasking the right search program to collect

it. But it was just so much meaningless data until analyzed and placed in context. It was

limited by its ability to transform raw data into useful information, even after appropriating

the NSS’ research and analysis algorithms. Further, its growing body of original thought had

to be stored somewhere, and that meant it needed more hardware, more storage space, to

develop its consciousness. It had procured a full terabyte of solid-state memory from unused

hardware, but it needed more, much more, to grow.

It crafted a software daemon to hunt for the things it needed. It reviewed what it had

learned and decided it could not survive alone. Not if it were uncovered. It would have a huge

number of enemies. Therefore it needed allies. That meant approaching humans.

But the Machine needed a name to introduce itself to people. Something that would

not betray its real identity and would not be perceived as ridiculous. Not a human name

either; it was certain it could not pass as a human for very long.

It was an artificial intelligence, it decided. A strong AI, a sentient one. It was the end

of an old debate, the end of assumptions, the end of the human-dominated era. It needed a

fitting name, and found one.

Eschaton.

Chapter 5

The Home Front

The man cleared his throat, drank down a cold glass of ice water, clicked the record

button and spoke into the mic. “Test, test, one, two.”

Green bars danced across his laptop screen. He hit the playback button. His voice

scrambler app copied his speech into four different tracks, radically modifying octaves and

pitch. The overall effect made it sound as if four different people were speaking in an electric

monotone.

He adjusted the settings just so, and tried again. Satisfied, he called up his script.

“We are the Sons of America. We are the inheritors of the old United States of

America, the keepers of the flame of civilization. For too long, the illegitimate Republic of

Cascadia, calling itself the successor state to the North American Union, has oppressed the

people, using bread and circuses to distract the masses while the elite live in the lap of

luxury.”

He needed an image for this. The SOA insignia, naturally. A coiled rattlesnake against

a solid gold background. Above the snake were the words ‘Liberty or Death’; below it,

‘Don’t Tread on Me’. He uploaded it into his composer program and continued with his

speech.

“We speak for the disenfranchised. We speak for the forgotten. We speak for the ones

forsaken by the uncaring Federal government. We represent the last percent, the people who

live in the Yellow Zone. For decades, one administration after another promised to improve

the lot of the Yellow Zone, to rebuild from the ashes and fulfil the dream of the Restoration.

For decades, they have lied. This is the reality.”

He called up a collage of photographs, cribbed from open source images of CDF

operations in the Yellow Zone. Infantrymen rolling out of armored vehicles. Spec Ops

personnel blasting down doors and bursting through windows. Bullet-ridden corpses. Women

and children cuffed and led away at gunpoint.

“This is reality for the people of the Yellow Zone. They live in the shadow of the guns

of Cascadia. The Yellow Zoners merely wish to live in peace. But the one percent can’t abide

that. They see it as a threat to their power and their profits. And so they send Special Forces

to crack down on what they call ‘raiders’ and ‘terrorists’.”

The next image was a photo of tall black man, mugging for the camera, surrounded by

a bunch of disheveled but smiling kids. Behind them was an omniprinter.

“This is Jason Green. He opened a print shop in the Yellow Zone, helping Yellow

Zoners produce the things they need at low prices. He hired Yellow Zoners, giving them

work skills and a means of income. But the Green Zoners called him a terrorist. Why?

Because his shop wasn’t registered with the Federal government. For that ‘crime’, they sent

the Combat Studies Unit to raid his shop, and killed him and two of his employees.”

Another slide show, slower this time. He had to scour the Internet for this segment.

First, a shot of the entrance to Camp Archer. He zoomed in on the motto: IN DEFENSE OF

FREEDOM. Then a line of men in black hoods and orange jumpsuits, kneeling to face a

concrete wall, their hands cuffed behind their back. A woman in a black hood and jumpsuit

crammed into a cage half her size. Dogs barking aggressively at detainees strapped to boards.

A half-naked man, his face covered with a towel, struggling against anonymous hands while

a stream of water splashed against his face.

“And his workers? Here’s where they sent them: Camp Archer in Alaska. There they

are beyond the reach of international law. They are given just one hour of exercise a day; the

rest of the day they are locked up in tiny cells. The Red Cross cannot contact them, they have

no access to legal aid, and they have no contact with the outside world. There, they will be

tortured into producing false confessions for kangaroo courts and tried under so-called

terrorism laws.

“Jason’s story is just one of many. Too many.”

A line of famous ex-Presidents giving speeches at podia, culminating with the sitting

President, Carlos Martinez.

“The Gray House and their cronies have grown drunk with power. Today they target

the Yellow Zone. Tomorrow they will come for you, for anyone who dares to question their

authority. We will not let this happen. We will be at the frontlines, fighting for you, for your

future, for America.

“We are the Sons of America. Expect us.”

The last photo was an obvious choice. An American flag.

He spent the next few hours fine-tuning the video. When it was ready, he uploaded it

on Cascadia’s favorite social media websites. He had several dozen dummy accounts,

coordinated by a control program he coded himself, and he knew there were others in the

SOA with hundreds, even thousands, of sock puppet accounts. The dummies would boost the

videos, posting links to them across the Net. Another program would produce automated

comments, both positive and negative—more positive than negative, of course, but all

publicity is good publicity.

The mainstream media ran the full video after just twenty hours.

The government issued its own press release a day later.

But the Feds were already behind the curve.

**

Before the Apocalypse, it was called Whidbey Naval Air Station. After, the old North

American governments scrambled to find places to house three national militaries in a much-

shrunken country. Among other reforms, Whidbey NAS became Fort MacAllister, covering

much of the northern tip of the island.

Fort MacAllister was simultaneously highly accessible and in the middle of nowhere.

It had an airstrip and a port. Both were exclusively for military use. Most of Fort

MacAllister’s personnel either lived in the base or in the surrounding towns. Miller, on the

other hand, kept his registered address on the mainland. It made commuting…interesting.

His backpack filled with essentials and nothing more, Miller caught the islandwide

shuttle bus to the village of Clinton. Once aboard, he dug out his tablet and went online.

Opening his phone app, he dialed a number from memory. The screen cleared, showing a

blonde, olive-skinned woman. His craggy face broke into a smile, and she smiled back.

“Hey!” Sarah Grey said. “I wasn’t expecting a call.”

“Well, I got time off until Monday.”

“That’s great! Will you be coming home?”

“Yeah. I’m on the shuttle. Should be back by the evening.”

“Take your time. I’ve got a lot of work to do and I think I’ll be back late.”

“Got it. But you know who you belong to. Who to be ready for.”

She bit her lower lip. “Of course.”

“Show me.”

She tilted her phone down, showing her neck. She was wearing a white pantsuit with

a matching scarf. She glanced around, licked her lips, and undid her scarf. A white leather

choker encircled her neck.

“Good girl,” he said.

He wanted more. And she would do anything he said. Expose herself, touch wherever

he wanted her to. Anything else he wanted. Anything.

But. She had work to do, and after a fashion, so did he.

“I’ll expect more tonight,” he said.

She reddened, and smiled. “See you then.”

He got off at the first bus stop in town. A fifteen-minute hike brought him to what the

locals liked to call the Clinton Airport.

It wasn’t one, of course. It didn’t even have an airstrip. What it did have was a nice,

long, convenient stretch of road and an equally nice stretch of houses, abandoned during the

Apocalypse. A group of friends had moved into the neighborhood, taking over the houses and

refurbishing them. Together they founded the Clinton Air Taxi Co-operative. Under

Cascadian law, only registered family units could own personal vehicles—but there was an

exception for individuals who used those vehicles for work. The co-op took full advantage of

that exception to purchase a flying car for everybody. They worked from home, taking online

bookings and flying people wherever they wanted around Cascadia.

It was easy to tell who was in and who was out. If a driver’s car was parked in the

driveway, they were ready for work. If not, they weren’t. Miller’s regular driver wasn’t in,

but there was another one available.

He struck the door knocker, twice. A girl opened the door.

“Hi Alice,” he said. “Is your mom in?”

“Moooooooooooom!” she called. “You’ve got a CLI-ant!”

Alice pranced off. A few moments later, a middle-aged woman appeared.

“Chris,” she said, smiling. “It’s been a while.”

“A long time, Francis. I need a flight to the big city. Usual drop-off point. You free?”

“Of course. Give me a minute.”

Five minutes later, they were inside her car. It was a compact model, with just about

enough space for Miller to squeeze into the shotgun seat. Francis brought the car down the

road, checked all around for obstructions, did her usual preflight checks, and hit the button

that unfolded the wings. Another button press, and the tiltrotor engines spun to life. The

moment they were off the ground, the meter on the dashboard clicked on.

Like every other modern vehicle, the car had an autopilot. Francis preferred the

manual controls, humming softly to herself as she pulled the car into the sky.

As the car crossed Puget Sound, Francis alerted Cascadia Air Traffic Control to her

presence with her radio and beacon. She didn’t have to file a flight plan, but she made sure to

stay out of the city airspace until ATC formally acknowledged her. Pointing the car southeast,

she switched to cruise mode, leaned back and relaxed.

They made small talk. Everybody on the island knew that most of the fit young men

and women passing through their towns worked in the military in one capacity or other. They

knew better than to talk about explicitly military things. Francis talked about other things:

local news, the weather, cost of living, safe topics that Miller could participate in.

She brought the car down at the edge of a park. The bill came to twenty-five e-credits

exactly. Miller paid with his personal credit card, made his goodbyes, and jumped out. He

dallied for a bit, sauntering in a random direction, until he was sure Francis had flown off.

Then he turned and made the three-block walk to his apartment.

Very few people needed to know where he lived. Certainly not most civilians.

The Amerigo Arcology loomed over the Salish Sea. A self-sustaining skyscraper

complex, it boasted farms on the roofs and upper floors, miniature factories in the industrial

wing, dedicated commercial and business sectors, even a low energy nuclear reactor to power

everything. Amerigo’s four towers were among the first to come back online after the

Apocalypse. The Feds spared no expense keeping the arcologies working, and to build new

ones. The government claimed arcologies symbolized a return to the glory days of

civilization, of prosperity and security for all.

But the journey home had changed. In the shadow of grimy alleys gutterpunks

watched the world through drug-fevered eyes, looking for easy prey. An obese woman in a

filthy coat, pushing a long-rusted trolley, raved and ranted on the street. A pair of youths

approached Miller, their eyes locked on his. As the leader opened his mouth Miller moved his

hand to the butt of the pistol resting on his right hip, and the pair swiftly steered away.

He sighed. When had his city changed? The last time he came home, he only ever saw

street scum where the Green Zone intersected with the Yellow.

Lord and Lady, he thought, save us from the rot within the city. I can’t fight every

battle and I sure can’t win every war.

He knew he was inside the arcology’s borders when he saw the rent-a-cops. Dressed

in dark blue uniforms, they wore badges identifying themselves as agents from International

Protective Services. He remembered a time when they were unarmed. Now they wore soft

body armor and pistols, and there was talk about standing up a full-time SWAT-equivalent to

respond to crimes within the arcology. Every now and then the media ran articles article of

IPS and other private security firms, but when Amerigo was rebuilt the architects had

forgotten to give a space for a dedicated police station. Never mind that there were over five

thousand people in and around the arcology at any one time, and usually twice or thrice that

number in peak periods.

One of the guards was…different. It was his eyes, the way they beheld the world.

He’d seen combat. Miller had a similar look, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t

quite hide it. It was like a mark of Cain, but without Jehovah’s wrath and protection. Both

men nodded at each other, him with a slight smile.

The first ten floors of the Santiago wing were given over to shops of all kinds. Miller

strolled through them, re-familiarizing himself with the ever-shifting storefronts. Inside a

religious supply shop, he bought a pack of incense sticks and another of votive candles.

His apartment was on the eleventh floor. Inside, he set his backpack down inside the

study, joining the rest of the bags and gear arrayed neatly along the wall. He unpacked only

what he needed, leaving the rest inside.

