Fallout: Age of Strife IC.

[Ralnis]

Helena, Montana Wasteland

Helena, the most economic prosperous city in Montana. It's home to the gold stockpile and the gold mines that they owned. The Brotherhood was keen on securing the city's economic power in order to benefit future trade outside of the state. The Brotherhood troops came quickly and surrounded the down. The militia numbered less than 300 so it was easy to quickly overwhelm them with firepower and numbers. Fighting was brief before the militia commander surrendered to the Legate. The Legate walked through the state capital and saw the large shops and markets but also the restored memorials and the city hall where the city council had been awaiting for their invaders.

The leadership had heard what happened to Billings and said that they wanted to negotiate tribute. The Legate gave them a chance to negotiate, but only one. The deal for the tribute was more in the way to favor the city but they knew that they can leverage gold as something that the Brotherhood wanted. It was, but they also wanted more practical tribute, which they will also provide.

With two cities pacified, the final one stood at the sight of the Brotherhood's victory. Once the cities fell, the techno-Legion would be able to swarm across the eastern half of Montana, knowing that no small community would dare to fight back against power-armored troopers who could level entire settlements with just a mere order.

The soldiers prepare to march on the last city, and then the whole state in the name of Mars and Brotherhood.

[Solisian Union]

The United Republic of the East Coast

---

Early Evening
General Rubi de la Cavallería


I hate Texans. I do so with good reason. They stole the life of my husband who protected me and my family as we fled from Vicksburg to Jackson. He died getting shot by those sons of secessionists. He was only 45 and I was 39. Then they took my son. He was a lovely boy, a good man in uniform, a proud but well-trained soldier. A good Sergeant Major. He was supposed to be commissioned but then the Texans came. Fucking cowboys.

Then my youngest daughter went missing. My sweet Madison. I was supposed to go to the east, to the safety of the United Republic...but she was gone. I failed her and my family. I failed my country. And now I am a citizen of the United Republic. It has changed much. They have a new president and a new name. For the East Coast, they proclaim.

As for me, I proclaim my revenge. I do so as I watch the border we are forced to recognize and guard. Behind me, my new country, my new home is forced to desperation. I heard the government is building five more workshops and that they are working to build a few factories as well. In addition, I was informed that they were planning to recruit 50,000 more men. If not, they will settle with less until they finally get the men they need.

I do not know if they are really going to produce those...tanks...they speak of. But I hope they will help me win the war that is sure to come. Those fucking Southern bastards...They will get what they deserve, I swear.

[Versail]

New Orleans Urban Occupation Zone, Republic of Texas.

Having only been drafted the prior year Private Allyson Montoya expected her tour of duty to be much like her older siblings had been, exciting and full of adventure. As a matter of fact had her draft notice not come in when it had she would have volunteered for the ranger battalions in order to serve. However contrary to the letters sent home by her brother Robert the army life was not full of adventure. Nowhere was this more apparent than her current post in New Orleans.

The once proud citadel of the Orleans Empire has been reduced to a pale shadow of its former glory. No more were the holidays of Mardi Gras or Christmas, understood to be a bastardized cajun version of the Texan holiday, loudly celebrated in the streets of the city. Even the former french quarter of the city has become subdued. Rebels despite having been largely snuffed out of the area by the actions of the First Marines and the Rangers still use the quarter as a symbol of resistance and that is the reason for Montoyas current situation, standing watch at 3 AM in the streets of the city across the street from the Enclave Embassy.

Normally this fenced compound of power armored people and laser turrets was left alone by the locals and the Texans unless they had a reason to go near. However this news clearly has not been given to the young girl who dressed in a tattered uniform of the Orleans royal guard, likely made two or three decades ago for a relative of the child. Having decided she did not want to see the effect of a laser bolt to the torso of person that young Montoya issued a verbal warning to the Orleaner. Ignoring the words of the trooper the child pulled a pistol from her uniforms jacket pocket and took aim at the American flag flying in the center of the compound.

Taking a chance to prevent an incident with the Enclave government the Private shouldered her rifle, an M1903 issued by the occupational authority of the city, and took aim at the torso of the dissident and fired. The 30-.06 round went through the right lung and hit the brick wall opposite the Orleaner. Dropping both her body and the pistol in her hand the youth, perhaps 16 years old nursing thoughts of grandeur and of bringing back the monarchy to Orleans, died a few moments having done nothing else beyond being a note in the report of the newly blooded private of the Texan National Guard..

Jackson Mississippi

Jackson used to be the capital of the Combined Syndicates. Shortly after the traitors to the United States had been driven from the city the Texan troops began to round up many of the loyalists to the previous government and question them for any information that may lead to further discoveries about the socialist government. One of the people who were questioned was Ol’ Man John, a former accountant to the regional government of the area and one who gladly switched sides during the occupation. He currently resides in a tenement ran by the Texan army and works maintaining the logistical system of the city making sure his fellow citizens got fed and housed.

His case is not one unique to him however and many people of Jackson welcomed the liberation from socialism that came with the Texan arrival. Despite the claims of the United Republic and their slave forces of the Syndicates Jackson is not oppressed by the Texans anymore than they were underneath syndicate rule. In fact many enjoy new status as citizens of the Republic which they now call home.

Dallas Texas, Republic of Texas

Felix was an oddball among the Texan army. He was not a specialist or any important figure despite what he was in another army. Nor was he hostile to his new way of life, being given many more creature comforts in this role than the last one. The reason for his being noticable is both his name and where he came from.

Felix was a former legionary in the eastern legions of Caesar. Upon the defeat of the Legion at the second battle of Hoover Dam to the forces of the NCR in the year 2281 the Legions began a long and arduous campaign of retreat across the lands once dominated by them, now locked in insurgency against the tribals and the city states of Arizona and New Mexico. Many times the triumvirate tried to mount counter attacks and stand their ground against the might of the Californian bear to no avail. The last straw broken across the back of the legion was done in the city of El Paso where 5,000 Legion footmen were shattered against the broken city by the NCR infantry.

Upon this last retreat many former legion troops found a new home among the Republic of Texas, finding it both strange and familiar at the same time. That women standing as equals to men was unthinkable to the former slaves of Caesar, but they adapted out necessity and beyond a few minor cases where the offending party was hanged for attempted rape they succeeded in integrating into the republic.

Having a hatred for the NCR and a potential outlet for that hate in the form of the Texan Rangers many signed up hoping for a chance to strike NCR citizens. This would be granted in late January as the 9th Ranger battalion would be sent into the wasteland in between the two grand republics as revenge for attacks on Texan settlements in the region by the NCR settlers.

[Dragos Bee]

Panama Canal Council

How much will be sacrificed for a better world? Chief Engineer Alan Blake thought as he looked from his HQ's window and observed the slaves working on the New Panama Canal. Sometimes, evil methods pay better, sometimes, they do not. But today, they do.

He had gotten the agreement from the Secretary of Trade to send a diplomatic mission to the Cubans and the Texan Republic to purchase new slaves; skilled or semi-skilled workers as opposed to the menial laborers who made up most of Panama's workforce. These diplomatic missions would be composed of 2 Jets, 1 Cargo Plane, and 1 Converted Passenger Aircraft for Texas, all loaded with Plasma Rifles and ancient blueprints for Yorktown-class Carriers; primitive models whose construction would not jeapordize the Canal Council's Naval Supremacy. This diplomatic mission has one prime objective: Get as many slaves as possible, slaves who knew how to work. And yes, the diplomatic mission will be preceeded by radio transmissions beforehand notifying the Texans of their peacable intentions and the diplomatic nature of their arrival.

To Cuba would be sent a Frigate and a Converted Queen Elizabeth-class Cruise Ship; the latter had been converted into a slaving and cargo vessel whose crew, both marine and non-marine, were armed with energy weapons. Peacable intentions would be radioed to the Cubans beforehand, repeatedly and insistently, along with promises of payments of Brazilian Gold and Plasma Weapons. This mission would be tasked not to come back without Slaves, and good ones at that.

But at the same time, the Panama Canal Council would notify the Texans and Cubans that they would not sell Submarine designs, and that the PCC considered itself to have a monopoly on Submarine technology. This wasn't a threat; it was a statement of fact - the Panama Canal Council considered anyone else developing Submarines as a threat to its thassalocratic ambitions.

[Tysoania]

Far Harbor

Duck's Island

The lumber mill had been open two weeks, and the Captain was already singing its praises to anyone who would listen. Not only did Echo Lake Lumber provide a steady source of lumber and caps from Wasteland traders, it also struck a blow to the savagery of the outside world. True, the lumber wasn't physically killing Yao Guai or feral ghouls, but it allowed the Island to experience, for the first time since the bombs, man's mastery of the wilderness. Not only had the Harbor's piers been repaired, but bridges, homes, and walls could now be repaired or even rebuilt.

Not only was this extremely useful to the Island government, but it was also appealing to Wasteland traders. Caps were beginning to flow into the coffers of the Island as the lumber, which Echo Lake had a monopoly on, flew off the shelves. The Captain's newly-enacted sales tax on the lumber also helped to fund the government's purchase of lumber, which was being used to repair infrastructure on the Island. Although the Islanders had voted to prevent the mill from harvesting trees more than 500m from the mill, that was fine by the owner of Echo Lake. Not only was Swans Island already equipped with a usable pier for transport to Southwest Harbor, but it had already been cleared of Raiders and synths by the Army a few weeks ago. As a result, a small logging camp was already in full swing there. And with new settlers arriving at the Island's immigration center in Trenton each day, the work and new settlement was desperately needed.

