“Communism is the electrification of the whole country.”
- William Powell
There was a palpable air of tension throughout the capitol. Up and down the streets the citizens were lined up, watching the first march of the year. Soldiers clad in tan uniforms made their way down the streets of the capitol, some on horseback, most not. It was a demonstration of power, not just to the opposition but to the people themselves. A symbol of not just what the state could do, but what the state wanted them to be. Most of the crowd were typical proles, dressed in a strange imitation of pre-war fashions. Those of abject poverty stood next to traders, blacksmiths and librarians. It was a homogenous mix of all the Union's peoples and professions in a single group. Children sat atop their parents' backs, while the Union's impressionable youth were given their earliest lessons in the strength of the Party. Most would need such lessons; to vote was a privilege only granted from military service.
Philadelphia was a massive town by pre-war standards, and little had changed since the end of the Great War. Miles of shops, recruitment centers, and even a resurgence of old world infrastructure dotted the city. There were even remnants of old world culture dotted throughout; an area of the city was dedicated to the descendants of the northern internment camps, liberated during the reign of the Federalists. Chinatown, it was called. It bore the name of a homeland they were unlikely to ever see.
The marches finally ended at the City Hall. It was a large, Second Empire-style structure that dominated the city skyline. The exterior was made up of limestone, granite and marble with a tower in the center and a number of balconies across the second level. It had miraculously survived the Great War, and been restored by the Federalists to its pre-war glory. Unfortunately, it then burned during the revolution, and had to be restored again. It was the seat of power in the Union, playing host to the executive office of the Chancellor. Other buildings of a similar style, albeit smaller, were scattered across the plaza. They were homes to the Judiciary and the Central Council. Atop the City Hall’s tower, where once stood a statue of William Penn, now stood a statue of Powell. It had been forged out of the metal from the previous statue, although in a more crude fashion.The crowds gathered, the soldiers formed up, and all put a closed hand across their chest for the national anthem.
* * *
"My people. Sons and daughters of the Union, your destiny beckons. Stand with your brothers and sisters, stand with me, and together we will be undefeated. The past is our faith, the present our conviction, and the future . . . the future is our birthright! Sons and daughters of Columbia, the path toward a better tomorrow stretches out before us. Toward a future that is golden and eternal. But our journey together must cross an ocean of hatred and bigotry, an expanse of lies seeded by the venom of our enemies. Our foe will come to know us. He will come to fear us. But we must not underestimate him. The old world Regime cowers in New York like a cornered animal, and animals they are, soulless and hollow. They seek to make us slaves like the Burghers of old Columbia.”
The harsh words carried over the assembled crowd. Redding addressed a crowd of thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Many of those gathered shared the same view, all nodding their heads as they muttered words beneath their breath after the opening of the speech. Every Columbian knew well the Burgher menace, as the atrocities of the Federalist regime had been implanted from a young age.
“The enemy sees us as cattle, fit only for the slog. But they will learn their mistake, my people. We will show them the iron and steel beneath Columbian flesh. We shall cast them against the unbreakable rock that is our collective will. We will make them realize the truth that the children of Columbia know in their hearts: that our people, the Columbian nation, is the only pure civilization in the wasteland. Before William Powell first stood up to the Burghers all those years ago we were lost, a broken collection of souls on the verge of damnation. At first we believed he would deliver us to perdition. How wrong we were. Powell saw what was in every one of us, our strength and our indestructible spirit, and made it manifest. The Union was the rebirth of our people. A people fit to stride the Wasteland and shatter our enemies. Sons and daughters of Columbia, you are the embodiment of that glorious legacy, the inheritors of the victory that we fight for every day. You alone are fit to forge the future and the destiny of our people. History does not long entrust the care of freedom to the weak or the timid. We shall not suffer the spineless and weak-willed to dictate our path!
When you granted me the privilege of your leadership, I, Joshua Redding, willingly sacrificed myself to the engine of our nation. My only goal to bring our people the absolute and deserved mastery of their destiny. I am humbled by the magnificent example that you my people have set. The workers and artisans among you who toil and ask not for a claim, but accept the honor of your leaders. The soldiers and warriors who burn with cold fire and unyielding resolve never flinching before the guns of our adversaries. The teachers who hold the very soul of our people in their hands, shielding it from the lies of the treacherous and ignorant. You seek reward in service alone. Each of you shares in the greatest glory of them all. You are the true Columbians! Ruthless to those who oppose us, masters of those we defeat, unflinching in the face of adversity. I pity all those who were not born beneath our banner, for they will never know the touch of greatness as we do.
Our victory is imminent. With our hearts tempered in the fires of war we strive forward and take the fight to our foe. Let us never forget the duty that we have taken upon ourselves. Our enemy is tenacious and bold. The Burghers dared to turn their weapons upon that which we hold dearest. Our cradle, our homeland, our Philadelphia! This monstrous act unleashed the whirlwind of our wrath! Our guns never tire, and we beat back our foe! The path we have chosen is not an easy one. Struggle is the father of all things and true virtue lies in bloodshed. But we will not tire, we will not slacken, we will not fail! In the blood of our warriors comes the price we must pay. Blood alone moves the wheels of history. And we will be resolute! We will fear no sacrifice and surmount every difficulty to win our just triumph!"
Raising his fist in the air, the new Chancellor proclaimed his desire for the Union. The simple gesture made like a wave through the crowd, until every man, woman, and child held their fist clutched up towards the blue sky. "Hail Redding!” They shouted, their cries were deafening and lasted long after Redding had left the stage.