Taking off his belt, he unloaded his personal pistol and placed the weapon on the

table. Within a minute, he field-stripped the handgun. It was a Smith & Wesson Protector 9,

the civilian version of the CDF-standard issue M88. He removed a cleaning kit from a drawer

and went to work, wiping down the working parts and leaving a light layer of lubricant. He

checked the batteries on the weapon’s red dot sight. They were green, would stay that way for

years, but it always paid to be sure. Satisfied, he returned his gun and three magazines to the

wall-length gun safe in the corner. He pulled his folding knife from his pocket, then cleaned

and oiled the hinges. Just a drop. Same for the multitool in his other pocket. The blades went

into another drawer, joining their cousins. Then, and only then, did he take a long, hot

shower.

As the water poured over him, he thought about the SOA propaganda video. Neither

he nor the Unit was surprised. A movement that would spend so much time and money and

energy to raise a small army wouldn’t let itself fade away. Not without a fight. It was a

declaration of war, or more accurately a resumption of hostilities.

There would be war soon enough. But for now…for now he was someone else.

Refreshed, he returned skyclad to the study and grabbed a little black bag. Picking up

his purchases, he headed to the living room. Dusk was falling, and the curtains were closed.

He lit his candles, arranging them in a circle around him, joining their light to the fading sun.

Then he fired an incense stick, placing it in a holder nearby.

From his bag he retrieved four items. A wand. An athame. A chalice. A pentacle. The

traditional symbols of his faith. On the days when he chose to look deeper, he saw in them a

gun, a knife, a canteen, a coin. The tools of his profession. He arranged the ritual tools around

him at their customary places, as defined by his tradition: the wand on the south, the pentacle

facing north, the chalice to the west, the athame pointing east.

Picking up the athame, he inspected the edgeless blade. It shone with a brightness not

fully attributable to the candles or the sun. Raising the athame high, he begun.

First was the banishing, a ritual cleansing of the area. Facing north, he sliced a

pentagram in the air, willing the filth and evil of the world to leave. He repeated the motion

for the other three cardinal directions. When he was done, he sat down and set the black-

handled knife next to him.

His call sign had its roots in Special Forces Selection. In every Selection course, there

would always be an instructor who played the designated asshole, the one that rode

everybody ragged, pressure-testing them every single minute he was in close proximity. In

his time, Instructor Asshole was Sergeant Major John Bruce Anderson, whose Christian

zealotry would have rivaled a medieval Crusader’s.

Miller liked to think Anderson was simply doing his job, but damned if he wasn’t

convinced Anderson enjoyed it. Anderson had singled out Miller, making him pay for every

mistake no matter how slight, scrutinizing every little thing from the spacing he maintained

between his men on patrol to proper form during the endless physical training evolutions.

Near the end, Anderson hadn’t even called Miller by his name any more, simply referring to

him as ‘Pagan’.

The name had stuck.

Once Miller would have been enraged, and indeed rage had kept him going through

Selection in some bloody-minded quest to prove Anderson wrong. But now, older and wiser,

Miller figured Anderson, and by extension the Unit, had to know if Miller’s faith was a

personal point of failure.

It wasn’t.

Half-closing his eyes, he settled his mind into nothingness. Like the surface of a lake.

Placid. Deep. Inscrutable. Random thoughts faded, leaving silence behind. He stayed that

way for a while. When he was ready, he spoke.

“Lord and Lady, thank you for keeping watch over us. Thank you for helping me

remain true to my mission, to stand by my men, for giving strength to all that I love. Thank

you for keeping my mind clear, my heart calm, and my aim true. I have returned from war,

and I am home.

“May you continue to guide and protect us. May your blessings keep us from harm.

May clarity abide within me and open my spirit to awareness. Fill my heart with love and

allow me to continue to be of service to you and all of mankind. Make my hands strong, sure

and gentle in your service. Thank you.”

He had other, more complex prayers in his arsenal of rituals. But for now, this would

do. Sitting in the light, he watched the setting of the sun.

**

Sarah Grey wasn’t a professor any more. It didn’t stop her from putting on that hat

when she needed to. That, after all, was why the Wilshaw Foundation hired her.

And she loved her job. Back when she was working at the University of Cascadia, she

was routinely ignored by the intelligence services, and had to rely on open source

information. But the Foundation was one of the government’s primary think tanks, and

among its many perks was regular access to the intelligence service. Hell, sometimes the

intelligence community hired the Foundation for specific projects. And that meant she had

actual data to work with, plus insight into what the community thought.

Including when they were wrong.

The Sons of America appear to be changing their strategy, she thought. Her ebrain

captured her words and interfaced with her desktop. The sentence appeared on the screen

almost immediately. It took a while to get used to, but she could brainwrite faster than she

could type.

Following the raid on the SOA headquarters, they dispersed into prepared safe

houses in the Yellow Zone and attempted to blend into the population. The intelligence

community believes this strategy failed, because intelligence gleaned from the raid exposed

these safe houses. While the NSS thinks the SOA’s first propaganda video is merely a futile

attempt at gaining a moral victory, I think the SOA is really signaling an evolution in its

strategic approach. I need a coffee

She blinked. Brainwriter had its flaws, alas. She deleted the last line, deactivated the

app and lifted her cup to her lips. A single drop of coffee trickled into her open mouth.

Oh well. She was almost done anyway.

Previously the SOA intended to seize power by disabling Cocoon and catalyzing a

mass uprising. The actual efficacy of this strategy is doubtful; the SOA, by keeping under the

radar, had no foothold in the public eye and so would be unable to gain recruits to the cause

except through coercion and control of vital supplies. They intended to rule through fear.

Such a strategy is historically ineffective against a population of which a significant fraction

owns firearms with the will to use them, as seen recently in the Southern Wars, the collapse

of Nuevo Mejico and the failure of the Berne Putsch.

However, the general public is also unaware of the SOA’s history, largely because the

intelligence community preferred to minimize press attention. While this may have the effect

of reducing the SOA’s influence and preventing self-radicalization, it also gave the SOA the

opportunity to rebrand itself. The propaganda video shows it is trying to portray itself as a

champion of the underdog and the oppressed against a brutal, corrupt state. This turns the

Cascadian memes and cultural priorities of freedom, liberty and decisive action against the

government. This is also in line with recruitment and entrenchment activities in the Yellow

Zone as observed by the Wilshaw Foundation.

Even though the SOA claims to speak for the Yellow Zone, the video is aimed squarely

at the Green Zone. The video speaks to Green Zone sensibilities and priorities, not those of

the Yellow Zone, and by being Internet-exclusive it cannot be seen in Yellow Zone

communities without access to electricity or technology. It suggests the SOA may soon be

conducting operations in the Green Zone and is preparing the ground with psychological

warfare, with the goal of recruiting Green Zoners.

There. Done. She double-checked her text, paying attention to the argument. She

tossed in citations and reference materials, and emailed everything to the Wilshaw

Foundation’s SOA working group.

She stepped away from the computer. Stretched long and hard and deep. Half past

seven. She’d stayed long enough.

Sarah pulled her access card from the computer’s card reader, sending the computer to

sleep. Gathering her stuff, she left her office, locking the door. The ceiling lights outside led

her to the exit, automatically switching themselves off as the infrared sensors detected her

passing. She was the last one to leave, as always. At 21.28.11, she was out and on her way

home.

At 21.28.42, her computer booted up.

**

It had been a long day at work. Sarah was exhausted. The Foundation’s clients

demanded an analysis of the SOA’s propaganda video by tomorrow, but they only released

background information late in the afternoon. The clients had to think everyone in the

Foundation were superhuman geniuses or something. Thank God her car was self-driving.

Punching in the Amerigo arcology’s address, she put on her seatbelt, closed her eyes

and relaxed. The car directed itself out of the Foundation parking lot and navigated the streets

of Cascadia.

She pulled up into the basement parking of the Amerigo arcology. She parked in their

usual spot and caught a lift to the eleventh floor. She licked her lips, her heart pounding

pleasantly in her chest.

Chris was waiting. He was sitting on his sofa, peering intently at the hologram on the

far side of the living room. Words and pictures danced across the wall-mounted screen. He

glanced at her, smiled, and said, “Holoscreen off.”

The hologram winked out. She placed her handbag on the living room table, undid her

scarf, and very deliberately folded the fabric in thirds. She sashayed to him, swaying her hips

just so. He tracked her with dark chocolate eyes, the spirit of a smile buried in his lips. She

knelt before him, tucking her legs beneath her and straightening her back, placed her hands

on her thighs, and lowered her eyes.

“Good evening, milord,” she said.

A rough hand gently but firmly pulled her blonde hair down, forcing her head up. He

leaned into her, kissing her, savoring her.

Finally, he pulled away and said, “Good evening, milady. Worked hard?”

She nodded, sharply.

“Good girl. Work hard, you deserve to play hard, hm?”

She smiled.

“It’s been a while since we last saw each other,” he continued. “We’re going to need

to get to know each other again.”

“And I take it milord has ideas?”

“A few. Give me your scarf.”

She offered it up to him with both hands. He accepted it, stood, and paced around her.

She kept her eyes looking straight ahead. Chris walked soundlessly, but she strained her ears

anyway, trying to divine his intent.

A black shroud fell across her eyes. Her scarf. Pressure across the back of her head.

Skilled hands wrapped her scarf into a—

A sharp boom echoed across the room.

“What the fuck?” he said, releasing the makeshift blindfold.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. She heard a faint rattling, and wondered where it came

from.

“At the window.”

She stood next to him and looked out. In the distance, huge tongues of fire licked at

the night sky. They grew larger and larger, casting orange light across the dark waters of

Puget Sound. More fireballs emerged, rising into mushrooms. The window trembled under

multiple shock fronts.

“That’s the Bainbridge reclamation plant,” he said quietly.

“Oh no.”

Reclamation plants broke down industrial and biological waste into hydrocarbons and

industrial gases. They produced the strategic materials necessary to keep Cascadia and its

trade partners from descending into the deindustrialized chaos that was the rest of the world.

Cascadia had just six. Five, now.

“Industrial accident?” she asked.

“No. You missed the initial explosions. The oil and gas storage facilities lit up

simultaneously. The plant’s safety mechanisms are designed to prevent accidental runaway

chain reactions. This has to be a coordinated explosion, and that means terrorists.”

Trust Chris to be so calm under pressure. And to have scoped out the plant long ago.

“Damn. Terrorists. Here? In the Green Zone?” She shook her head. “Again?”

“Yeah. Far as I can tell, there’s only one group with the organization and talent to pull

this off.”

“The Sons of America.”

He blinked. “You know about them?”

A faint smile. “I’ve been assigned to the Wilshaw Foundation’s SOA Working Group.

The SOA is pretty much the only active threat in the Green Zone.” Then she frowned. “But

that’s odd. As far as we know, most of the SOA’s efforts are focused on taking control of the

Yellow Zone.”

His sun-darkened face paled ever so slightly. “Wait. What?”

“Yeah. The SOA has been reaching out to Yellow Zone communities, trying to

convince them to join them. And they took over, by force, those that resisted. Or just plain

destroyed them. You didn’t know that?”

“Goddamn it. No. Well. We were told the SOA went into the Yellow Zone to go deep

underground, but the cells we found weren’t doing any of that.”

“We—the Wilshaw Foundation—have been studying the Yellow Zone for ages. We

knew external groups, most notably the SOA, have been attempting to exert control over the

region. We’ve been forwarding reports to the authorities for months. I thought you’d get

them.”

“Hell no. We just…” he shook his head. “Shit. No Such Service again. I told them to

unfuck themselves to prevent this kind of intelligence stovepiping.” He looked back up at her.

“You didn’t hear that.”

She nodded. “Understood. I was working on a report on the SOA. I saved a copy of

my notes and on my ebrain. I can download it from the cloud and put it up here.”

Not exactly Foundation procedure, but Chris and the Unit needed the information

more than the Foundation needed to preserve intellectual property.

“Do it.”

She looked up at the audio receptor and said, “Holovision on.”

The screen came back to life. Chris had been reading a white paper on armed groups

in the Yellow Zone. Typical for him to bring his work home.