The sudden population strain on the Island had put the Captain in a bind, so he had solved it with a quick one-two punch. All new immigrants were granted citizenship, which made them eligible for conscription, and then heavily encouraged to either move to Ellsworth or one of the outlying settlements, which kept the tensions between native citizens and newcomers at a minimum. The new immigrants were generally happy to have stability, peace, and steady employment, while the incoming tax revenue kept the longtime citizens happy. It seemed to be working, and the crowning jewel in this was the Winter Harbor Cannery. Originally staffed by Mr Handy robots before the war, the mayor of Winter Harbor had been desperately trying to lure Islanders to work at the repaired factory. When the news of the Island's sudden prosperity began to attract settlers, the mayor of Winter Harbor switched tacks and was now the proud co-owner of a fully operation, profitable cannery. This seemed to be proof that the Island's efforts were effective, and that was what the Captain was trying to use now.

"Look, I just don't want to risk our position, alright? We've finally got a good thing with the traders in Rockland and Camden. Why should I risk that to throw in with you?", asked Emmet Lisson. Lisson, who was only 23, was justifiably nervous. As leader of the Three Islands Confederacy, he had to balance the needs of Deerland, the Haven, and Duck's Island and keep them happy enough to not attempt to leave the year-old nation. Although it was only a nation of 200, it was still a fairly volatile nation.

"Mr. President, I understand your worries," Captain Harper replied, "but we can provide a better deal to the people of Three Islands than the mainlanders. Far Harbor can offer jobs, manufactured goods, cheap transportation. Mainland traders can offer slightly cheaper scrap."

"It's not just the prices, Captain. The Islands are settling into a routine with the mainland traders. Caps are finally starting to flow both ways. One of the guys in Camden? He said that, if we can get him a monopoly on ammunition sales, he'll be able to get us some heavy weapons. We'll actually be able to tackle the Raiders on Three Islands soon. Why should I throw that away to join up with the Island?"

The Captain paused for a minute, then replied. "Sure, that seems pretty attractive now, but what about in a year? In a year, that supplier might be dead, or out of business. Three Islands might be in a routine now, but when change comes, what'll happen then? We've got a profitable settlement in Rockland looking to expand, we've got immigrants raring to go somewhere, and our trade fleet is the only one in the region. In a year, the Island might not be willing to peacefully negotiate for Three Islands. At the end of the day, Far Harbor is probably the best bet for your people, and if it goes well, you'll go down in history as the founding father of Three Islands."

Lisson sighed and closed his eyes for a few seconds, then reopened them. "Alright. I'll put it to the people for a vote. If they say yes, I won't reject it."

"That's all I ask for, Mr. President." The Captain stood and the two men shook hands. Internally, Captain Harper was giggling with joy. He knew the popular vote would support joining the Island; these sorts of things tended to go for security over independence, particularly if the security included Fog repellers.

Of course, this meant that the name "The Island" would have to go. Ah well, he had an entire trip back to Far Harbor to work on some suitable replacements.

[The Manticoran Empire]

Savanna Weapons Development and Testing Facility
Savanna, Illinois
A knock came at the door of General Alvarez, the third one in the last twenty minutes. "Enter," he said, yet again. And, yet again, his secretary strolled in. "Oh for chrissake, Wilson, what do they want now?" Wilson winced slightly and Alvarez realized that he had just barked at the young man like a drill sergeant. "I apologize for that, Wilson. I imagine another communique came in?"
"Yes sir," Wilson said, his voice quivering slightly on the "s". "It's from the Army, sir, with the seal of the Air Force, as well," he said as he handed the letter to Alvarez. "A joint communique?" Alvarez was intrigued, opening it with something between eagerness and simple desire to get it over with. He unfolded the letter and read the message. "They want a what?"
"Sir?" Wilson asked, quite confused. Alvarez handed the letter to him and said, "Might as well read it, Private. I imagine you'll be getting a lot of work soon." Wilson read the letter and then placed in on the desk. "A glider, sir?"
"Not just any glider, Wilson. They want it to carry the M24 tank, which the design team has already said will weigh over twenty thousand kilos. Oh, and they want it to carry an entire rifle company in place of the tank and, on top of that, it must be light enough to be towed behind a C-210. How they expect us to manage this feat is beyond me but our job is to deliver for them. God only knows WHY they want this fucking thing."
"Sir, if I may speak candidly," Wilson said, pausing to await a response. Alvarez nodded and Wilson continued, "Well, sir. Having reviewed the series of request forms of the last week, it appears to me that they either have delusions of grandeur or a vast over-confidence in our capabilities. The Army wants over almost two dozen new systems, including new uniforms and equipment. The Navy wants three new ships. The Air Force wants half a dozen new aircraft. And now they want a glider that can carry a tank or a company of infantry. Quite frankly, sir, I just don't see the operational need for such equipment." Alvarez smiled as Wilson finished speaking, "You've got a point, Wilson. There isn't an apparent operation need for any of this equipment, aside from the trucks, maybe. But the rest of it? I honestly don't know why they are asking for it all. Maybe they want to try and conquer the whole of the Mississippi Basin. Hell, maybe they want to conquer Texas or California or maybe even Erie. Who the hell knows. All I know is that they want to see something productive come out of this and well damn it, we'll give them something. I don't know if it will work but we'll give them results."

[NewLakotah]

---

Chapter Two – Part One: Pro Patria Mori
"My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."
-Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum Est

---

Sandusky, Kingdom of the Ohio
8th Brigade, 3rd Division, I Corps
Lord Heath’s Loyal Regiment of Horse “The Heaths”

Sandusky was a northern border town along one of the most major highways leading from the Imperial City to the “untamed wastes” of the northern border. Beyond it lie Toledo, one of the main targets of the Imperial Army in their new offensive to the north. This route was an important one for several reasons. One, because it lay very close to the capital, thus making it one of the most important northern border towns of the Empire. The Imperial War Staff had looked over maps more and more nervously as they saw the distance between Cleveland and the border. Simply put, in the modern development of weaponry, the distance between Cleveland and the border was simply too short to ensure that the capital would not be attacked if any threat was to push in from the north. Thus, the new operation, Operation Killjoy, had included the mission for I Corps to push north along this highway towards the city of Toledo, one of the important industry centres of pre-war days and as such was a key target for the Empire to expand towards.

This was one half of the larger operation, which was to press north from both the Ohio and from Indianapolis, their move towards the settlements at Fort Wayne and up towards South Bend. There mission was to secure one half of the flank of the Republic, securing the northern edge to ensure the security of the large city. In front of this advance, General Desmond had ordered her cavalry to advance out in front, to secure as many of the small settlements and towns that dotted the area, and to scout out any defenses that the larger cities, particularly that of Ft. Wayne and Toledo, or of any major raider bands that would pose a threat. For that role, 8th Brigade had sent out its cavalry regiment, The Heaths under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Michael “Shifty” Rogers, forward just before dawn.

Lt. Colonel Rogers at 49 was relatively old for only being a colonel. During his younger days, he had been rather a wayward youth and a drifter for many years, before finally settling into a career in the Imperial Army. Rogers wasn’t even originally a native of the Empire, having been born in a small settlement far to the north and across the old border in the former nation of Canada. His father had been a gun for hire most of his life, serving as personal bodyguard, caravan guard, and just a general strongman. One day, however, when Rogers was around 14, his father went of with a caravan on in a protection role, and never returned. This hit the family hard, as his father had been the primary earner of the family, which was him, his mother and two younger siblings. Soon after Rogers starting taking odd jobs to help provide for his family, soon following in his father’s footsteps as a gun for hire. When old enough, he eventually moved out of his family home and starting on a long roundabout journey through much of the northern wasteland, simply drifting from place to place working odd jobs here and there and travelling often with caravans as a guard. He was good at his job; a good shot and with remarkable quickness which had earned him a solid reputation as a guard.

Rogers eventually found himself at the border of the Kingdom of the Ohio. Impressed by its magnitude and wealth, he eventually decided to settle down within its borders, gaining his citizenship by serving in the military. He found himself in the cavalry, where he performed exceptionally well. He was an excellent shot and well known for his quickness with his pistol, a mark that garnered his nickname as Shifty. He was well regarded for his calmness and ability under fire and under duress and after 6 years was a Warrant. He was recommended by his CO for Officer Training and completed that in the standard two years, and, at age 36 was commissioned as a Lieutenant in the Heaths Horse. 13 years later, he was now the commander of that unit, having seen action during the coup and occupation of Indianapolis. He was well fitted for command, and generally very well liked. Having “common class” citizens gain officer command positions from the enlisted ranks was not very common at all, and many claimed its what hurt his chances at higher positions.