This was only the tip of the iceberg, the demeanor of the Chancellor only seemed to portray an inner desire for more, and more down this path. The Union’s days of incessant bureaucracy, and internal strife was finished. Instead replaced with a firm grip that mandated that the nation fight under the banner of Chancellor Redding, the sole leader, and only leader for the Union. While the opposition only saw him as a mad dictator, the Columbians felt his passion, and desire to bring back the glory days when they were strong and prosperous. Most would wish for this, despite the costs, and wanted to have a piece of the dream to call their own. As such, it wasn’t long before orders were being sent, instructions going left, and right as the war machine once more was activated, going full-throttle as every Columbian prepared for the coming days.
Into the Lion’s Den
Once, such a long time ago, the bar had been lively, full of those with the money, but mostly those with only a little to spare. Once upon a time, dice were thrown and cards were played, and alcohol was served, just like any other tavern. A long time ago, it had been alive with the hustle and bustle of the poor and the suddenly rich, it had been filled with shouts of anger, loss and euphoria. A place that any gambler would have fit right in, even met some friends along with it, if it were only once upon a time.
Of course, the Tavern was now empty, the drinks festering away and souring inside their tanks and bottles, and the tables and chairs showed their signs of rot. The blackjack, poker and all the other gambling tables' beautiful green felt was a dilapidated and fading brown, growing darker by the day, a sad reminder of the fun and not so fun times that were once held on them. The occasional card or coin laid around on these ghostly places, reminding all who visited of the bar's success, of the life that it had before the Great War and the horrific tragedy that was brought with it. While the Tavern had been spared the worst of the fallout, it had died in its own way. The owner had packed up and fled before the bar began its inevitable decay, and its patrons followed, many of them leaving their winnings behind. A bar that catered to a hundred a day was now lucky to get a dozen a month, each of them picking through the wreckage left in the Great War’s wake.
Today, the Tavern served only one man, and that man sat at the bar on an old high backed wooden chair, nursing a bottle of whiskey he’d had to bring himself. He wore a tattered old suit, jacket, shirt, trousers and all, that might have once been the cause of envy, but now it looked as old as the felt on the Gambling Tables. Dark, scuffed, and torn in places, similar to most who survived the hellish wasteland. He was waiting, for who he didn’t yet know. That was the way these things worked, everyone was kept in the dark until all the ducks were in a row. For now though, the man nursed the bottle of whiskey until it was his turn to serve the motherland.
"It is in the best interests of the Council to have our eyes in as many places as possible, our agents in as many cities as possible, and our ears pressed against the doors of the wasteland. Not only does such an attitude serve the Council by teaching us more about the political landscape, but it serves our economic interests marvelously well."
- Minister of the Interior Rachel Abaroa
It had taken several hours each to get them Into New York, and that didn’t include the months of planning and preparation. Anxiety wore patience thin, agitating each of them as they waited for their turn to enter the American Republic, but no amount of distraction could make them forget the incredible task they had been given. The Union told them it was counting on them. That message had been given to dozens of other agents operating in other settlements in the same manner. This immense burden pressured them to ignore the discomfort and press forward.
New York was an ideal locale for a cell. Distrust of outsiders, an over-equipped military and a propensity for prejudice. People were looking for another way to vent, to deal with the problems that they faced.
This particular cell’s arrival was staggered across many hours and four caravans, one of many precautionary measures to ensure zero suspicion. A dozen operatives had been tasked for the mission. Their leader, Montag was a veteran of several assignments. As such, he walked with a certain self assuredness that came with years of proud service. His second would follow him three hours later with a different caravan. If everything went to plan, he would retrieve their weapons from a local courier company paid to hold them a week prior. If things didn’t follow as planned, there were a number of backup plans set in place. They cared little for the wellbeing of a local criminal or an unfortunate militiaman.
The last of the operatives came next, Haley and Wilson. They would pose as a couple, which would hide them among so many other impoverished immigrants seeking a new start. Being lovers only made the facade of desperation more believable. They would get through the easiest out of the bunch, blending in with all the rest. Seeking stability in a wasteland that was always struggling.
Theirs was a mission of great importance, and they knew this. The weight of responsibility seldom left their mind for long.
Delmarva Peninsula
Great efforts were being made to push into the fertile lands on the Delmarva Peninsula. Even before the Great War, it was the Peninsula that held a great many farms that fed the pre-war population. In exchange for more ration cards and greater access to amenities, citizens were encouraged by the government to migrate south from Philly and Baltimore and settle on the Peninsula. This initiative saw an influx of poor or otherwise destitute families. To achieve this daunting task, a great deal of farming equipment and construction projects would be required. Most of the building and field clearing would have to be done manually, but a handful of Brahmin teams were relegated to assist. Though, they wouldn’t be nearly enough.
State Prospectors and unsanctioned scavengers flocked to the area to root around in portions of the abandoned pre-war towns. Numerous small communes were beginning to take root, settling down for the long haul. The influx of people and valuables, also brought unsavory characters. Snake oil peddlers selling homemade remedies, thieves looking to swipe some goodies, and bandits looking to strong arm their way into the equation. To keep order, the Third People’s Army Corps was brought in to watch over everything.
It would be sometime before the project came to fruition, but should it succeed it would greatly benefit the Union as a whole.