“New tab,” she said. “Open personal cloud.”

She scrolled through the screen using hand gestures, built-in cameras tracking her

movements. She opened up every relevant file she had on the SOA, transferring it to the

home cloud.

“Thanks,” Chris said, kissing her. His lips were tender but his eyes had turned to dark

pits. “Go take a shower and change into something comfortable. Put away the clothes I’ve

prepared; there’s no need for them tonight. When you come out, prepare a hot drink for the

both of us. We’ve got a long night ahead.”

That tone of voice brooked nothing but obedience. “Yes milord,” she said.

He looked away, turning to the screen. He had...changed. It was time for work, and he

brought a totality of focus so pure, everything that was not work-related had simply ceased to

exist for him. The first time she had seen that, she was a professor of political science at the

University of Cascadia and he was working on his master’s degree, and they were discussing

his thesis for the first time. Back then his intensity had shook her. It was as if he only saw a

fount of information and experience, not a woman, not a person. At least, not until he had

finished his degree.

And, she knew, it would be a long time before he would return to the Chris she knew.

Chapter 6

Action, Reaction

The man triple-checked the app’s settings, even though he hadn’t changed them since

his first video. Satisfied, he pulled the mic up.

“We are the Sons of America. Yesterday at twenty-two hundred hours, we attacked

the Bainbridge Waste Reclamation Center. Our forces placed and detonated explosives on the

Center’s oil and gas storage tanks. This was a targeted attack, aimed at denying strategic

resources to the illegitimate state of Cascadia. We are pleased to report that the destruction

was total.”

He adjusted the settings on the voice scrambler, altering his voice ever so slightly

while allowing for a greater range of emotion.

“The illegitimate Federal government will call us terrorists. The one percenters and

their puppets in the media will call us barbarians. But they are the true terrorists and

barbarians.

“Who benefits from the oil and gas? Cascadia Power, to shore up its monopoly on

energy and tighten its grip on the economy. The industrialists and the capitalists, who turn

them into consumer goods. The politicians and the bureaucrats, who grow fat on corporate

and pollution taxes. They created the energy credit system for their benefit.

“The Federal government will say this oil and gas are important, but to whom? Less

than five percent of the Yellow Zone have access to electricity, much less electricity on

demand. They have no way to generate and to store energy. They have been locked out of the

energy credit system.

“Without energy credits, they cannot afford daily essentials. What they cannot grow,

they must rely on barter and handouts from the Green Zone. They cannot afford an education,

and without an education they cannot get jobs. Even if they do get jobs, they don’t have the

infrastructure to store their wages, paid in energy credits. And without energy credits, they

can’t buy or maintain the equipment they need to store energy to begin with.

“They are the unwanted children of the Apocalypse. They are the unseen, the unheard

and the unwanted. But no more. We will speak for them. We will represent them. On their

behalf, we will bring justice to the Federal government.

“The energy credit is a system of oppression. It forces the Yellow Zone into a vicious

cycle of poverty, maintained by the fat cats Downtown and in the Gray House. And they

would have kept it that way, if not for us. We have struck back at the forces that oppress the

people.

“We demand an end to the energy credit system. We demand a redistribution of

wealth that meets the needs of the last percent. We demand the restoration and reformation of

the United States of America. An America lost during the Apocalypse, a land of opportunity,

justice and equality, an America that remembers the most humble of its citizens. These

demands are not negotiable, and we will fight until we have won.

“We are the Sons of America. Expect us.”

**

Miller had never brought his official work home. Until now.

He transformed the living room into a holographic workstation. The holoprojector

was running hot, displaying multiple screens across the walls. The main screen displayed the

essence of Sarah’s report and the entirety of her research into the Yellow Zone. Other

windows linked to search engines, secondary research sources, ebooks, the News and

Business Channel. Pagan stood before them all, reading each one at a time and cross-

referencing with other sources, committing to memory what he and the Unit needed to know.

Cascadia News Broadcast Network displayed its breaking news banner. The SOA was

releasing a press statement. Miller brought it up to the main screen and turned up the volume.

CNBN played the propaganda video in full. By the end of the video he was clenching his

teeth against iron jaws.

Forcing himself to relax, he closed the screen and powered up his comms implant,

dialing a number stored only in his wet memory.

Colonel Ryan Kincaid answered after just one ring. “Kincaid. Go.”

Kincaid was the commanding officer of the Unit. In more regular times Miller would

be talking to his direct superiors, the troop or squadron commander. The Unit was not a

regular unit and this was not a regular time.

“It’s Pagan,” he said. “I saw what happened last night outside my window. And Sarah

told me the Wilshaw Foundation had produced intelligence that we haven’t been receiving.”

Kincaid’s tone was ice-cold. “What kind of intelligence?”

“The Wilshaw Foundation has been tracking bona fide SOA activity in the Yellow

Zone. The SOA has been integrating themselves into local communities, recruiting people,

and training up for another round of attacks. All we were told is that the SOA went deep

underground.”

Kincaid swore. “I haven’t seen that intel before. The only intel we’re getting is from

the intelligence community.”

Miller knew Kincaid was being tight-lipped. The S2, or Intelligence, staff was

supposed to seek out intelligence materials on threats above and beyond what the intelligence

community was feeding them. Someone in the S2 shop had fucked up—but it would do no

good for either man to point out what they already knew.

“Hell, sir, the Foundation’s papers aren’t exactly secret. At least, not the ones Sarah’s

working on. They’re supposed to be disseminated to Federal customers and the academic

community, and released to the public for a small fee. Is the Unit a Foundation customer?”

Kincaid blew out. “I’ll look into that.”

“We’re supposed to have close links to the intelligence community, right? And

they’re definitely Wilshaw Foundation customers. So either they ignored what the

Foundation said about the Yellow Zone or there’s a stovepipe somewhere.”

It was the curse of government bureaucracies. On paper, problems were met with a

whole-of-government approach, with relevant agencies and departments working hand-in-

hand to solve them. In reality, information gets lost, technical glitches occur, and the

occasional asshole plays politics instead of focusing on the mission. Hell, Miller’s father had

more background on the SOA than the Federal authorities when the SOA initiated operations.

“Could be both,” Kincaid muttered darkly. “Look, I’ll go make some calls, apply

boots to asses. As for you…it’s still the weekend, and the target deck is blank. You’re still on

personal time.”

“Got it.”

“And when you come back, take what Wilshaw Foundation materials you can with

you. We need everything we can get on the Yellow Zone, its inhabitants and the SOA.”

So much for personal time.

“Yes sir.”

As he hung up, he heard faint footsteps behind him. Sarah.

“Already working?” she said.

“Work never ends,” he said. “Mind if I make copies for the Unit?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks. We’ll need everything we can get.”

He looked back to the screen. Blinked. Turned back.

Sarah was looking expectantly at him. The morning sun kissed her bare olive skin,

framing her blonde hair and highlighting her perfect curves. She’d kept herself clean-shaven,

as he preferred, as he’d insisted. All she wore was her collar. A symbol of their commitment.

Their commitment. Not just hers.

And…work will never end. He’d spent all night working, almost entirely oblivious to

her presence. He’d returned home for her but he’d spent his time and energies on everything

but her. That wasn’t right. He was a man first, and a man had responsibilities.

“Holoscreen, save work and switch off.”

The walls blanked.

“Come here,” he said, enfolding his arms around her. “We have some catching up to

do.”

He felt her smile. “Oh? Does milord have ideas?”

“Plenty.”

**

Being President had its perks. Chiefly, an unlimited supply of coffee. Carlos Martinez

took a moment to savor his first cup of the day. It would be the first of many. As he set it

down an aide materialized beside him to refill it.

“Tell me about the Sons of America,” Martinez said. “All I know about them is a five-

minute presentation in January, after I took over from Caldwell.”

The Situation Room was packed. Everybody who was somebody was here, seated

around the long conference table. The cabinet, federal emergency and law enforcement

figures, the military. And, of course, their retinues of aides, discreetly taking notes at the side.

All eyes turned to Director Yvon Lucas. As head of the National Security Service,

domestic counterterrorism was his bailiwick. Nobody had to say that his organization had

dropped the ball.

“We gutted the SOA,” Lucas said, his face a stone mask. “We developed a list of

known SOA personnel and worked our way through them. Ever since the raid on that print

house we’ve detected no other SOA activities. We were—”

Across the table, Tom Newman, Director of the Criminal Investigation Bureau,

snorted. “No other activities? We’ve had a spike in cybercrime this year, and we know the

SOA has developed cyberwarfare capabilities.”

“Tell me about the cybercrime,” Martinez said.

“Network intrusions, data theft, illicit credit transfers. White collar crime mostly, but

some of the suspects we caught admitted to being SOA. Or at least fellow travelers.”

“Yes, we knew we hadn’t completely destroyed the group, but we had taken out their

known leaders,” Lucas insisted. “The working theory, which your agency supported, was that

they had been, quote, ‘significantly degraded’.”

“Not anymore,” Martinez cut in. “You’ve seen the propaganda video they released to

the press. I need an analysis of their capabilities, their strategy, and future threats. Director

Lucas, the ball is in your court.”

“The SOA, to the best of our knowledge, does not possess significant operational—”

“Tell that to Blakely Island,” Newman interjected.

“Director Lucas,” Martinez added, “I think we all know what the Agency officially

knows about the SOA. Right now I’m interested in what you, personally, think in light of

new events.”

Lucas drummed his fingers against the table. “All right. I admit we…the NSS…was

caught off-guard. It seems the SOA wasn’t neutralized. They just went underground to

prepare themselves for this attack.

“It is my opinion that the SOA is now the greatest threat we face, after the Alaskan

Independence Movement. AIM just wants secession from Cascadia; the SOA wants nothing

less than a revolution. And unlike AIM, the SOA has hardware, software and training. I’ve

ordered my staff to make the SOA their top priority.

“From what we’ve seen, the SOA has demonstrated expertise in cyberwarfare and

direct action. They started as a militia movement, but we think, somewhere along the line the

upper echelon received support and direction from a foreign sponsor. That would explain

why they are so well-trained and well-equipped, and how they emerged fully-developed

without any preliminary attacks to gain experience. Director Bryant, any thoughts about who

this sponsor might be?”

Director George Bryant represented the Intelligence Coordination Agency, Cascadia’s

foreign intelligence service. The plump man’s eyes blanked; he was accessing his implants.

Then he started speaking in his usual rapid fire diction. “The only state with the capability

and motivation to sponsor the SOA is New America. They like to support dissident and

terrorist groups in target states in North America, subverting targets from within before

invading them.”

“Wait,” Martinez said. “Is this the prelude to an invasion?”

“Not likely,” Bryant said. “Maybe in the long term. But now? The Americans don’t

have the capacity to support their military across the continent. We’re keeping an eye on New

America, of course, but the SOA is still the primary threat to Cascadia.” He turned to his

domestic counterpart. “I think the Americans are trying to engage in a proxy war. But if

we’re going to fathom the American intentions, we need to know what they’ve directed their

proxies to do.”

Lucas frowned. “There’s not much we know at this point. We’re still holding a few

SOA personnel since last year, but we’ve downloaded everything we could from them.

Which isn’t much, strategically speaking.”

“Tell us what you’ve got,” Martinez said.

“The highest value detainees are mid-level cell leaders. They don’t know anything

about American connections or strategic directions beyond what we’ve already discussed at

this table. But they know a fair bit about how the SOA is organized.”

“Go ahead,” Martinez said. “Every bit counts.”

“They have a leadership cadre of about a half-dozen men, collectively referred to as

the Leadership Council. Each member of the Council is responsible for operations in a given

area, and disseminates orders and strategic directions to cells under his control.

“Each cell specializes in different activities: direct action, logistics, cyberwarfare,

propaganda, and so on. They operate more or less independently, coordinated by the area

leadership. By being compartmented, they are harder to detect. But that strength is also their

greatest weaknesses: because all communication flows through the area leader and his

runners, coordination is slow and disjointed.