For Rogers now, any thought of promotion or being passed over was as far from his mind as it could be. Right now all he cared about was his mission and completed the mission with as few or no casualties as possible. His command was to be the forefront of the advance straight on the city of Toledo and his mission was to ensure that the route there was not loaded with any raider bands that might harass their supply caravans coming through, Super Mutants that would disrupt the advance, and that the city-state of Toledo hadn’t set up any unknown defences. The IAAS had sent out several Spitfires and Corsairs on missions around the town, conducting surveillance and taking photographs of the terrain, which was then poured over by staff officers from all levels; regimental all the way to Corps command. However, to ensure that Toledo would become suspicious, they had conducted them irregularly and only a few flights went over the actual route towards Toledo. Thus, for Rogers and his men, they would be the eyes and ears of the infantry.

The cavalrymen were used to the role of scouting and reconnaissance. It was their main duty as the cavalry. For them, they operated mostly as a light infantry unit rather than a true cavalry arm. They rarely, if ever, engaged while on horseback, with the standard operating procedure to withdraw, dismount, then reengage. They would also only engage small units of enemy infantry that they encountered and left the heavy fortified positions to the infantry and the artillery to take care of. They were lightly armed, usually with Tommy guns, Brens and other automatic weapons. Others did carry M16s, but the favorite for the cavalry was the Tommy gun, for its small size, large magazines and heavy rate of fire. Several carried PIATs and heavy machine guns, and light stokes mortars, with their reserve ammo stocked on pack horses and carts. However, these heavier guns usually were towed in the middle or towards the pack of the advance, not to slow down the advance scouting parties.

For this mission, A Squadron had been assigned the lead role. They had left out early, before sunrise, moving quickly past the border defenses and into the northern wastes. They quickly ran through the very surprised border towns. Seeing cavalry patrols was something normal for the towns, either moving in to eliminate raider or super mutant threats or National Constables there to apprehend fugitives from the Empire trying to get out of the reach of the Empire. However, this seemed different. IT wasn’t just a standard ordinary patrol. For starters, there were much more then their usually was, squadron after squadron rolled through. Then after that, waves of infantry soldiers marched past.

The first few border settlements fell quickly and without a shot, being so close and dependent on the border and the Empire had left them with little chance to form a defence against them, and most were not going to be willing to take up arms against the Empire. For Rogers, it was a solid start to the operation. He wanted to get as far as he could towards Toledo and ensure that the infantry had a path to follow before making any form of hostile contact. Any engagement would likely draw attention, no matter who it was with, and that would more than likely alert the Toledo defenders and the their surrounding settlements that there was something brewing to the south of them.

---

3rd Division Headquarters
Lima, Kingdom of the Ohio

Progress was happening on all fronts. The 4 regiments of cavalry had all gotten of to fast starts heading north along their designated routes: The Heaths from Sandusky towards Toledo, The Loyal Youngstown Carbineers were spread out along the route towards Bowling Green and were at North Baltimore, setting up their first checkpoint in the small town. The Ohio Mounted Infantry were at Van Wert, where a key intersection of highways met and were also establishing the regimental headquarters there and a checkpoint, while the rest of their squadrons continued to scout out around the area. From Munchie, the Royal Carbineers Regiment had advanced straight north, but were still only a few kilometers north the border and short of their first objective by about 3 kilometers. The RCR, under the command of Colonel Margaret St. Felix had gotten held up early, and experienced the first real action of the day when they just so happened to stumble across a raider band of around 50 bandits making a move to set up a raiding station just outside the border. B Squadron of the RCR had stumbled upon them first. The carbineers were surprised, but not nearly as surprised as the bandits, who had figured today would be a fine day to catch the border guards sleeping. The cavalrymen quickly opened fire from their mounts with their Tommy guns on the raiders, who responded with their own barrage, before the squadron disengaged, and rode back some distance, however, not before they suffered their first casualty; Corporal Louis Morton who was shot through the head and was killed instantly. Another 2 soldiers were wounded, while 2 raiders had been killed. The men rode back before dismounting and moving back in, this time with C Squadron coming up along their flank to support.

The action the followed was quick and violent. The cavalrymen moved in as quietly as possible. The Raiders were alert, but thought they had only encountered a random scouting party, not the advance force of an entire regiment. Captain Alyssa Smith, in command of C Squadron, had positioned her Bren gunners, two of them, along one flank on a slight ridge. They then opened fire with devastating effect, while the rest of the soldiers rushed in using the treeline as cover, firing their Tommy guns, expending a large amount of ammo directed at the enemy. Meanwhile, B Squadron had assaulted straight at them as well, moving in a long spread out line, the soldiers worked in three man teams, giving each other cover fire as the leapfrogged towards the position. Using their automatic Tommy guns, Brens and M16s to great effect, the amount of lead going out towards the raiders was simply too much for them, as they found themselves greatly outnumbered and outgunned. Trooper Larry Creed had lugged up his PIAT and had carried 3 rounds, while his squadmate and ammo carrier, Mark Thompson had brought up about 4 more. They set up position along the firing line and starting to fire his PIAT at any group of raiders they saw, while Thompson covered him with his Tommy gun. This, of course, drew heavy counter fire from the raiders, and Creed was struck twice, once through his shoulder and the other piercing his left arm. Thompson took two bullets through the chest and collapsed. Despite this, Creed continued to fire up the rest of his ammo, while stretcher bears worked on getting Thompson bandaged and out of the action. However, despite their efforts, Thompson would die as he was carried off the battlefield. However, his and Creed’s actions had helped break the spirit of the raiders. After 16 minutes of action, the raiders had broken, and began to flee. A Squadron at this point had moved in, and while mounted chased down the enemy, firing on horseback. Realizing it was hopeless, the raiders surrendered, while a few managed to escape alone or in small groups. In all, 10 raiders were killed and another 22 were wounded and captured along with 15 others who had surrendered. The RCR had lost 4 men killed and 13 wounded. It was a steep price, not only in lives, but in time and ammunition. Colonel St. Felix had ridden up to the front as the action was beginning to subside, ordering A Squadron to take the wounded and prisoners back to the base, while B Squadron set up a quick aid station and wait for resupply. C Squadron and D Squadron both were to continue their mission, albeit at a much slower pace than what was originally expected. St. Felix, despite winning the battle, was irritated. Not only had they lost soldiers, but they had lost precious time, and were now literally miles behind schedule. However, despite this setback, the operation was moving along as expected and by the end of the day, the infantry would have assembled to begin out the real push towards their objectives and Operation Killjoy would be one step closer to completion.

[Tysoania]

Far Harbor

Cliff's Edge Hotel

The proclamation had come in the day before yesterday. Three Islands had officially voted in favour of joining Far Harbor, and with the news of last week's coup by an Island trader against the leader of Dark Harbor, that town was under the Island flag as well. Unfortunately, this meant that the name of the nation was no longer accurate. Although Far Harbor was still the capital and its fishing fleet one of the Island's economic and cultural mainstays, the nation was no longer made up entirely of townsfolk. That was why, after a long day of consultations with the leaders of the nation, Captain Harper had issued a proposal for the people of the unnamed nation to vote upon. His proposal was simple: the nation would be renamed the Six Island Federation and a new flag would be drawn up to represent the new nation. A vote had already been scheduled for tomorrow in the many towns across the islands, and in two days he would have his answer.

The sudden expansion had also necessitated the movement of the government to a dedicated facility. With the nation doubling in size, there were suddenly twice as many applications and permits to process, traders to tax, and diplomats to receive. With the government now having three new full-time bureaucrats to manage the government's affairs, the Captain had arranged for the government to relocate to the Cliff's Edge Hotel. The Old World hotel, located just down the road from Far Harbor, had been untouched since the bombs, and although the Army had had a hell of a time clearing the building of feral ghouls and various critters, the hotel had maintained most of its Old World charms. The Captain planned for one of the hotel's wings to be repaired for use as living quarters for the Captain, the Commodore, and visiting diplomats and officials, while the other wing would be converted to government offices and a telecommunications suite. When the new building finally opened, it would solidify the transition from a dangerous, primitive island to a large, prosperous nation.

Unfortunately, these sorts of things cost caps. Not a lot of caps, but significant enough that the official-expenses fund wouldn't cover the whole thing. Asking the citizens to pay for the project was political suicide, so the Captain had been forced to pay for it out of his personal wealth. Captain Harper had made a fortune running the Island's only caravan before the Fog-repelling towers had become common, but he had been hoping to use that for his own settlement once he retired. Honest Ed had had the right idea, setting up Martintown, and he had fully intended to build Harpertown out in the wastes. However, this would probably be his physical legacy now. Damn it.

Maybe they'd let him put up a statue in the courtyard or something.

Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens

Mayor Jake Havington was worried.

On paper, everything was fine. The settlement's experimental farms were productive, the ethanol refinery plant they'd juryrigged together was working fine, and they'd gotten the pier down at the water repaired enough for coastal shipping to begin stopping at the Gardens to refuel on their way to Martintown or Duck's Harbor. They'd gotten radio contact established with the relay station at Hurricane Island and knew that there were no threats to burn the settlement to the ground or anything. What worried Jake was the silence. In the last week, traders from the nearby town had mysteriously stopped coming by, and the only boats arriving at the Garden's pier now were Far Harbor's own boats. Apparently, Old World scientists had figured out that nature went quiet right before a disaster struck; why should this be different? The area was under the control of some imperial power, apparently, but they hadn't made any sort of contact. Perhaps they were planning to march on the Botanical Gardens? The settlement was only composed of 14 people, and 9 of them were scientists with no military experience. Of course, the training of the other 5 didn't matter when their only weapons were a collection of pre-war hunting rifles, some utility knives, and a single harpoon gun.