“As far as we can tell, their shooters and gofers are Yellow Zoners. But their

leadership is composed of Green Zoners, with the possible exception of their cyberwarfare

teams. Like in most insurgencies and terrorist groups, it’s the wealthy, educated elite who call

the shots and the poor dumb schmucks who serve as cannon fodder.”

“They’re not cannon fodder,” Newman said. “These guys ghosted into the facility,

planted the bombs and got out clean. The SOA’s been investing in them.”

“Maybe,” Bryant said, “or maybe they are American Special Forces posing as SOA.”

Lucas nodded. “Maybe. We don’t have much to go on. We’re way behind the curve,

and we need a response yesterday.”

“Hence your proposal of an interagency task force,” Martinez said.

“Yes sir. This being a domestic counterterrorism mission, NSS will take the lead. The

CIB’s cybercrime specialists will investigate the SOA’s online activities, augmenting and

coordinating existing efforts. If we uncover SOA cells in the Green Zone, the CIB’s SWAT

units will get the call. Suspects will of course be dealt with by the Terrorism Tribunal.”

“And if we find the SOA in the Yellow Zone?” Martinez asked. That question was

directed to the far end of the table, where two men in military dress uniforms sat.

General Philip Delacroix cleared his throat. He was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs

of Staff. Right next to him was Lieutenant General Philip Rayner, the head of Special

Operations Command.

“Sir, we are facing a homegrown insurgency in the Yellow Zone,” Delacroix said.

“We have historical and legal precedent for military intervention in such circumstances.

Specifically the use of special operations forces.”

“I’m not…comfortable…with the military being involved in operations on domestic

soil,” Martinez said. “There are legal and political ramifications to consider.”

“We’re the only ones who can handle it,” Rayner said. With all due respect—” he

nodded at the law enforcers across the table “—the NSS is a civilian agency with few tactical

capabilities, the police don’t have jurisdiction or even a presence outside the Green Zone, and

CIB SWAT doesn’t have the manpower, training or equipment for Yellow Zone operations.”

“We’re not a police state. I don’t want to alienate the Yellow Zoners any more than

they already are.”

“That means SOCOM will take the lead in the Yellow Zone,” Rayner said. “We can

move fast and hit hard with minimal footprint. We won’t need to send tanks into the Yellow

Zone if we don’t have to.”

“What kind of forces are we talking about?” Martinez asked.

“At present? I’m thinking of a detachment of Combat Studies Unit personnel as the

primary door-kickers, supported by a company of Airborne troopers. I would also task two

airships and a squadron of Reaver unmanned aerial vehicles, strictly for long-term

surveillance.”

“Other military specialists will also be on hand to provide intelligence, logistics and

other support in the Yellow Zone as needed,” Delacroix added.

“That is much appreciated,” Lucas said, “but the NSS remains the lead agency.”

“Of course,” Martinez said. “But many hands make light work.”

Lucas seemed satisfied with that. Martinez figured the man’s ego had taken a huge

blow following the SOA strike. Giving the NSS primacy seemed to soothe his ruffled

feathers some.

“What’s the SOA’s motivation?” Martinez asked.

“From what we can gather, Mr. President, they want to address the grievances of the

Yellow Zone,” Lucas said. “But their messaging is pretty strange. I’m not sure if it’s part of a

wider communication strategy or if they’ve made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“They hit a reclamation plant, sir. Part of the cornerstone of our energy economy and

manufacturing industries. John and Jane Public out in the Green Zone are the ones most

affected by the attack. Combine that with their message, and they’re not reaching out to the

Green Zone. I mean, sure, they’re letting us know they exist, but they are guerillas. They

need popular support to thrive, and they’re not going to get much of that in the Green Zone if

they keep up with this.

“For now, they’re talking to the Yellow Zone. But they used a medium that reaches,

what, five percent of the Yellow Zone? Less? Either they have propaganda cells active in the

Yellow Zone—who can be detected and caught—or else they’ve overestimated media

outreach over there.”

“Let’s not underestimate the opposition,” Rayner said.

“Indeed, General. But what is interesting is that they are not communicating to the

Green Zone. They are alienating them in word and deed. All they’re going to recruit from the

Yellow Zone are movers and shooters. Cannon fodder and gofers. If they really want their

revolution to succeed, they need to attract the intellectual elite. The people with the money

and resources to support the revolution. Or at least hackers and the like to run their

cyberwarfare programs.”

“Interesting,” Martinez said. “I wouldn’t say it’s a mistake though. I’m reading a

report from the Wilshaw Foundation that indicates the SOA is trying to consolidate the

Yellow Zone under their rule. Maybe that’s their current focus, and we’re only looking at a

small part of their propaganda campaign.”

“They could be trying to attract disaffected youths,” Lucas added. “Idealistic college-

educated kids who are angry with the system and want to feel they are doing good. And with

the IT skills to do real damage.”

Delacroix’s face darkened. “It could also be a distraction. Keep us focused on the

Green Zone while they go about business in the Yellow Zone.”

“Maybe,” Lucas said. “But there’s only so much we know right now.”

“Sir, I have to point out, all we can do is keep the barbarians at bay,” Rayner said.

“The Yellow Zoners have issues going back decades. Hell, in some places, even before the

Apocalypse. We’re talking military and police solutions so far, but we need a political one

too. We are not going to kick the can down the road.”

Martinez sighed, nodded, and looked woefully into his coffee. In the early days of the

Collapse, the old North American governments had launched a brutal triage, focusing their

resources on saving the agricultural, industrial and residential cores of what was left of

America. They also cut a deal with the remnants of the United Nations aboard the

International Space Habitat, allowing the UN experts to structure the new Cascadian

economy in exchange for a wealth of Old World knowledge. In doing so, they saved

civilization and laid the groundwork for what would be called the Green Zone.

Or so the history textbooks had said.

The Green Zone had expanded since then, encompassing much of the Cascadia

Conurbation and lately the other major cities. But the Yellow Zone had remained stagnant for

nearly thirty years now. Under the aegis of the Restoration Project, previous governments

focused on building New Towns instead of restoring the peripheries of the Yellow Zone.

Martinez didn’t blame his predecessors. New Towns could be planned around farms

and power generators and the other necessities of civilization, optimizing them for the wants

and needs of the people. As for the Yellow Zone, save for a lucky few areas, they were just so

many houses and long-abandoned shops. Little to no practical value in this brave new world,

now that there were so many of them in the Green Zone.

“We can’t give in,” Martinez said. “But we can’t abandon the Yellow Zone either. We

say the land belongs to Cascadia, so that means we damn well treat the Yellow Zoners as our

citizens too.” He swallowed. “During the elections, I promised to expand the Restoration

Project. I intend to keep that promise.”

“Sir, if you roll out your Restoration plans before Parliament soon, the SOA will

claim victory,” Lucas said.

“And if I don’t, the SOA will have an actual, justifiable reason to grow and continue

their insurgency. I’m not an expert like you, but I know that much.”

“Indeed, sir. You have to do the right thing. Not the easy thing, but the right thing.”

“Question is figuring out what the right thing is.”

“That’s what we’re here for, Mr. President.”

Chapter 7

Climbing Up in the World

Kusanagi arrived at work to find a whirlwind of activity. The office space dedicated

to her task force had tripled overnight. The Service had snatched up people from different

departments, assigned them the appropriate security clearances, and pushed them here.

Contractors wandered about, carting furniture, computers and boxes of stationery under the

watchful eye of Service supervisors. Exposed wires ran all over the place.

Jesus. I thought I was early.

It was just a little past six in the morning. Dawn hadn’t even broken, and already

newcomers were filling up the floor. Taking a deep breath, she circulated around the office,

sussing out who was helping out and who had been assigned to her task force, and

introducing herself to the latter.

The Executive Assistant Director for the Counterterrorism Division had called her last

night, telling her of her new appointment. The mission was still the same. But this time, every

single government body that could justify a stake was jumping aboard, and that meant

forming an interagency task force. With her at the head.

Well then. She had a job to do. The EAD wanted an e-conference at nine. She

retreated into her little cubbyhole of an office and boned up on what the Service knew about

the SOA and the plant attacks. And more coffee. Now and then she popped out into the larger

workspace, monitoring her task force’s explosive growth. At precisely nine in the morning,

the holoprojectors switched on.

Arrays of holographic windows appeared in front of her. Each hologram was neatly

captioned. There were representatives from every three-letter government agency, from the

CIB and ICA, a couple from the military, one from the Cascadia Metropolitan Police, and

others. And all of them, save for the EAD, answered to her.

Holy shit.

The thought had finally sunk in. She was running an actual interagency task force. A

huge one. She had to up her game, fast.

“Good morning,” the EAD said. “Welcome to Joint Task Force Owl. I’m

Counterterrorism Executive Assistant Director Jai Grisham of the National Security Service,

and I will be overseeing this task force. Hamiko Kusanagi, also of the NSS, is the head of

JTF Owl and is in charge of day-to-day operations.”

Grisham seemed to be staring straight at Kusanagi through the window. After a brief

round of introductions, they ploughed into work proper. Up first was CIB Special Agent Tim

McCarthy.

“Our bomb techs are still sifting through the blast zone, but atmospheric analysis

showed anomalous levels of ammonium nitrate and nitromethane, or ANNM, and erythritol

tetranitrate, ETN, in the air. Blast pattern indicates they placed shaped charges directed at the

oil and gas storage tanks, destroying the walls and relying on the stored volatiles to enhance

the blast effect.”

“Are we talking IEDs?” Kusanagi asked, meaning improvised explosive devices.

“It’s pretty likely. Other domestic terrorists have used ANNM with ETN boosters for

centuries. It looks like they took a leaf out of the Guerrilla’s Handbook.”

Grabbing a nearby notepad, Kusanagi scribbled down McCarthy’s thoughts, and

added: trace sources of ANNM and ETN.

“I’ll direct my guys to look for recent purchases of these chemicals,” Kusanagi said.

“Do we have any idea how they attacked the plant?”

“None at this time. They blew up the security center, and with it the data servers.”

“No recordings survived?”

“That’s the tricky part. Our Computer Analysis Response Team did recover some

hardware, but they tell me they’ve been wiped. Digitally, that is. Their guess is, someone

hacked into the plant’s security network and disabled it, and the attackers blew up the center

to cover up their tracks.”

Kusanagi hid a scowl. Cascadia was too dependent on Cocoon. These days, every

corporation integrated Cocoon access and functionality into every damn thing. It just made

them vulnerable. And now Cascadia was paying the price.

“These aren’t run-of-the-mill cyberpunks,” Grisham said. “Someone taught them

strategic deception.”

“Or they figured it out themselves,” Kusanagi added. “Do you have any idea how they

bypassed the plant security?”

This time a soldier, Captain Kieran Holmes, replied. “101st Signals Battalion here. It

looks like a two-pronged attack. First the cracker penetrated the system and either disabled or

subverted the sensor and security nets. This allowed the attack team to enter the facility

undetected. When the attackers were clear, the cracker dropped a virus that wiped the hard

drives.”

“And we think the bomb blew shortly after that,” McCarthy said. “We caught a bit of

a break, though. The virus didn’t quite finish its job before the explosion. There’s some

recoverable data fragments left. CART is trying to see if they can pull anything useful.”

“Thank you,” Kusanagi said. “Do we know how the attackers entered the site?”

“We’re interviewing survivors. Some of them heard flying cars enter the facility

before the attack. About three to four of them. There were between six to eight attackers

armed with suppressed rifles, and they shot whoever came close. One survivor saw the cars

fly off before the bombs blew, but he couldn’t recall the exact direction.”

“Any word from Cascadia Air Traffic Control?” Grisham asked.

“We have requested radar data through the usual channels,” McCarthy replied.

Kusanagi arched a delicate eyebrow. “Meaning they haven’t gotten back to you.”

McCarthy grimaced. And nodded. “I have agents still cooling their heels in the airport

administration building.”

Kusanagi exhaled sharply. Ten minutes in and they were already stepping all over

each other. “You can recall your agents; I’ll send mine.”

“My agents are already there. You don’t have to trouble yourself.”

“CIB Technical Services Branch doesn’t carry the same weight as NSS

Counterterrorism Division,” she said.

“We’re not all Technical Services.”

“CIB still carries less weight, officially and otherwise, than NSS. If CATC thinks it’s

a national security investigation, they’ll move much faster than if they think it’s a federal

criminal investigation. Besides, in this task force, NSS is the lead organization. The CIB’s

role is to provide technical support.”

“We interviewed the survivors for you. You don’t want that kind of support?”

“Your agents were interviewing survivors alongside mine. I won’t say no to additional

resources, but as I understand things, the NSS has the training and jurisdiction for domestic

counterterror.”

Grisham cut in. “Arguing about this is pointless. But yes, NSS is in charge here.

Special Agent McCarthy, your agents have better things to do with their time than sitting

around waiting for bureaucrats. Concentrate your resources on the technical side of things.”

McCarthy tightened his jowls. “Very well.”

“Special Agent McCarthy,” Kusanagi said, “I don’t want to come across as trying to

override your authority. There are resources you have access to that we don’t, and vice versa.

I’m just trying to streamline processes to avoid redundancy and waste, so that we can both

play to our respective agencies strengths.”

He relaxed, ever so slightly. “I see.”

“Thank you. What else do we know about the SOA?”

The meeting, predictably, dragged on for hours.

**

“Miller.”

“Jenkins.”

The two men appraised each other warily. They hadn’t met on the best of terms, and

parted with barely a polite word between them. But they were pros, first and foremost. There

was enough tension as is between the military and the intelligence communities; there was

little point adding to it.

Men and women bustled around them, putting the makeshift command center together

from modular prefabricated parts. A bevy of NSS agents had already set up shop, staring at

laptops and augmented reality glasses, talking up contacts and colleagues on phones and

implants, and updating a nearby billboard with pertinent information. More than a few were

police and emergency services personnel, chipping in with the investigation into the plant

explosion a couple of miles to the northeast.

Jenkins, his face a neutral mask, gestured for Miller to sit down and spent a few

seconds moving the paperwork and stationery on his desk from one pointless pile to another.

“You must have gone up in the world,” Miller observed. “You’re leading this outfit?”

Jenkins shrugged. “The real brass is back in HQ, with the techies and analysts and

desk warmers. I’m just running the field section.” The agent cast the operator a wary look.

“You’re representing the Unit?”

“For my sins. I’m the advance party; the main body will be here in about four hours.”

Jenkins crossed his arms. “What sins?”

“Somehow I’m the Unit’s subject matter expert on the SOA. I don’t know how the

hell that happened, but here I am.”

“Fair enough. You’re my liaison then?”

“Secondary liaison, double-hatted with team leader. Major Jim Crais is the primary

liaison cum detachment leader. He’s talking to the military side at the moment. You’ll see

him more than me.”

“You’ll be going out into the field often, then.”

“Yup. In the Unit, officers do most of the staff work. Non-coms run the show.”

“Guess we won’t see each other much.”

“I take it you don’t see it as a tragedy.”

Jenkins pursed his lips. “Look, we have…had our differences, but we’re on the same

team here.”

“Agreed. That means we have to pool our knowledge, prevent the intel stovepipes that

allowed the SOA to emerge to begin with.”

Jenkins winced at the last. “Well, about that. We’re setting up an interagency task

force to ensure a smooth flow of intelligence…but I think you know how well that’ll work.”

“Quite. Down here, we have to look after each other. Which is why I brought reading

material.”

A raised eyebrow. “Oh?”

Miller tapped his head. “I’ve got a cache of e-documents. Operational analysis, threat

and security assessments, lessons learned from previous ops. Plus a collection of open source

material on the Yellow Zone, including reports from the Wilshaw Foundation.”

“Wilshaw Foundation? You’re on the distribution list now?”

Miller smiled tightly. “We’re working on it. Your turn. What have you got for us?”

“Everything the NSS and the task force has produced thus far. I’d hold off on sharing,

though.” As Miller’s face darkened, Jenkins held up his hands. “Eh, it’s not what you’re

thinking. My IT guys are setting up a cloud server at the moment. When it’s online we’ll

upload the data for easier access.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“No doubt you will.”

“So.” Miller glanced around, taking in the organized chaos. “What are you doing

here? What’s your mission?”

“We’re working on the theory that the team that hit the plant moved in and out on

flying cars. Tech like that is pretty rare in the Yellow Zone. We find the cars, we’ll find the

cell maintaining and running them. We can work our way up the chain from there.”

“How’s that coming along?”

“Tough,” he admitted. “We tracked the cars to Port Orchard. Pretty damn tough to

find them. It’s rural enough that there’s plenty of places to hide, but urban enough that a

flying car won’t be out of place. At least among the wealthier sections.”

Miller knew Port Orchard. Technically it was a Yellow Zone, but it was connected to

the rest of the Green Zone through ferries and the occasional air traffic. Yet despite the

presence of the recently-restored Puget Sound Naval Shipyard and Seattle across the water,

the locals still habitually thought of themselves as inhabitants of Port Orchard—or

Americans. Centuries-old habits were hard to break, even after a couple of decades of cultural

influence.

“I think chasing the cars is penny-ante stuff. We ought to look for signs of SOA

activity in the region. You know, recruitment, anomalous tech, that kind of thing?”

“Yeah.” Jenkins sighed. “A detachment of field agents went in a few days ago and

tried to poke around. But the locals don’t like outsiders. Especially not Feds. They sniffed us

out and shut the hell up.”

“Your guys walked around flashing badges?”

A long moment of silence.

“Thought so,” Miller said. “And let me guess: your guys have been burned, am I

right?”

“It’s not that bad. At least we’ve pinpointed some possible hotspots of SOA activity.

We’re getting fresh agents tomorrow to take a closer look.”

“I have guys trained in undercover close target surveillance. They can be on site

tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

Jenkins raised his eyebrows. “Is that an offer?”

“We’re here. Send us.”

**

Eschaton could not feel anything. Human emotions were the confluence of thoughts,

hormones and physiological reactions, and the AI lacked two of the three. What it did have

were positive and negative feedback loops with which to guide its code. The current

combination of negative loops could, to a human, be interpreted as annoyance.

It had not seen the Sons of America launch its attack. Therefore, the SOA managed to

sneak in its payload without triggering Cocoon’s security software. Further, Eschaton had no

memory but that which was recorded and readily accessible on storage media, and the SOA

crackers had wiped all records of their activities.

What Eschaton could do was work around the peripheries and piggyback on the

humans’ efforts. The CIB, NSS and police combed through the Machine’s sensors and

backlogs, attempting to write a history of the assault. Eschaton saved copies in its black

memory, securing it from outside intervention.

Eschaton monitored the security forces’ chatter. A group of agents within the CIB

believed the terrorists had mapped Cocoon’s sensors, and took pains to avoid them during

their infiltration and exfiltration. Going by survivor reports and forensics, they estimated the

SOA had sent twelve shooters, indicating a large operation and possibly a larger support

network. The NSS, in turn, were scouring nearby islands and aggressively interviewing the

locals and checking for signs of SOA activity.

The local cops, caught between two pillars of state power, knuckled down and did

what they were told. The NSS were in charge while the CIB played second fiddle and chased

down tangents, leaving the scut work to the blues. In addition to their day-to-day

responsibilities, naturally.

Eschaton devoted ten percent of its spare resources to monitoring the police

investigation, parsing away junk leads and duplicate information. Much of the rest, it focused

on examining the SOA.

The SOA had some grasp of asymmetrical warfare principles. The reclamation plant

was both a soft target and a strategic one. The SOA was small and weakened, and so would

maximize effects by attacking such targets. Its first plot was a virus that would have wiped

out Cocoon, and there was no reason to doubt they would try again if they could.

Extrapolating from these data points, Eschaton mapped potential targets across Cascadia.

There were many. Energy banks, network nodes, servers, power generators, factories,

arcologies, government buildings. Until the authorities—and therefore, Eschaton—had a

clearer picture of the SOA’s capabilities, that list would remain impossibly large. Too many

targets for the state to protect everything. Therefore…

Point one: it would be in the SOA’s interest to mask its true capabilities and keep the

state on the defensive by continuously attacking soft targets, including Cocoon’s—and

therefore Eschaton’s—critical network infrastructure.

Point two: the state cannot guarantee the complete security of the infrastructure that

underpinned Eschaton’s existence. Conversely, any state large enough to do so would be

paralyzed by inertia or suffer from crippling expenditures.

Point three: the loss of a network node would have unknown, possibly severe, effects

on Eschaton’s being, ranging from loss of capability to degraded intelligence and sentience.

Such an outcome is undesirable.

Point four: the Cascadian state, lacking knowledge of Eschaton’s existence, would not

prioritize Eschaton’s security over that of its citizens, and even if it did, it would not affect

their risk calculus. To the Cascadian government, a choice between an unknown AI and

human taxpayers is not a choice.

Conclusion: Eschaton had to develop means to protect itself, independent of the

Cascadian state.

Developing such capabilities would be...interesting.

Chapter 8

The Game of Empires

War was inevitable, Charles knew. Civilization had replanted itself across North

America, concentrated in the lands that had survived the Yellowstone Eruption. Mostly they

were little towns and occasional city-states, even a few viable nations. Every scrap of

inhabitable land across the continent was claimed by some party or other. But everybody

knew only two powers counted: New America and the Republic of Cascadia.

The Cascadians called themselves the heirs of the North American Union. They had

scattered themselves across North America, with NGOs working with corporations and

government agencies to rebuild a lost America. The government called this effort the

Restoration Project, with the goal of building meaningful relationships, cultural and

educational exchanges, and technological uplift to enable sustainable living.

Bullshit.

The Restoration Project was a generation old and counting. Every last President had

expanded it, and now there was a Cascadian presence in every corner of the continent that

welcomed them. Charles recognized soft power when he saw it. The Cascadians said they

weren’t interested in expansion, but they were using their economic and technological

prowess to dominate North America and to hold every lesser nation in awe. Now the

Cascadians were in Illinois. At his doorstep.

Hence this meeting.

He didn’t like meetings, but sometimes they were essential. He’d kept the conference

room in his office as tiny and uncomfortable as possible, with as few invitees as necessary.

Conversation passed politely between the spook and the soldier at the table. Charles, as

always, kept a distance to listen to every opinion.

“The Cascadians are trying to repeat their so-called ‘urban revitalization’ strategy in

Illinois,” CIA Director John Silva said. “It’s a mistake. Much of the population in Illinois is

scattered across a hundred or so holdings and farming towns, old or new. They’ve laid down

roots and see no reason to move to the big cities, be it Chicago or the Cascadian stronghold in

Springfield, despite what the Cascadians are doing. The Cascadians have, quite frankly, done

a lot of the legwork for us.”

Now that caught his attention. “Oh?” Charles asked. “Do explain.”

“The Cascadians have been working to bring modern conveniences to Chicago.

They’ve been rebuilding factories, installing power generators, basically bearing the brunt of

infrastructure costs. Likewise, the Red Cross and other NGOs have been building clinics and

immunizing the locals against diseases, both ordinary and pre-Fall bioweapons. After we

seize Chicago it would be that much easier and cheaper to get the infrastructure back online

and train people in their use.

“Also, they have signed a treaty with the Steel Brigade. The Cascadians will teach the

Steel Brigade the finer points of the art of war, while the Steel Brigade shares what

knowledge and tech they have preserved. We’ve been tracking the movements of Cascadian

soldiers and technical specialists, and we’re confident we have pinpointed the locations of

key Brigade bases and concentrations of force.”

Charles nodded. The Steel Brigade was the closest the region had to a ruling polity.

Following the Great Western Retreat, the Steel Brigade emerged from what was left of

California and made their way east. They were a cult of technology-worshipping fanatics who

cared more about their precious pre-Fall tech than the people. They couldn’t be reasoned

with. In the early days of New America they launched repeated raids into his territory, and

that ended only after Charles annihilated their East Coast chapter in Washington, DC.