The low tone of a foghorn shook the Mayor out of his reverie. A trawler was arriving. Jake turned back to his desk, grabbed the schedule, and flipped through it. Apparently, a load of scientific equipment that had been ordered from a trader out in Martintown was arriving. Jake stood and, grabbing his greatcoat, hurried out of his office for the dock to meet the boat. They had been making do with Old World equipment from the Gardens for long enough, and the eggheads over in the greenhouses would be happy for the supplies. At least it would take his mind off the silence for a bit.

[Dragos Bee]

Panama Canal Council

With a favorable response from Texas (news of Cuba hadn't arrived yet), it was time for the Panama Canal Council to begin the next phase of their plan to rebuild and expand their piece of the Old World: Hire mercenaries. This presented a problem as the PCC preferred sellguns with at least some education and military training versus just thugs with a weapon, but the PCC, flowing with wealth from trade with Latin America, can afford to filter and vet and choose. And if they found the next military mind of the generation, just waiting to be educated, then that'd be a fortunate accident for them.

Corpus Christi, Texas

The planes would land in the airstrip set up for them, in order for their crews to meet the escort of 'Texas Rangers'; well-armed elite personnel that the PCC can only envy. The diplomatic crew, commanded by a lady named Caroline de Lima, would then set afoot Texan territory, bringing greetings, advertising their gifts, and then making their formal offer: Skilled and semi-skilled slaves in exchange for a thousand Plasma Rifles and the designs on how to make more, plus the blueprints for the Yorktown-class Aircraft Carrier. Note however that there was another provision that the Panama Canal Council would insist on, if the Texans wished to increase their overall military might: That their state refrain from creating advanced Submarine technology.

------

Honorius

As he sat in his slave quarters, waiting for his next month, Honorius mused to himself: Who was he? He had heard tales of the strange breed from the East, the Children of Atom who were immune to Radiation and were even cured by it. He had heard that he used to be one of them, before being taken away and raised in the ways of Mars and the Roman Pantheon. The slave didn't regret that; he still had his gift of radiation immunity, a gift that he demonstrated from time to time. Because he still had it, he knew that Atom was either over-generous or the gift didn't come from him. Nevertheless, a yearning grew in his heart as he meditated on the mysteries of Mars and the Gods: Once he was free, why not try and find those like him? Other 'Children of Atom'?

This will bear some thought...

[Dragos Bee]

((OOC: Versail permitted me to run Mavia once more. Also, the name of the town that has been burnt down will be kept anonymous, but will change depending on OOC developments with Vers and Aren.))

Mavia and Co.

Roswell and its NCR (informal) settlers had been burnt down, its people slaughtered to the last man, woman, and child. Mavia kept watch on her horse as Shamir and Griffin were leafing through the Town Hall's unburnt records, trying to see if there were previous sightings of Legion Remnants, Bandits, or Texan Settlers that could point to suspects. When the two kids came out, bringing in the Mayor's journal and a few notes saying that ex-legionnaires crying out the names of Caesar and Lanius were responsible; this was added to concerns that they were acting in concert with the Texan settlers, Mavia knew what she had to do: Ride to the settlement of Lubbock, where the main concentration of NCR informal settlers resided.

But first was business. Looking at Shamir and Griffin, the former aghast at such cruelty, the latter grieved by it, yet accepting that it existed, Mavia made another decision. Facing them, she said, "We're looting the bodies for what caps and bullets they have, then leaving them unburied. Better that we give the duty to someone else and save those who are still alive right now than arrive too late and let them die."

Shamir opened his mouth, but Griffin, his boyfriend, pre-empted him, saying: "We knew what we were going for when we snuck out to join your expedition, Ms. Mavia. But we need to know first; what do you plan to do once we've looted caps and ridden to Lubbock?"

Kyra Olsen, the Ex-Texan Brotherhood member, would ride over to them on her horse, her metal and meta-material armor covered in cloth.

"Isn't it obvious?" she said. "We go in, buy more weapons from the Gun Runner shop there, and get the mayor to hand over the militia to Ms. Ex-Ranger here. Then, we find whoever did this and get revenge with said militia on our backs."

Mavia looked at Kyra, "Yes and no. Once we get control of Lubbock's militia, we're going to send messengers to all NCR informal settler and local towns, as well as the Tribals we haven't made to hate us yet. We're going to everyone who may have a grudge against the Legion - I hope they're not becoming a force again - and the Texan Settlers and their 'Republic' and form our own army, our own Legion. That will show whoever attacks us that we mean business."

Shamir asked, "But won't the Texans strike back if we threaten their citizens? And won't the NCR object if we form our own Legion?"

Griffin interrupted, "Not if we don't call it a Legion, Shamir. And not if we convince the NCR that we're the best bet for the protection of their citizens. So it seems our enemy gave us an opening. All we need are the fighting skills needed to defeat them, and the road to our own Kingdom is in our hands. Imagine, our own kingdom in Texas itself!"

Mavia nodded approvingly. "Indeed, we'll have that and more..."

[Tysoania]

Six Island Federation

Norsk Shipyard, Southwest Harbor

The mood among the crowd was festive. Several days before, the Captain had officially proclaimed the reformation of Far Harbour and its territories into the Six Islands Federation and unveiled the new flag of the Six Islands. The news had been quickly transmitted from the capital of Far Harbour to the farthest reaches of the new nation, along with the declaration of the 7th of July as the new Unification Day. Now Unification Day had arrived, and Southwest Harbour was hosting a celebration to mark the occasion. The town's residents had been joined by citizens from Far Harbour, Trenton, Duck's Harbour, and even a small delegation from Dark Harbour. Southwest Harbour was awash in banners, flags, and colourful Islander clothing; even the town's small fleet of docked fishing boats had flags and banners from every high point. The mainlanders had been kind enough to send some representatives as well.

Although most of the town was full of people, the celebrations were centred around Norsk Shipyard. There, a podium had been erected and the Mayor, and then the Captain, had addressed the crowd before handing over the stage to the Razorbills, a small band from Dark Harbour. However, the biggest event was yet to come. That day, a pre-war ship would see the light of day and feel the waves on her hull once again.

Hans Nerison tried to stop his leg from bouncing, but found that he couldn't. The Ghoul, who had been a sailor on the Norwegian cargo ship Northern Star, had been tasked to pilot the ship when she reached the water. Although the ship's engines wouldn't be activated, Captain Rosdahl had ordered him to be prepared to helm the Northern Star as a precaution. Because none of the ship's other systems were to be used during the event, Nerison was the only sailor on the bridge. The ship was currently in the Norsk Shipyard slipway, sheltered in a massive pre-war warehouse; however, once the ship was launched, it would be towed to the new shipyard at the Mt. Desert Island Naval Facility to be fully outfitted and prepared for her maiden voyage.

Nerison suddenly heard a roar from the crowds gathered outside. Captain Rosdahl must have told the crowd. The Ghoul braced himself, fully prepared for the ship to break up, as it had when she had first run aground after the bombs dropped. However, there was nothing. After a few seconds, Nerison cautiously stood up and peered out the window. The massive doors of the warehouse were being pulled open by two Brahmin. Suddenly, the ship shook and Nerison grabbed the counter as he nearly fell over. He scrambled to the helm and looked out the forward windows. Why was the ship moving backwards? After a second, Nerison pieced it together. The ship's stern was facing the water, so they had to launch backwards. He spun around and gaped at the mass of black water that seemed to suddenly be hurtling at him, despite the incredibly slow pace at which the shipyard's workers were pushing the ship. After a few seconds, the ship began to pick up some backwards momentum and Nerison grabbed onto a post for dear life as the stern hit the water.

Surprisingly, the vibration and stress of the launch failed to break the ship apart and Nerison watched in amazement as, to the delight of the cheering crowd, the Northern Star righted herself and slowly began to drift. Clearly, she could float. Two tugboats quickly approached the ship and attached towing lines to her to haul her up the coast to the new location of Norsk Shipyard. After a short stay of a few weeks at the new shipyard, Captain Rosdahl hoped to have her ready for her first voyage.

[Arengin Union]

NCR Settlement #01819 Caprock
New Mexico Protectorate.

It was hot day, hotter than usual. Chris didn't think he'd be deployed here when applying for transfer from the Frontier up near Portland. Things were going rough up there but here it was either excruciatingly hot or bitterly cold. Either way he didn't enjoy it at all, no one in the Caprock NCR settlement enjoyed being miles away from NCR proper territory and making sure the common crops were well maintained and no one tried to steal them, protecting the water distillators on Lane Salt Lake near the outpost, keep them working, keep the settlers out of harm's way, so much other bullshit. It had been some rough years for the NCR, but at least the famine had been adverted with Moore's crop and ranch policies which saw an extension of collective farming operations within NCR land and outside from it. The economy was recuperating since the end of the Mojave campaign but the Frontier campaign which was much smaller scale was still sign that the Expansionist NCR was never truly gone.

Roswell and Caprock were the only settlements in New Mexico outside of NCR territory, but with the Legion gone and the tribal raiders easily spooked by a single gunshot in the air the Caprock settlement had seen soldiers become more like social workers than trained fighting machines. Chris was one of the four stationed medics in the outpost, with a couple of dozen more soldiers as well. It was tough, but at least he didn't have to worry about landmines, bullets flying across his head, and crazy heavily armed raiders that would eat him alive if captured. For now Chris would treat gecko or coyote bites, stalker poisoning from time to time as well as having to kill a few tribals tampering with the distillators every once in a while, though privates usually dealt with them.

Chris went out from the barracks shack, the sun shinning brightly in the New Mexican desert. He didn't have his helmet on, usually no soldier in the settlement ever had theirs on, it only made you sweat more than you already would. The settlement was not very big, but it was not that small for being in the middle of nowhere, caravans would come from Texas and Arizona once a week or month if times were bad, farmer and living shacks were everywhere alongside barracks. Metal fences made up the perimeter with some machine gun turrets on the roofs. A few lookout towers, a general store in the back of the town and a water reserve tank too. A crashed plane from the prewar also served as sort of hub area and on the horizon you could see what remained of some old oil fields. Life in here was boring but it was better than the warring Frontier. Many settlers moved here either because they were paying off taxing debts, nonviolent felons, or just wanted to get away from the ever modernizing life in inner NCR.

As Chris walked out of the shack and into the main dirt road of the settlement he passed by several engineers and workmen carrying different types of tools. They all looked dirty and covered by dust, wearing different combinations of outfits but they all still had the standard red vest of the NCR's taxation payoff core.

Chris didn't mind them, he walked towards the medical tents near some maize crops, the latest victims of gecko bites awaited him and his partner Corporal Huang. Huang was already there, with Jacobs and Del leaving for the day. The tent already had six patients and Jacobs and Del exited and passed by Chris, simply nodding at him with tired faces.

"Hey there Chris." Huang said while getting some syringes ready.

Chris grabbed a pair of latex gloves and a mask as he acknowledged Huang. "We're having a busy day today, just bad days overall. We haven't gotten a morphine shipping in weeks..."

"Yeah... we'll have to collect more Yuca fruit and some ginger too. Though I don't think that'll be enough." Chris answered to the corporal. That would be the only small talk they had for the rest of the day as the first patient was called in, gecko bite as always.

A few hours passed, it was noon now, and now Chris was giving ten year old Paul a medical check. His mother at the side of the table Paul opened his mouth wide as Chris looked inside, mucus was accumulating and he hadn't stopped coughing for a while.

"Uhmmm... I'll get you some pills for the coughing, just keep him hydrated and well rested Mrs. Klutz, he'll get better."

Mrs. Klutz got up from her seat and looking at Chris with angry eyes she spoke with a cracked and shaken voice. "How am I supposed to keep him hydrated when you don't even let us get more than a pint of water each day! And we need to keep the quota and his pa needs him to work, he's getting old and my back doesn't let me work!"

Chris didn't know how to react, he was taken completely aback by the words. "I... I don't... We c-"

"Forget it! You soldiers are all the same, just like my brother, all useless!" Mrs. Klutz then grabbed Paul by the hand and took the pills out of Chris's hands with anger and walked out of the tent, leaving Chris standing there like a fool.

"It gets easy with time, I've heard worse." Huang said as she walked back to the front of the tent, sitting back on the table to examine the clipboards.

"Yeah..." Was Chris's only answer.

Before any other talk could continue both medics heard screaming outside the tent, they looked at each other and before anything Sergeant Glasky entered the tent, a stern face and service rifle in hand. "Get your weapons, we've got a problem." He then went back outside and left both medics aghast.

Huang grabbed her battle rifle from the back of the tent she then tossed Chris's own rifle at him. Both of then took no time to get out of the tent to see Jacobs, Del, and several other soldiers and settlers gather around. Both of them got close to see what was happening, a man's body lying on the ground with blood gushing out of his neck, two other men close to him and clearly saddened.

"What happened!?" Sergeant Glasky asked towards either men, both of them didn't answer back right away until Glasky asked again with a tougher tone.

"We... we were out hunting, it was all gong well... then while heading back these men in horses and weird black armor and hats stopped us and began asking questions. They told us we were under arrest and tried to take our guns, they then shot Lenny and we shot at them, we managed to get to our horses... I don't know if they've followed us..."

Glasky's eyes widened as he then acted quick. "Everyone that don't got a gun get back to your houses. They might be tribals but we'll need every man we can get. GO NOW!" Immediately women, children, and men who were injured went back to their homes as a posse of armed men began to gather on the main dirtroad. The guards on the towers now on high alert as Sergeant Glasky gathered everyone.

"Alright... I want Robertson and Yargian to take 12 men to the left side of town and keep guard, Haggard takes 6 to reinforce Mijares, Thomas, and Wells on th-" Glasky was interrupted by shouts from the lookout on the tower above the main entrance.

"They're coming! There's at least 5-" The soldier was cut by a sudden gunshot from far away, his body then falling down to the ground.

"EVERYONE SCATTER AND DEFEND THE OUTPOST!" Glasky yelled as people began to run to their positions, or the ones they could.

"Jacobs, you and your squad make sure nothing gets through us and keep ready for wounded." Glasky then ran up the stairs of the main wall along several soldiers as gunshots began to be exchanged towards an unseen enemy.

"Are they Legion?" Chris naively asked.

"Shut the fuck up Chris." Jacobs said as he then gave a simply gesture to Huang, pointing at the south entrance.

"Will do sir. Come on Chris." Huang said while racking her rifle. Both of them headed to the south entrance, running pass fleeing settlers. The firefight made Chris's ears ring as he took position on the wall near the entrance, bullets whizzing on the ground.

"CONTACT!" Huang said as she aimed her rifle to the outside and fired several shots, Chris kept himself covered while holding onto his rifle like a teddy bear. Rapid fire was heard and then explosions, that could only be the turrets getting destroyed.

"Chris! Fire your weapon!" Huang said while loading a clip onto her rifle and going back at firing it.

"I'm... I'm a medic! I d-don't fi-" A bullet then penetrated the wooden wall Chris was cowering behind of, hitting him on the shoulder right through his armor. He feel on the floor and began to crawl away from the bullets as Huang desperately tried to keep the enemy at bay. As Chris crawled he heard Huang yell "GRENADE!" and then an explosion which left his ears ringings and pieces of wood and metal flew everywhere. Chris's head was now bloody, blood dripping from his scalp and covered in dirt and splinters, he turned around, holding onto his bleeding shoulder he saw a figure approaching him.

"Die NCR profligate!" A man in dark body armor, duster, wearing a hat and a bandana aimed his P90 towards Chris, Christ covered his face only to hear several shots but didn't feel anything, he let himself see again and saw then man with three bullet holes in his chest and blood coming out, he then fell right on the floor. Huang appeared, her face scarred from the explosion yet she approached Chris and handed him a Glock pistol. "I'll get you out of here..." Huang began dragging Chris into the inner shanty town, more gunshots exchanged.

Chris then fired his pistol to what he could see was another man with a cowboy hat and duster, he received some gunshots but quickly took cover. Chris then noticed it, he was leaving a trail of blood as Huang dragged him to cover, his right leg was missing. The young soldier smiled and closed his eyes despite Huang telling him to stay awake.

The battle was becoming more hectic as Glasky and the remaining troopers and militia kept fighting the mysterious raiders, both troopers and settlers lied dead on the floor of the outpost. After suffering staggering losses of their own, the men in dusters began to retreat and after a few minutes the battle was over with over 40 Californians casualties and 20 of the attackers dead.

Glasky ordered those alive to keep positions as he went down the stairs and back to the main square to meet with Sergeant Jacobs and Sergeant Patrick.

"Patrick, radio Roswell. We need reinforcement and supplies ASAP. Jacobs, asses the dead and wounded." Glasky tried to get his bearings as he looked around him, so many dead.

"Hey! We've got a live one here!" A trooper yelled from afar as he alongside another trooper dragged an attacker by the arms, wounded from his leg and unable to walk he was then dropped on the floor in front of Glasky. He spoke in some weird language, Glasky could tell he was insulting them but he also recognized some of the wording. The sergeant grabbed the man by his shirt and got up on his face.

"Tell me who you are or you get your teeth kicked in!" Glasky was only given a spit in the face and some more weird wording. Glasky then dropped the man and cleaned himself, then he stomped the man right on his wound, breaking his leg.

"What should we do with him sir..." A trooper asked.

"Tie him up outside on the wall, amass his dead buddies with him. We'll figure what to do with him later." Glasky said as he unloaded his rifle. It had been a hell of a day and he was too old for this shit.