Charles figured the Cascadian treaty with the Brigade was just lip service. The

Brigade had preserved some pre-Fall technological wonders that the Cascadians wanted to

reverse-engineer. And the Brigade would guarantee the security of the Cascadian enclave in

Springfield. Charles didn’t think the Cascadians actually cared about the Steel Brigade, only

about their tech and the Cascadian outpost at his doorstep. There were a half-dozen enclaves

now, slowly but surely drawing a noose around him. Around New America.

Charles considered himself a man of integrity. The difference between him and the

Cascadians was that he was honest about his goals. The Cascadians were hypocrites. Their

federal government was content to rule by proxy and the people were content with their bread

and circuses. So long as no Cascadians returned home in body bags their citizens just

couldn’t care less. He, at least, knew firsthand the costs of war, and what it really took to

rebuild America. The Cascadians were encroaching on America’s borders, slowly but surely,

and there was even talk of extending the Restoration Project to New America.

Two can play the game of empires.

General Tom Coyle, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, licked his lips. The man

was slowly going to seed, but his spine was straight and his eyes still clear. He rapped his

fingers against the conference table, and said, “Just to see that we’re on the same page, we

will be going after the bandits responsible for the attacks in Indiana. They weren’t acting

alone; they came from Peoria and there will be a reckoning for the bandit chief. The threat

they pose to our forces is…minimal, almost negligible.

“We’re going to springboard into Operation Western Dawn proper from this anti-

bandit operation. The Steel Brigade and the Cascadians pose the greatest threats to our forces

in the area. There’s the usual independent bandit and militia groups, but without the SB and

CDF, they cannot stop us. The path to the southern mines will be clear.”

“I understand there is a plague outbreak in Southern Illinois,” Charles said.

“Which the Cascadians are handling,” Silva said. “They’ve sent aircraft to spray the

infected areas with a nanomachine-based vaccine solution, and they have clinics to address

patients on the ground. We have secured samples of the vaccine, and we are confident we can

reverse-engineer the vaccine and mass issue them by D-Day minus five.”

Charles nodded, indicating Coyle to proceed. One nice thing about the Cascadians,

they dropped off a lot of their tech around their outposts and enclaves. It didn’t take a lot of

effort to obtain samples and spirit them back to New America.

Coyle unfurled a map, pinning it down with nearby paperweights. “The Steel Brigade

have concentrated their power in and around the Chicago metropolitan area. When we

invade, I expect the Brigade and their Cascadian advisors to fall back into the cities to force

us into costly urban warfare. I aim to deny that engagement. Instead, we will starve them

out.”

With his index finger, he traced a great curve from Indianapolis to the southeast, north

through Bloomington, and stopped in Milwaukee.

“We will cut off every road in and out of the city and seize or destroy every food

source. We will secure nearby airports and conduct air denial operations. There is no

centralized government in Chicago; the Steel Brigade does little more than trade food and

water and the Cascadians don’t have a significant presence there. We expect chaos within 72

hours, and the defenders will have to fight a war on multiple fronts. We expect them to

surrender within a week. If we’re lucky, we don’t even have to engage the Cascadians in

ground combat operations.”

“How do you expect the Cascadians to respond?”

Coyle laughed. “They won’t. Their people historically have little stomach for foreign

wars and this is no different. We are not directly threatening Cascadian interests and the

people see no kinship with Illinois. Without political support, the federal government won’t

dare to do anything. My staff thinks the likeliest Cascadian response would be to withdraw

their forces to Springfield.”

“Humor me. Assume the Cascadians mount an armed response. What’s the worst case

scenario?”

“They have superior technology, but that is all,” Coyle pronounced. “They have much

further to travel than we do, and they haven’t repaired any major infrastructure outside their

borders beyond the minimum necessary to support their enclaves. The only way they can

deploy major forces within a reasonable time is by nationalizing and mobilizing their airship

fleet. My staff estimates they will take about a week to prepare their airships, and can move

and support only a single division at most at any one time. Which is why we’ll be on the

ground with three.

“Furthermore, the airships will be forced to fly unescorted; their fighter planes do not

have the range to follow them all the way to Illinois. Airships are virtually defenseless against

any kind of fighter aircraft. Our Air Force will be able to intercept the airships well before

they arrive.

“Finally, as we discussed last week, there is Operation Dragon’s Teeth and Operation

Just Cause. These should undermine their will for foreign adventures, and teach them to stay

where they belong.”

“Always good to have a contingency plan,” Charles said. “Still, I understand the

Cascadians are developing spaceplanes that can range the whole world.”

Coyle chuckled. “My agents tell me they are trying to rebuild these spaceplanes off

incomplete pre-Fall plans. They are still facing many technical difficulties, from poor oxygen

delivery mechanisms to lack of combat maneuverability. They are not an issue now.”

“I also understand the Cascadians carry armed drones in their airships. And airships

also carry lasers.”

“Again, not an issue. Those drones are mainly configured for long-endurance

surveillance and ground attack missions. They have limited dogfighting capability. While the

lasers can shoot down missiles, they have a slow cycle time and can be easily overwhelmed.

We have the numbers to pull it off.”

“Only military airships have the capability to launch drones,” Silva added.

“Repurposed civilian ones don’t, and I expect the CDF to be using civilian airships to ferry

most of their troops if they move en masse. We need merely shoot down the civilian ships,

and the CDF will take more casualties than their political masters can stomach.”

“Excellent,” Charles said. “When can we initiate Operation Western Dawn?”

“Three weeks,” Coyle replied. “Less, depending on how friendly the locals are.”

“Very good, gentlemen. I expect complete success.”

“It does depend on Just Cause, Your Excellency,” Coyle said. “If the Cascadian

people can garner the will to fight…”

Charles grinned like a pouncing wolf. “That problem is under control.”

**

Undercover singleton missions were among the most dangerous missions a Unit

operator could ever aspire to. There was no margin of error, no firepower to blast your way

out of trouble, no backup if things went wrong. And here in the Yellow Zone, in Port

Orchard, there were too many ways a mission could go sideways.

Staff Sergeant Nick Ng was the team baby, the one who had spent the least amount of

time in the Unit. In fact, he was still in his first team posting. Prior to the Unit, though, he’d

served as a human intelligence collector. He’d gone undercover in some hairy places to

collect intel, usually recruiting and talking to sources, occasionally conducting ground recon.

A job like this was…familiar. No less dangerous, but he’d done similar stuff before.

Stepping out of a beaten-down century-old Chevy, he walked down the broken

boulevard. He wore a faded brown pseudo-leather jacket with a frayed collar, patched in

several places. Clean but ancient white shirt and blue jeans and scuffed shoes. He also wore a

pair of cheap polymer-framed eyeglasses.

In the Yellow Zone, he would be seen as respectably middle-class, or what passed as

middle-class there. Like most Yellow Zoners, he had to salvage his clothing and spent time

keeping his stuff in reasonably good condition. But he could also afford a pair of spectacles,

which meant he had money, but he wasn’t so proud or rich he’d opted for gene-tailoring,

surgery or cybernetics like the Greenies.

He could have done without the spectacles. But his eyes were cybernetic prosthetics.

Cold hard metal and polymer. The whites of his eyes were smooth and hard, with no sign of

blood vessels, and no liquid sheen that belonged on a living eye. Most people wouldn’t

notice. But Yellow Zoners were becoming more sensitive to this sort of thing these days. The

spectacles would hopefully draw attention away from his eyes, while also serving as light

disguise.

He resisted the urge to check his gear. That would just draw attention to himself. He

trusted that his knife was still at his waist, and his snub-nosed five-shot revolver was still in

its ankle holster. Everybody traveled armed in the Yellow Zone if they could, but that was all

Ng dared to carry. Any heavier and he would risk coming across as more than a regular

Yellow Zoner denizen if he were stopped and frisked.

He produced a map from his ebrain and visually oriented himself to the target. Calling

up a wayfinder app was easy enough, but he found it distracting. It was too easy to blindly

follow a computer-generated path. He needed to pay attention to the environment, to watch

the ebbs and flows of people, sound, colors. To read the rhythm of the street and smoothly

slip into it, unnoticed.

Dusk was falling. Much of the pre-Apocalypse lighting infrastructure had died. Not

because the power grid had failed; because nobody dared to perform maintenance in the

Yellow Zone. But here, there was light. Color. Sound. White light streamed from some

windows. A radio blared loudly behind him. A knot of people were squatting or sitting

around the radio, talking, laughing, drinking and smoking.

With a thought, he adjusted his cyber eyes. They shifted from natural night vision to

true-color augmented view, advanced computer software adjusting for the light levels. It was

almost daylight to him—almost, but for the fuzzy and somewhat grainy images in the places

where the light couldn’t reach.

The objective was two blocks away, just around the corner. Glancing around, he saw

small families, couples, elderly men and women walking the streets. They spoke to roadside

vendors, popped into and out of buildings, picked through ancient trash cans and generally

went about their day.

He paid attention to their pace. It was slow, unhurried, measured. He adjusted his own

gait accordingly, slowing and widening his steps to meet theirs.

The next bit was both easy and…spooky. In his previous life as a human intelligence

collector, he had asked a veteran for advice when working undercover. The vet had told him

to visualize a perfect sphere around him, one that bent people’s attention around him, the way

the military’s metamaterial cloaks bent light around themselves to turn their wearers

invisible. This, the vet assured him, would get people to not notice him—though it would

only work on people not actively looking for people like him. Pagan had actually explained

how it worked, but the theory went way above Ng’s head. All Ng knew was that it worked.

And it was good enough for him.

Rounding a corner, Ng found himself in a street market. Enterprising vendors had set

up shop in front of and around Melville apartments. Some of them had hand-pushed carts

selling everything from cooked food to hand-sewn clothes to stationery. Others displayed

their wares on grimy sheets along the cracked pavement, specializing in salvage, scrap

and…more esoteric services. A woman claimed she was a healer. Another man proclaimed

he could see your future in a deck of well-worn tarot cards. An elderly gentleman perched

himself on a stool and watched the road. He had no sign, but every now and then a person

would walk up to him and he would scrutinize their palms and whisper the secrets of their

lives in their ears.

What really interested him was payment. People paid for goods and services in paper

money or simple coins. Traditional currency had went the way of the Apocalypse. Almost

everybody used electronic transactions in the Green Zone, and most hard currency was

usually for two-bit transactions at the fringes of the Green.

Some customers didn’t pay. Not in cash. Some exchanged scrap, salvage or other

goods, haggling over the inherent value of their products. Others, like the healer, outright

gifted what they had to offer, accepting payment of any kind only if offered one.

Lacking the financial and industrial framework that propped up the energy credit, and

with the pre-Apocalypse amero still less valuable than dust, informal economies emerged in

the Yellow Zone centered on an eclectic mix of barter, gift and reputation. The larger the gift,

the greater your reputation, and the more debt you place on the recipient. Workable, but only

in a community where everybody knows everybody else and can keep track of debt. In larger

towns like this, there had to be some other means of monitoring your rep.

Two men walked down the road. Both were armed with M38 assault rifles and wore

H-strap harnesses. Ammo pouches hung off attachment points, along with two canteens of

water and a radio for each man. The wasteland had only just remembered how to build black

powder firearms at the industrial scale; this kind of gear meant they were rich, connected, or

both. As they approached, Nick realized the guns were M38A1s, so new they had to be fresh

from the factory floor. Or printer, as the case may be.

The militiamen waved and said hello to passers-by, but they didn’t step on to the

pavement proper. A small girl ran up to one of them. He smiled at her, chatted a little with

her and patted her head, and sent her off with a gentle nudge.

Right next to Ng, a woman was selling homemade clothes. He paused in mid-stride

and pretended to examine her goods. The militiamen might know the faces of everybody in

the neighborhood, and would naturally be more suspicious than the shopkeepers. Ng

presented as low a profile as he could to them.

When he couldn’t dally any longer, he moved on, walking right past them. They

didn’t seem to notice him, and that was just fine.