[The Manticoran Empire]

Government House
Joseph Bridge's Office
MP Peter Temme and MP Lord Jeremy Porter were the most senior members of the Rural Conservatives, the main party that represented the rural counties and the Party that kept Prime Minister Dasher's administration in power. Joseph Bridge was the third in the Party hierarchy, on paper. In practice, Bridge ran the party in Parliament which meant that he held more power than Dasher did, a fact that wasn't lost on Porter or Temme. Porter spoke first, "Joseph, the Lords are concerned. Dasher got our approval for the Iowa campaign but then marches the Army over towards Chicago, claiming to want to start with Michigan. And now the Army has just been sitting there for almost a week, making no headway. To be perfectly candid, Joe, we don't like it." Temme nodded in agreement, saying, "Damn it, Joe. Our voters backed him BECAUSE he talked about bringing Iowa into the fold. Most of Iowa is rural and would likely fall in line with us, giving us solid control of the House and the Senate forever. Then he goes gallivanting off towards Chicago for Michigan, which is liable to side with the Rivers. That would give THEM control of Congress and good luck getting Iowa THEN." Porter nodded, as well, "Hell, if the Rivers get in power, their liable to try and get as much river turf as they can. That means The Great Lakes all the way to New York and south into Paducah. That's assuming that they don't piss off Erie or the Brotherhood of Steel first."
"Forget the Brotherhood and Erie, moving south might convince Texas or the Imperium that we're making a move on them. 80% of our trade goes through Texas and the Imperium and the Rivers definitely wouldn't risk a fight with them," Temme stated, matter of factly.
Bridge chuckled and said, "Gentlemen, please. I think it is clear that Dasher is getting cold feet. The election is scheduled for October this year. We can recall the Prime Minister at the next meeting of Parliament, next week. That will put him on the ballot in October, as well as someone else who will be more decisive."
"And, pray tell, who were you considering?" Porter asked.
"Hopefully not the VP. He's too close to Dasher for me to fully trust," Temme stated.
"No," Bridge said. "No, I was thinking of Hamilton."
"The Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces?"
"The very same. I've had plenty of conversations with him. He grew up in southern Missouri, near Leonard Wood. He's a Rural through and through and he's quite irked by the President's indecisive attitude. I think he will do precisely what the Rurals want and make Iowa a priority, though he has pitched to me the idea of Wisconsin first. It's got enough of a rural population that it'll give us a boost in Parliament and, from what the good General was telling me, it will secure our flank for the annexation of Iowa and Minnesota. He also made a point about the state of the Army's supply capabilities, suggesting that we avoid invading for at least long enough for the Army to begin building trucks in sufficient numbers to replace horse drawn wagons."
"Hamilton it is, then," Porter said. Temme nodded and said, "I'll start pulling the strings for a recall vote in the House."

Embassy of the Midwestern Republic
Austin, Republic of Texas
Ambassador Aaron Brown sat down behind his desk, contemplating the message he had received from the War Department. It, in very complicated and legalistic terms, had instructed him to open a dialogue with the Fort Hood Arsenal in Fort Hood, Texas with the goal of securing a delivery of M16 rifles and 122mm howitzers for testing and evaluation. A number of Midwestern arsenals were developing their own weapons to compete and the Army wanted some foreign examples to compare against. To this end, Brown was attempting to word a letter, addressed to the Foreign Secretary of the Texan Republic, requesting permission for a representative of the Royal Army Ordnance Board to visit Fort Hood Arsenal and speak with them about procuring several examples of various small arms and artillery pieces for evaluation by the Ordnance Board for the Army's expansion and modernization efforts.

Mr. or Ms. Foreign Secretary
As Ambassador for the United Kingdom of the Midwest to the Republic of Texas, it is my charge and duty to inform you of my Governments intention to engage in negotiations for the sale and delivery of varied arms from your Fort Hood Arsenal. It is my task to request from you the permissions and clearances necessary for a representative detail from the Midwest Republican Army Ordnance Branch's Procurement Board and the Congressional Armed Forces Procurement Commission to visit Fort Hood Arsenal for the purpose of examining various arms as well as observing various arms in action, pending the purchase of several examples for further testing by the Ordnance Branch.
I remain, as always, you most humble and respectful Midwestern Ambassador
Aaron Brown.

[Dentali]

Richmond Governor’s Mansion

One of the aspects of the Atlantic Commonwealth that Governor Anderson was most proud of was the emergence of media outlets, Richmond alone had 3 newspaper and 2 radio stations all of which were here today for the bill signing.

“With this bill all of Old World Virginia is now part of the Atlantic Commonwealth, this comes not through conquest but through the desire of people throughout the wasteland to be free, to enjoy the liberties protected by the Commonwealth and to experience the prosperity provided by our nation and the ingenuity of its people.” With that Anderson signed the bill into law before the assembled crowd, which applauded in response.

In addition Anderson had that day signed in a law set to promote industry in areas outside Richmond and encourage investment in the areas newly annexed. Small arms and munitions factories were set to be built in the following months providing jobs and much needed supplies.

Perhaps most importantly the naval facilities on the coast were going to be upgraded in preparation for an expansion of the navy. The new navy would focus on smaller and swifter vessels instead of creating a fortress on the ocean, the force would be able to enter and protect the various small rivers in the east and potentially hide and raid from hidden bases…. That was the idea at least, inventing a new naval doctrine was difficult.

All eyes pointed North, though, allies to the west and good relations to the south, the ocean to the east. The the North the communists waged a border war against the Enclave and raged across the wastes of Pennsylvania, the values of liberty and communism were incompatible.

[Solisian Union]

The United Republic of the East Coast

Early Evening
General Rubi de la Cavallería

I finished my prayer for the day and rose up from my floor and left my room. I searched for my horse and patted it and fed it with some left overs before I got on her back and rode away to where I was summoned. As I rode through the UREC, I found out something about what my nation once served:

It was a shame. It was lesser than the army I served when the United Syndicates still existed. Even though my country was ruled by godless syndicalists, I was proud of the reputation my comrades and my subordinates had. We terrorized the raiders and the scum around us. We served as the bulwark of the Republic. And now we are citizens of that Republic...because we lost our home.

When I got there, I was told to report to the General of the Armies and I did so, approaching her in her office and sitting down to talk to her. We spoke for quite some time. By that, I meant the entire day until it became dark.

The first thing we talked about was the issue of the military. We had 4 million people and there were only 80 thousand serving in the military right now according to my estimates. I planned to change that and I proposed that the UREC gather all the forces under the banner. The United Republican Forces should forever be the current and official armed forces with the United Women's Combat Units and the Syndicalist Troopers together. The rest of the militias of the other states too should be disbanded and made to join the URF.

She agreed to this. Then we spoke about another thing: Recruitment and Production. We needed more men. We estimated that to face Texas and the rest, we need roughly 200 thousand men at arms actively on the front while we could always rely on reservists and conscription afterwards. She stated the issues with this and we all agreed to work on that on the next day. I asked her about production as she assured me that recruitment was underway. She said that our production is all right but that we are also starting to establish some more workshops and factories. I was informed dearly that more tanks and vehicles and fuel will come our way.

Moving on, we spoke about what next to deal with and we settled on defenses and the plans for battle. We debated on whether to hold the Mississipi Line or draw a line that would protect Birmingham, Montgomery and the highways leading to the east, to Atlanta, the UREC capital.

Lastly, we spoke about our allies. She told me that we could rely on the Carolinas and the Atlantic Commonwealth and that diplomats were being sent to the Enclave for supplies and support.

[Dragos Bee]

((OOC: This is a collaboration post between Dragos Bee and Arengin Union))

Town of Lubbock.
NCR Texan Protectorate.

Four people on horses rode into Lubbock, two women and two boys, all clad in desert clothing. Their leader, a brown-skinned woman whose smooth face contrasted with firmly set eyes, spoke to the guards, "We need to see the Mayor; it's about Roswell."

She then pulled out, from her clothes, the papers showing her service as an NCR Ranger and the medal she had earned from her service as one. Hopefully that counted for something.

The NCR trooper in charge of the gate looked at his fellow soldier, both of them weren't sure what to do but the papers given by the women checked out, no other place in the wasteland gave out certificates with the print of the NCR flag. "Open the gate!" The soldier yelled, the door was opened, a crane pulling up the wide metal casket which allowed the group inside.

The trooper went inside, guiding the women and her group into the town, Lubbock was no crown jewel, in no way did it compare to places like Shady Sands, the Strip, or Arroyo, but it was a decently sized town of about 300, surrounded by walls and protected by a platoon of NCR troopers as the town's agreement to provide crops in exchange of NCR protection and eventual patriation. The mayor, Mr. Victor Papavich was quickly infromed of the newcomers and their wish to see him.

Papavich exited the main town hall, escorted by an NCR trooper and with his secretary at his side as always. He was fat, fatter than usual for someone living in the wasteland, a well trimmed mustache adorning his face compared to the Trooper's rugged stuble, and wearing a three piece suit with a silver chain hanging from the right pocket, he carried a bowler hat on his arms as he walked towards the group.

With arms wide opened, Papavich began his ceremonial speech he practiced everyday in case of new arrivals. "As representative of the town of Lubbock I welcome you! We usually don't get much traffic other than caravans from the South or citizens from the West. You wish to discuss housing? I've got a recently vacated house right on the east side and don't you be fooled by the rumors, he died of natural causes an-"

Mavia sighed and said, "Roswell has been razed. Everyone there is dead."

She then brought out the diary of Roswell's Mayor, which detailed the minutes before his killing in graphic detail on its last written pages.

"W-what?!" Mayor Papavich said as he took a hold of the Roswell Mayor's diary and began to frantically read through it. The NCR trooper eyeing in as did the secretary.

"Pfftt! Nonsense, I-i'm sure it was just a case of mild raider attack nothing else. We've just gotten a confirmation from Caprock that caravans were heading from Roswell this way. I'm sure it's all good." Papavich said with confidence of a true politician, though within his self his heart was now racing and he felt the sweat in his brow and neck. The NCR trooper was visibly nervous, as was the secretary.

Mavia pursed her lips at that. "Then with your permission, I would like to await these caravans' arrival. Perhaps more light can be shed on this situation once we see what they have to say. Speaking of Caprock, any further news from them?"

Papavich began to sweat even more. "Well you see.. uhhh... well... last transmission I know of was..." He then turned to the trooper, Sergeant Galian. "When the hell was that transmission!?"

The sergeant looked rather shocked at the sudden turn of mood of the mayor. "Uhh... I think about a 5 days ago sir... I think." Galian answered.

"Well go and check with them now!" The mayor yelled, the trooper immediately ran towards the communications shack. Papavich looked at Mavia, he gulped as he then tried to compose himself.

"Just ahh... just making sure. How about you join me to the town hall in my office. Im sure we can discuss this in a less public manner." Papavich said as he had began to notice that several of the townsfolk were looking at them, he wanted to avoid possible commotions.

Mavia nodded, and got off her horse; her entourage dismounted as well and handed over their horses to nearby stablehands. They would then follow the Mayor into his office in the town hall, with Mavia already planning various strategies to get the Mayor to do what she wanted. She was expecting the Mayor to take a more negative tone once they were alone, but the fact was, she had truth on her side and that cannot be changed. So she waited for what the Mayor was going to say next.

Mayor Papavich was having a mental breakdown without even showing it, the last raider attack had left him short of 3 troopers and if what these strangers were saying was true, he knew it was but he didn't want to admit it, then his town which was in no way as defended as Roswell was screwed. He pulled back his balding hair and sat on his desk, Mavia right across him.

Papavich began to read through the diary of the Rosswel mayor, he scrambled through the pages, with an angry tone he said "Where'd you get this... HOW DO I KNOW YOU DIDN'T JUST FALSIFY IT! HOW DO I KNOW YOU'RE NOT PART OF THE ATTACKERS!" He slammed his fist on the desk angrily.

Mavia directly faced the mayor down, before saying, "You forget who you're talking to. I used to be an NCR Ranger. I used to fight against Legionnaires and Raiders and other assholes. I fought in El Paso, where I shot and hewed down Ceasar's mongrels as they made their last stand!"

She slammed her medal down the desk. "This is proof that I spent blood and sweat in the defense of the NCR, seeing friends die time and again in the campaign east. If not for me, you won't be here at all and this town wouldn't exist." A moment's pause to further glare. "So no, I didn't falsify an entire diary or attack Roswell by myself."

Papavich had a look of shock at this... nobody yelling at him. He stod from his seat, "How dare you speak to me in my own town, in my own office! I'll have you and your entire band of oddballs arrested!" In that moment, Sergeant Galian entered the room, despite the secretary behind him telling him not to get in.

"Sir!" He was out of breath.

"Ah! Sergeant, right on time. Arrest these li-"

"Caprock doesn't answer! It's only static with some words coming in, saying 'attack' and 'heading east'. I think their antenna was damaged. And there is no possible contact with Roswell." Sergeant Gilian interrupted. Papavich looked at Mavia then back at Gilian, the mayor sat back in his seat, it was true.

"We're doomed..." He said while looking at the ground.

Mavia shook her head and said, "No, we're not. As I said, I used to be an NCR Ranger; we're used to overwhelming odds." She looked at Griffin, who was just standing there impassively. "Kid genius here is experienced in fixing up things, like Lubbock's own pumping station. If we can solve this town's water problem quick enough, we can have extra rations of water ready for those willing to fight. Then we can form a militia to get Lubbock's defenses ready for the assault to come. Not merely that, but my horse has 3000 caps in several pouches; we I can lend those to the town in order to buy weapons." She looked at him, "Then we'll give em' hell."

"How the hell will a couple dozen NCR troopers and some farmers and settlers fend off a group large enough and armed enough to destroy Roswell! We're better off just going out to the desert and die!" Papavich answered with contempt.

Sergeant Gilian then interjected. "Sir, only two of the five pumps are working. If they can fix them, then we can have water to withstand a siege, and water the crops better. We're not enough soldiers to fend off an attack that large, but if w-"

Papavich then furiously yelled at Gilian "SHUT THE HELL UP GILIAN! You're only in charge because lieutenant Ramirez was killed, you dont get to give orders, I DO!"

Gilian was taken aghast and so was the secretary.

"We're all dead! WE'RE DEAD! ALL MY DREAMS OF BECOMING SENATOR OF THIS PROVINCE RUINED! I'LL DIE AMONG CARROT AND MAIZE FARMERS AND SOLDIERS TO DUMB TO ATTEND SCHOOL! I WENT TO ARADESH COLLEGE, IM SMARTER THAN EVERYONE IN THIS GODFUCKING TO-" Papavich's rant was cut short by a sudden whack in the head by the butt of Gilian's service rifle, he fell on the floor flat on his face unconsious. Gilian then looked at Mavia and her group.

"So... Tell me what to do.." The sergeant said.

Mavia smiled and said, "First order of business; get the troopers and militia on high alert. Second, escort Griffin here," she gestured to the Albino, "To where the pumping stations are. Then buy up all the weapons in town and once water is available, reinforce the walls with as much scrap and rubble as you can get."

A pause. "Now, one last question: Has the Mayor made the local Tribals hate him yet? If he's managed to avoid getting the Comanche and Apache to hate his guts, we could have useful allies and reinforcements..."

Gilian took a deep breath, "Okay, okay... I'll get my men to assemble whoever can hold a rifle." He then looked at Griffin, "Kid, private Flint is outside, he'll take you to the water pumps." He then looked at Mavia, "I'll make sure we have all weapons and ammo we can, the caravanners aren't gonna like it but its time for a little taxation."

The sergeant paused and then aswered the last quesiton. "NCR has pissed off the Comaches and Apache more than once... I was there when the ones that didn't accept NCR rule were displaced from their land... I don't think they'll care what happens to this town. Unless we can lie to them and promise them NCR will let them back into their land if they help us." Gilian answered.

Mavia pursed her lips. "Good point. Abandon that plan, then."

For now.

Panama Canal Council - Double-Post

As new mercenaries trooped to Panama in order to police the slaves and prevent strikes and rebellion, as new slaves arrived to work on the Canal itself and its refurbishment, the Council received news of Cuba's hostile reception: They had refused to enter an agreement with the Canal Council. Outrage was immediate, and so was the sending of the PCC's sole submarine in order to find Cuba's navies - plural - in prepearation for a first strike. Cuban Markets will be opened, one way or another; the PCC was also sounding out the so-called 'Blue Water Monopoly' in order to add more needed manpower and quantity to their upcoming operation...

[Dragos Bee]

-Deleted-

[Tysoania]

The Six Islands Federation

Ellsworth

Ella Gibbon settled in for another quiet night of sentry duty at Ellsworth High School. The school was the main strongpoint of the town's northern defenses, and overlooked the main road that ran through Ellsworth. When the Army first took Ellsworth a few months ago, Gibbon's squad had been assigned to clear the area of any vermin, and quickly stumbled across a dozen Mirelurk nests along the river. The resulting cleanup operation had converted the school into a base of operations, and the new fortifications had proved useful as a marker for the border.

The creating of the Six Islands Federation had proved to be a boon to the Army, as it had rapidly expanded into a force of approximately 100 troops. This had allowed for permanent garrisons to be established across the nation, and Ellsworth High School had become the garrison of the 20 soldiers of Bravo Division, which was tasked with protecting Ellsworth and the Trenton peninsula from enemy incursions and raider attacks. Although none of the former and only a few of the latter were expected, it was still seen as a necessary precaution.

That precaution was why Gibbon was on sentry duty tonight. Instead of sleeping, she got to spend 6 hours alternating between keeping an eye on the creek that they considered the northern border and keeping an eye on the woods to the east. Although she would never admit it, Gibbon was a bit terrified of that forest, especially at night. The woods were always awfully quiet, as if something horrible was lurking in there, and the treeline was a bit too close to the school for her liking. Her position on the school roof was awfully exposed, as well...

Gibbon continued peering into the woods for a second, then shuddered and turned back to the road. Below, she could see two soldiers quietly talking at the gate through the barricades and a Six Islands flag fluttering quietly above them. Beyond the gate, however, was nothing but darkness and silence.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by something. Something was in the woods. Gibbon whirled around to face the treeline, hand scrabbling at her back to bring her rifle around. After a few panic-filled seconds, the rifle came untangled and Gibbon brought it up to aim at the treeline. Suddenly, she heard it again. A distant thud, then another. Then another. Maybe a crazed raider was tossing around grenades. But no, it was too methodical for that. Suddenly, to her horror, Gibbon realized it wasn't blasts at all. Those were footsteps.