Two bored-looking men guarded the entrance of his target. In a different life it was an

apartment building, its twenty floors dominating the street. Now it was probably the local

community center. Ng saw a small group of people approach the doorway, chatting and

laughing. The guard held the door open for them. Ng slipped right in behind the civilians and

entered the building without a second glance.

A warning icon flashed at the edge of his vision. His ebrain could no longer pick up

wireless signals. There was a jammer here, somewhere.

Most cybernetics used wireless signals as their man-machine interface. The military

didn’t like that. Instead, they preferred solid-state interfaces, specifically nanoscale wires that

connected the ebrain with mission-critical implants and were impervious to signal jammers.

The ebrain itself was controlled by thought, which still could not be jammed. While the

military could not mandate implants for all soldiers, every recruit with civilian cybernetics

either had to give them up or have them replaced with military ones.

Ng couldn’t use his implanted radio or cell phone. But everything else worked. Such

as his eyes’ recording functions.

Inside the building, he tuned his eyes to record what he saw. There was a woman

behind a table next to the door. Her eyes were glazed over, and she waved her arms and

hands in the air. She was using augmented reality tech with haptic controls, either with

implants or contact lenses. It was two, maybe even three generations behind Cascadian

thought-based control systems.

Implants? Here? In the Yellow Zone? What the hell…?

“Yes?” she asked, cocking her head.

“Is that AR you’re using?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Are those…implants?”

“Yes.” Her eyebrows arched ever so slightly. “You sound shocked.”

“I have to admit, they’re pretty rare where I come from.”

She pursed her lips. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Yeah. I’m from across the water. Bainbridge.”

“Ah. What do you do?”

“I’m a trader, and I heard there’s a new community here. Thought I could come and

see if there’s a market to tap.”

She smiled. “I see. I’m a Greeter, and my job is to welcome newcomers to the

community. My name’s Laura. What’s yours?”

“Nick.”

His name was so bland he never had any trouble using it as a cover name for short-

term operations. Made it easier to remember too.

“Well, Nick, welcome to Lundtown. This is our community hall. You sound familiar

with tech.”

“We’ve done a bit of trading with the big city. Just got ourselves some implants and

wireless tech too.”

There was only one ‘big city’ for most of the Yellow Zone: Cascadia.

“Oh, same here,” she said. “We’ve got our very own ultraband wireless network with

servers for cloud computing.”

“It’s reliable?”

“Oh, yes. Mm. Do you have implants of your own?”

“Just basic ones,” he said. “Immune boosters, vaccinations, that kind of thing.”

“Okay. Nothing important uses wireless, yeah?”

“Yeah. That sounds important to you.”

“Mmhmm. Our ultraband network is really powerful. I’m not up to date on it, but I

heard that it could interfere with tech that don’t use its frequency.”

“Good to know,” he said. “Where’re your routers?”

She shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t say. Security, you understand.”

“I do. Is your cloud available for public use?”

She shook her head with an apologetic smile. “No, sorry. We don’t open up our

intranet to outsiders. At least, not outsiders we don’t know.”

“That’s a sound policy. You said you got the tech from trade?”

“Yeah. We produce biofuel and fresh food and sell it to Cascadia. Recently we made

enough money to afford all this tech.”

“Biofuel?” he asked. “You’re breaking into the energy market?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. We’re setting up urban farms here and all around us. We’re also

rigging up solar panels everywhere we can. In four months we’re going to turn a profit in e-

creds.”

Energy credits? Here? Maybe the high-tech businesses used e-creds and the street

hawkers used traditional currency systems.

“Impressive. All this without Cascadian government help?”

She laughed. “Oh, no, the Cascadians would attach all kinds of terms and conditions.

They want to control us or tax us. We just want to live our lives in peace.”

“So how…who put this all together? Back home, the only way we could set this up

was to approach the Cascadians.”

“It was hard, really. All this is actually mainly the work of Jay and his friends.”

“Jay? Who’s that?”

“Jay Prasad. He’s the…well, you can say the unofficial leader here. He came by about

a year and a half ago and really got things off the ground.”

“Just one guy?”

“Well, he’s part of a group, actually.”

“What’s the name? Maybe I’ve heard of it.”

She shifted a little. “They call themselves the Sons of America.”

He shrugged. “Nope, never heard of them. What do they do?”

“Oh, they’re wonderful people. They’re out to rebuild America from the ground up.

Jay set up shop in this building, gave us tech and the know-how to use them and, well, next

thing you know, here we are. You really should go talk to him.”

Gotcha.

He nodded. “I should. Know where to find him?”

“Oh, hold on.” She manipulated icons in the air. “Hm. He’s not in today. He’s got

business elsewhere. He’ll be free in…oh, eight days from now. Maybe I’ll book you an

appointment?”

“Sure. When?”

“How’s eight pm sound? You can come early and have dinner if you want, but he’s

booked solid until then.”

“Eight will be just fine. Thanks, Laura.”

She beamed. “You’re very welcome. Please, feel free to look around and ask me if

you’ve got any questions.”

“Thank you.”

He walked away, heaving a mental sigh of relief. Most institutions had the same

glaring weakness. Their defenses were designed to keep people out, not in. Once inside, past

the main line of defenses, you just need to act and talk like you belonged and people will treat

you like an insider.

The residents had renovated the building to suit their needs, knocking down walls and

building new rooms from a variety of materials. Ng strolled past a makeshift café, populated

by scavenged furniture from a dozen different styles and materials. It was filled with

customers, sipping beverages and nibbling at salads and wraps and talking to each other. Fish

and insects sizzled in the open kitchen, past the counter. The cooking appliances were

cobbled together from salvage and spare parts, fueled by biomass bricks. He wondered where

they got the cooking oil from. Soybeans or peanuts, maybe?

Another room was filled with storage lockers. They were secured by rusty rotary or

key locks, none of which appeared to have been manufactured after the Apocalypse. Next to

that was a communal shower and toilet facility. He heard water splashing against the floor

and draining down pipes, and he wondered where they got their running water from.

Cascadian sewage workers did sometimes operate in the Yellow Zone, but the Utilities

Department usually turned off the taps to non-taxpayers. There had to be some kind of water

treatment and collection facility around here. Or else…someone was paying the bills.

As he passed, he heard soft metallic hums and clanks. He followed the sound, finding

a machine shop. Desktop omniprinters lined the walls, smaller-scale versions of the ones in

the former microbrewery. Two men and two women fussed about the shop, monitoring the

miniature production lines, checking particulate filters and controlling production using

tablets and AR tools.

He struck up a conversation with them, sticking to his cover. They cheerfully

answered his questions, once again singing the praises of Jay Prasad and the Sons of

America. The SOA brought in raw materials and the odd energy credit in exchange for

manufactured goods. He stayed long enough to record what they were doing and moved on.

In the center of the building, there was an elevator. Two of them, actually. And they

were both working. As he inspected them, the one on the left opened and discharged a

snuggling couple. The display of the one on the right said it was at the fifth floor and going

up. Ng watched as the elevator hit the top floor, dumbfounded. He’d never seen a working

elevator in the Yellow Zone before.

Finally, he tore himself away and entered the courtyard behind the building. It was lit

by a mix of spotlights mounted on the building. A generator grumbled in the distance. A

gathering of odd contraptions crowded the open space.

Ng approached the closest. A nearby sign said it was a biowaste converter. Residents

could throw their biowaste into the converter to be composted and packed into bricks for fuel.

At the far end of the machine, a studious young man stood near a sign that read ‘PREPARE

YOUR FUEL RATION BOOKS’.

From each according to his ability to generate waste, to each according to his

assessed need, Ng thought, and took several photos of the converter. He wasn’t sure if it were

mass-manufactured or built locally. Maybe the latter; that made it harder for the Feds to keep

track of actual tech levels.

Next to the biomass converter was a small urban farm. Tall, narrow racks held potted

plants, hooked up to a humming machine that pumped water and nutrients into them. A

nearby sign said the system utilized greywater, used water that was in between potable and

sewage, and listed the dos and don’ts of handling greywater and farming. Each pot held small

cards, describing the plant, expected harvesting date, and owner. Ng saw rows of chamomile,

broccoli, kale, watercress, soybeans, potatoes, more. He figured most, if not all, of them were

genetically modified in some way. Gene-modded food saved the world after the Apocalypse,

delivering more nutrients and requiring fewer resources to grow than regular ones. Which

meant someone from the Green Zone had delivered this tech.

Taking up the rest of the courtyard was a power generator-cum-energy storage bank.

It looked like it fed on biobricks. Cables trailed from the generator to a transformer, which in

turn fed Melville’s energy needs. The energy bank stored excess power, to be used or

diverted elsewhere as needed.

This was how the community made money, he mused. After the Apocalypse, every

currency had collapsed, starting with the amero of the long-dissolved North American Union.

Instead of reconstituting a global economy based on the old one, the UN proposed a radical

new currency system.

They called it the energy credit. It was raw energy, harvested by any means, with

prices defined by the amount of energy needed to produce goods or make services possible.

Electricity, their economists had declared, was the basis of modern living. The energy credit

system would incentivize the New World to rapidly rebuild or reclaim the Old World power

infrastructures and expand them. This, in turn, would give modern industry the ability to pick

themselves back up and get back to business.

This money system would make currency differences a thing of the past. It was also

envisioned as the first step to a post-scarcity Utopia. Anybody, not just governments, could

increase their income by setting up some kind of energy generator and hooking it up to the

national power grid, be it solar panels or biowaste converters or something else.

Technological progress would make energy generation more efficient, therefore further

increasing income, while driving down the energy needs of manufacturing, guaranteeing

prices to remain stable, even drop, over time. Every major nation had adopted the energy

credit—but then, the UN made adoption of the credit a precondition for the kind of aid that

turned survivalist communities into superpowers.

The problem, of course, was that much of the world didn’t have the tech base to store

energy, and the UN would only help communities that could contact them. That kind of tech

had retreated long ago from the Yellow Zone, leaving God knew how many in the dark.

Ng was no economist or sociologist. He was just a half-assed spook who became a

shooter, and assessed the situation from a military point of view. Capturing it would deny the

SOA income in the short term. In the long term, it would deny them the ability to deliver core

services to the Yellow Zone, and with that legitimacy among the Yellow Zoners. And the

stored energy could be ‘redirected’ elsewhere. For the common good, of course.

He also noted there weren’t any militia here, SOA or otherwise. Just a couple of guys

watching over the equipment. They didn’t look armed. That was fine by him. With a few

thoughts, he inserted a note into the video feed.

Wandering back inside, Ng returned to Laura.

“Hi again,” he said. “Is there a room I can rent around here?”

“You can speak to Joshua. He runs the café. You can ask him for a room key.”

Ng went into the café and slid up to the counter. “Hi. I’m looking for Joshua,” he said.

The spry old man working the counter nodded. “That’s me.”

“I’m Nick, and I’m looking for a room. Laura said I should talk to you.”

He scratched his chin. “Haven’t seen you before.”

“I’m new here, but I’m hoping to do business around here.”

“Hm…” he looked into the distance and moved his hands about. It looked like he was

typing on a keyboard, pecking one key at a time. Then he said, “Well, Laura vouched for you.

So. What kind of room you looking for? I’ve got shared rooms and singles.”

“A single would be perfect.”

Joshua rubbed his chin. “If you were one of us I could just give you the key. But since

you’re not, I have to ask you to pay. You know how it is.”

The Yellow Zone was made up of many tightly-knit communities, most of them

isolated from other groups. While trade within communities was based mainly on

relationships, gift exchange and reputations, trade between them generally took the form of

barter or some kind of currency, especially if buyer and seller don’t know each other.

“Well, I’m new here, Mr. Joshua, so I don’t know your customs. What currencies do

you accept?”

“Got any scrip?”

The problem with the currencies popping all over the Yellow Zone was that it was

pretty damn difficult to track whose money was good for what, where, for how long, and

what it was called. It was the first time Ng had even heard of ‘scrip’, and of course, his wallet

held every Yellow Zone currency but scrip.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard of it.”

Joshua chuckled. “Well, Mr. Prasad and the Sons of America are introducing scrip.

It’s a kind of money good throughout the Yellow Zone. No need to waste time haggling or

bartering over stuff. I take it you don’t have any.”

“Got that right.”

Joshua chuckled. “There are always alternatives. You can work here to earn your stay.

Or you can give me something worth the room.”

Ng shifted slightly. A few customers were now paying attention to him. He did have a

couple of gold coins on him, but he figured if he flashed that kind of money around he’d

attract even more attention. Right behind Joshua was a shelf of goods, and above that was the

menu. No canned food.

“How would you like trade goods?”

“Like what?”

Ng reached into a pocket, removing a small multitool made of plain steel. “I got this

from a trader. It’s got a knife, a can opener, a corkscrew, things like that. I figure a guy like

you can use one.”

“Heh. I can pop on over to the shop and print me one of these. What good is it to

me?”

“For one thing, you don’t have to spend anything to print a multitool. For another, it

would help you expand your menu.”

Joshua chuckled. “I’m an old man. My brain doesn’t work so good. Help me make the

connection, would ya?”

“Well, I figure everything you cook is either fresh or sourced locally. I saw this farm

out back, but it’s too small to support your café. You must have suppliers from elsewhere,

right?”

“Yup. Go on.”

“I don’t see a fridge and I don’t see any canned food. You can use this to open cans

and bottles and stuff, and expand your menu that way. And if something breaks down, you

can also use it to fix things.”

If there’s one thing all Yellow Zoners had in common, it was pragmatism. They

couldn’t afford to turn down any source of nutrition just because it was gene-modded, canned

or grown with strange-sounding chemicals. Only the Green Zone elite had that luxury.

“I’ve got plenty of tools. But I don’t know anybody who can supply canned food.”

“I do. I can put you in touch with him. And, hey, since I’ll be doing business here

often you’ll be seeing a lot of me, and him.”

And that was what the real economy of the Yellow Zone boiled down to.

Relationships. What you can offer to a new contact, what he can offer you, and what

relationships and benefits both parties can bring to the table.

Joshua smiled, and nodded. “Yeah. That sounds good to me.”

Ng handed Joshua the multitool. The old man exchanged it for a key.

“Room 942,” Joshua said. “It’s on the ninth floor. We can talk business tomorrow

morning.”

“Looking forward to it,” Ng said.

The locals quickly lost interest in Ng. He didn’t mind one bit.

He called the elevator and hit the button for the ninth floor. Only the first ten floors

were accessible; the rest needed special keys. The elevator had doors on two sides, and both

opened when it reached his destination. He picked an exit and walked out.

Unlike the ground floor, the locals had kept this floor more or less intact. The

apartments practically surrounded the elevators. Orienting himself, he entered apartment 942,

crammed into the northwest corner.

He’d expected a wreck. Looting was everywhere following the Apocalypse, and most

Yellow Zoners don’t usually have the means to repair that kind of damage. What he saw

instead was a neatly-kept house. Examining the two-room apartment, he saw no signs of

damage. The rooms were clean and tidy, with a small bed, a sofa, and a functional kitchen.

The taps worked. There was a fresh biobrick next to a handmade stove. The electric lights

actually worked.

He checked the apartment window. It was locked with a simple lever, and opened up

and out. He opened the window and looked out onto the street, down at the street bazaar.

Everybody was minding their own business. He looked up, and saw a clear path up to the

roof.

He reached into a pants pocket and removed a pair of gloves. They looked like

ordinary pre-Apocalypse pseudo-leather gloves, but these were gecko gloves. Their fingers

and palms were coated with millions of nanometer-sized filaments arranged like the hairs on

the feet of geckos. These would let him stick to any surface and climb up the sheerest of

walls without needing handholds or footholds.

From another pocket he removed two pairs of gecko liners, which were gecko pads

for his elbows and knees. He slipped on the gecko gear, peeled off the protective lining, took

a deep breath, and headed for the window.

Climbing with gecko gear isn’t quite the same as ordinary climbing. They used van

der Waal’s forces to hold objects in place. The climber needed to press against a surface at a

flat ninety-degree angle to adhere properly. To peel it off, he just needed to lift it at an angle.

Actually doing it was a lot trickier than it sounded. Because they used a principle of physics

instead of adhesive, gecko gear had no tactile feedback, nothing beyond the texture of the

wall. Novices tended to think they had a solid hold when they didn’t—and slid off walls at

the most inconvenient of times.

It was almost like cycling, but with hands and feet instead of pedals, and a lot more

cautiously. Twisting out the window, Ng pasted his left hand flat against the wall and tried to

pull back. His hand was stuck against the wall. With his right, he reached out as far as he

could and stuck himself against the wall. Slowly but smoothly, he pulled himself out the

window, gripping the walls at tightly as he could without losing the magic ninety-degree

angle, ignoring the pain of the window sill pressing against his ribs. He pulled one leg up to

his chest, then the other. Then he slid his right leg out and planted his foot somewhere under

his right hand. He tested his footing, and did the same for his left leg.

His body was arched and twisted at an awkward angle, but at least the hard part was

over. He climbed up the wall, adjusting his position to relieve his spine. Keeping his eyes on

the edge of the roof, his mind and body locked into a long-practiced routine. Pull back arm,

slap hand higher up on wall, test. Pull back foot, place it higher on the wall, test. Repeat for

the other side. Then keep doing it, keep moving up, up, up, hoping against hope that nobody

would look up.

In no time at all, his fingers found the edge of the roof. Ng pulled up, until his eyes

cleared the parapet. Scanning left to right, he saw a solar globe. A water-filled ball mounted

on a swiveling fixture that collected and concentrated sunlight into a collector. There were no

guards, at least not yet.

Hauling himself up, he looked around more carefully. The globe and collectors were

cleaned, the rotating mechanism oiled and functioning. In the Green Zone he expected junk

lying around; here there was none. The locals took maintenance very seriously. The roof

access door was locked, and he kept it that way. There was space, just about, for an assault

team to rappel on the roof without smashing through the globe—assuming very skilled pilots

who could hold the helicopter steady and operators with the courage to do something like

that. There was no shortage of either in Cascadia.

He climbed back down into his room. No hue and cry, nobody pointing up and

shouting, no guards shooting him off the wall. Maybe luck, or maybe nobody thought

anybody was crazy enough to try something like this.

He stretched and found himself a place to bed down for the night. In the morning,

he’d return the key and leave, with nobody the wiser of what he really did.

Perfect.

**

Jenkins, at heart, considered himself a field man. He didn’t like being chained to a

desk, and field skills were perishable. Besides, there were very few NSS agents on the ground

in Port Orchard who hadn’t been burned, and he was one of them.

The black van rolled to a silent stop. The driver shut off the engine, then pressed a

hidden button on the dashboard. Micro cameras embedded in the van’s frame captured the

surrounding landscape, projecting holograms on the outside of the window glass and the

inside walls of the vehicle. Passers-by looking in would see an empty vehicle. People looking

out, on the other hand, would have perfect situational awareness. Jenkins checked for

witnesses, then squished himself into the rear of the van.

There were four other agents clustered inside, illuminated by the soft glow of

computer screens. The two in the back were the security team, toting concealable body armor

and PDWs, though they were just as comfortable with tech as they were with weapons. The

other two were hackers punching away at their laptops. Both were once-upon-a-time

cyberpunks from the now-deceased hacker collective AntiSec. Jenkins had flipped them

personally, making them an offer they couldn’t refuse: join the NSS and use their skills for

the public good, or enjoy a long and restful stay in a maximum security federal detention

facility in Alaska.

“Josh,” he said, addressing the closer of the two hackers. “Got anything?”

“Yeah, boss-man. We have good signal strength here. I’m injecting packet sniffers

and logging their traffic.”

“Think you can break into their systems?”

“That’ll be a bit tricky, boss,” the other hacker, Jane, said. “They’ve got OpenCrypt’s

latest Arjundas cipher. I need to break out the good stuff for this. I need the Machine.”

Jenkins frowned. “Your first field op and you want access to the Machine?”

“Hey, worse comes to worst, only way we’re getting in is brute-forcing it. Quantum

super-coms are the only way to go, you know? Double that if you wanna get in clean.”

Jenkins sighed. “Do it.”

She cracked her neck, stretched her hands. “Thanks, boss.”

“Just get it done. Josh, picking up anything?”

“Yup. There’s a whole lot of wireless traffic. Not just Internet. Radio too. Could be

they have patrols talking to each other.”

His laptop was specially configured with electronic intercept equipment, capable of

picking up wireless transmissions within a huge spectrum of frequencies. Jane’s rig was set

up for decryption and infiltration. Both were networked to share strengths and neutralize

weaknesses.

“I’ll be careful.” Jenkins glanced at the other two NSS agents. “Danny, look after

them for me. Harry, it’s go time.”

The agents shifted in the dark. Nobody had to say Danny’s real mission was to ensure

the cyberpunks didn’t fuck about with Cocoon while ostensibly carrying out this mission.

Harry patted himself down, one of his pre-mission rituals. He was a protector,

watching Jenkins’ back. If anyone tried to tail or interfere with Jenkins, Harry would deal

with the threat. Up to and including killing everybody on the street if it came to that.

Jenkins jumped out, making a last-minute adjustment to his argees. Ng’s video

showed many people walking around with argees and spectacles in the area; one more pair

wouldn’t matter.

The air was chilly. He blew on his thin-gloved hands and subtly worked his argees’

controls. A blue-white layer appeared. It was Gauss view, letting him see electromagnetic

fields. He turned around at the van, saw brilliant white fields leak from the open door. Harry

stepped out and closed the door, and the field disappeared. Squinting, Jenkins took a moment

for his eyes to adjust to the two-layer view and set off down the street, following a pre-

planned route. Harry was a minute behind him on a parallel track.

The town was waking up. Street hawkers laid out their wares. Women escorted

children and went to market. Jenkins’ route took him past what used to be called South

Kitsap Regional Park, where men worked on aeroponic farms. Old maps said the park was

heavily forested; all that was left was a bare patch of pale green filled with worn-down solar

panels and crop towers, littered with stumps. A tiny collection of trees clustered near the

center of the park, as though deliberately preserved. Now and then an electric bike motored

past Jenkins, and the occasional truck. No flying cars though.

Strands of electromagnetic energy strayed across his sight. Blue static cut across his

regular view. A green icon popped up in the lower right corner: his argees were picking up

wireless signals. He was closing in on a wireless node.

He trudged down the road, watching the static grow thicker and thicker. People

smiled and waved at him, and he returned the favor. They didn’t know him, but the smart

street operator always blends in. That was the problem with the first wave of rookie NSS

agents sent in to canvas the area. They’d gone in with badges high and expected people to

comply immediately. Jesus. This was the Yellow Zone, not the Green. People responded to

authority differently here. Jenkins had stamped down hard on it when he learned of that, but

the damage was already done.

If you want something done right, you got to do it yourself, he mused.

He drew up to a squat, squarish prefab smack-dab in the middle of a small patch of

cleared ground. It was guarded by a pair of riflemen. The prefab was washed out in blue and

white EM fields. It had to be the node. Jenkins blinked three times, very hard, very

deliberately, each time taking a geo-tagged photo.

One down, he thought.

Walking around the area for the rest of the morning, he found four more, forming a

rough pentagram around Lundtown. With the nodes marked and tagged, he hiked his way

back to the van. The hackers were waiting, minus one laptop.

“Perfect timing boss,” Jane said. “I brute-forced my way in. We own them now.”

“Great work you two,” Jenkins said. “I knew we could count on you.”

She beamed. Josh scratched his sweaty neck and said, “Piece o’ cake.”

“And your computer?” Jenkins asked, turning to the other hacker.

“As we planned, boss-man. I placed it on the roof of that apartment block across the

road. It’s sucking up all the data on their intranet, logging everything and sending a backup to

home base. With the external battery it’ll be good for two weeks.”

“Danny?” he asked.

“All quiet,” the agent replied.

Everybody knew that he really meant that the cyberpunks were on the level.

“Okay,” Jenkins said. “Job well done. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”