Gibbon froze for a second, then went to hit the alarm, but something beat her to it. A blood-curdling roar came out of the forest as Gibbon pressed the alarm button, and a massive Deathclaw charged out of the forest. Gibbon gaped for a second, then screamed and desperately tried to aim her rifle at the beast. Before she could fire a shot, however, the Deathclaw charged past the school towards the road. There, the two sentries tried to take down the beast, but they had barely fired a shot before the Deathclaw was upon them.

Gibbon fled to the door leading into the school and climbed down into a war zone. Inside, a handful of soldiers were firing through one of the school's windows at the Deathclaw, while two others attempted to get the divisional harpoon gun into a firing position at another window. The rest were charging down the stairs to confront the beast; evidently, they had yet to find the remains of the two sentries. Gibbon ran over to one of the windows and poked her head out it. Below, she could see troopers firing at the beast from the protection of the main doorway, while the others waited for an opportunity to scramble into one of the shipping containers by the barricade that the division commander had set up to protect against these very scenarios.

Gibbon brought her rifle up and aimed at the Deathclaw, then pulled the trigger. She heard the round leave the rifle and the casing clatter to the floor, but the Deathclaw didn't visibly react. The dozen or so rifles firing at it also didn't seem to be doing much, as it casually smashed open the main gate of the barricade and fled into the night, two dead soldiers dangling from its bloodied maw.

As Gibbon sank to the floor and tried to recover from the shock of the experience, the divisional commander began compiling a report to the Commodore about the incident, as well as the other incidents that demonstrated the near-impunity of Deathclaws against the Army's troops and barricades. Within a week's time, the Army would begin putting out feelers to regional traders about artillery and heavy weapons.

[Dragos Bee]

Panama Canal Council

A young woman sat behind a window of bulletproof glass, writing in a journal as the air conditioner blew small blasts of cool air into the room.

The Panama Canal Council's policy of slavery will not work in the long run, whether the canal be fully repaired or not. Too much resentment has already been created, resentment that requires a strong fist to suppress even temporarily. The other states in the area, however, are not much better. Aside from the fast-regressing 'United Republic', none of them adhere to 'fairness' and 'prevention of uncesessary harm', none of them adhere to altruistic, inclusive principles despite the fact that resources are no longer as scarce as they were before; even though conditions are better now. People say my morals are that of a child when I express misgivings about this situation: I say that my morals are how things should have been and how thngs should be.

We could have reconstructed a society that learns from the mistakes of the past, not repeats them. We could have created a true Overculture, a culture compatible with multiple smaller cultures and able to bind together multiple religions and races and even species. This Overculture could have been based on civic commitment, patriotism, a Bill of Rights that affirm a set of broad moral principles, and finally, a 'New Pantheon' of Revolutionary Heroes picked from multiple constituent cultures. It would have been the true 'City on a Hill'. But alas, there is no ground, no fertile soil, that such an 'Overculture Theory' could be sowed in. No soil that these intellectual seeds can be sowed in without being twisted into a mockery of its altruistic ambitions.

Of course, I might be letting my own biases get in the way...

- Laura Blake, Febuary 2293.

[Tysoania]

Six Islands Federation

Baker Island

As the MS Northern Star slowly sailed past Baker Island, Hans Nerison tried to figure out exactly what was in the container immediately in front of the ship's pilothouse. The ship still had a good half-hour before Nerison had to change course, at least according to Capt. Rosdahl's calculations, and Nerison needed something to keep himself entertained for the voyage south.

The ship was loaded with exactly 432 containers, and Nerison knew that 164 of those were loaded with canned, salted, or otherwise preserved fish and seafood. The rest were loaded with lumber and various canned goods, as well as a few specially-built containers full of biogas. That meant that the container in front of the pilothouse was likely to be a fish-filled one, but it could also be one of the other loads. Really, it would be hard to know, unfortunately.

The Northern Star's voyage was a carefully plotted one, with the ship scheduled to arrive at its first stop, Norfolk, in about 40 hours once the ship reached its cruising speed of 20 knots. Although the investors back in Far Harbour hadn't actually gotten much information on the market in Norfolk, pre-war charts showed that there had been a large naval base there, which would hopefully mean that the cargo ship would be able to dock there. If not, the Northern Star was carrying two boats for a reason. After a brief stop in Norfolk, Capt. Rosdahl was to continue south in an effort to find a solid export market for the goods coming out of Far Harbour and find friendly allies in the area. With any luck, the Northern Star would also carry a full load of desperately-needed military equipment or marine supplies back to the Six Islands.

Nerison shook himself out of his reverie as the bridge door behind him open with a squeak. Capt. Rosdahl stepped into the cabin and stood beside Nerison, peering at the chart on the table next to the ship's wheel. A small black line was drawn from Far Harbour to Norfolk. After a few seconds, Rosdahl looked up and out the bridge window. Nerison could only guess at what was going through the captain's mind. After a few seconds, the captain spoke in the characteristic Ghoul rasp.

"Johansson says that there's no storms on the horizon," Rosdahl stated. "As long as there's no issues, we might make good time to Norfolk."

"Yes, captain." Nerison replied.

After a few seconds' pause, the captain spoke again. "Remember, we still don't know what lurks out here in blue waters. If you see anything, anything, report it to me immediately."

"Yes, captain."

"Very good." The captain turned and slowly walked out of the bridge, closing the door behind him. He had a point, Nerison thought. Although the fishing fleet had never reported anything odd, their boats were small against the length of the Northern Star. Perhaps the disturbance from the ship's massive propellers would awaken some great terror from beneath the waves.

Nerison shook himself. That sort of thing hadn't happened before the war, and he had even accidentally sailed through a nuclear testing ground with no signs of angry mutated wildlife. There wouldn't be any issues on the trip south.

Probably.

[The Traansval]

New Boston, 2293

Down the streets of New Boston's waterfront clattered a carriage, flanked on both sides by troops of the Royal Household Guards, walking with their backs straight, uniforms perfect, and rifles at the ready for any sign of trouble. Inside the carriage, King Washington VI sat with Chancellor Hatfield. As they passed the harbor, the King rolled down the window, closing his eyes. He felt the warm mid day sun on his face, a rare sight in cold Boston during the early months. He could smell the ocean breeze, salty but sweet to him, along with the smells of the docks; fish, tar, rope, and all manner of things. He could hear the shouts of children as they played, the laughter of sailors as they sat to drink and gamble in between voyages, and the cries of beggars. His memory drifted, back to his days in the Royal Navy, a Senior Lieutenant aboard the HMS St. John. He could hear the shouts of battle, the cries of pain and the yell of victory as the low sitting monitor came upon the sloop...

"We've arrived, your Majesty." Said the Chancellor, startling the King awake.

Awoken from his daydreams of former glory, the King looked out the now closed window, up at the large brick building before him. Out front were two guards, their patches indicating that they were from the 27th Rifle Regiment. Both stood at attention, their rifles shouldered and their backs ram rod straight. Their breath frosted slightly in the air as they looked straight ahead, not daring to move in the presence of the King. The front of the building was dotted at regular intervals with white windows, and above the main oak doors was the royal crest, only the eagle held a grenade in its hand instead of an olive branch; it was the seal of the Royal Army. The King stepped out of the carriage, flanked by two Household Guardsmen on both sides, and he buttoned up his overcoat which covered his rich blue Naval uniform. The Chancellor lead the way up the brief set of steps, over which a red carpet was draped so that royal boots would not touch the dirt ground. One of the two riflemen gave a crisp salute, turned on his heel and placed his hand on the door knob, wincing slightly at the feeling of the cold metal on his bare hand. He held the door open as the King stepped through the threshold, closing it behind him and his guards.

The inside was rather different from the outside, as the floors were an arrangement of tile made of some form of quarried stone, polished until they shined in the illumination of the lights overhead. The walls were a plain beige, painted recently. The entrance had opened up into a small lobby, with chairs arranged in an obvious waiting area, and a single receptionist behind a wooden desk shaped in a semi-circle, each end touching the frame to a set of double doors constructed of a light birch wood. The Chancellor nodded to the receptionist, who picked up a receiver on the small radio set into her desk. Chancellor Hatfield and his King walked through the doors on the right, followed by the Household Guards. Behind them, the secretary spoke something into the radio, the King was too out of earshot to hear it. They walked down the long hallway, which was pierced on both sides by single doors which lead into offices or other rooms. They turned to a set of stairs, ascending them to the third floor where they strode forward into an open lounge area. Several men in officer or general ranks looked up in surprise, soon rising to their feet and saluting the King of New England as he walked past them. A set of heavy iron doors were thrown open by the guards, and quickly closed behind the King as he passed them, entering a room filled with maps, charts, generals, and cigar smoke.

The War Room.

Laid out over a large table was a map of New England and the Eastern Seaboard of North America. Several different flags, pins, and other pieces were on the map. Several armchairs were arranged around the table, with several men in brown army and dark blue naval uniforms, many with gold epulettes and medals showing them to be Generals. They sat around drinking cognac from their glasses and puffing on fat cigars. At the arrival of the King, all stood up and took their hats off in greeting to the Commander in Chief. At a signal from the King, they all sat down, and he King took his place at the head of the table with his chancellor at his side and guards behind him.

"Right, let us begin this meeting. Shall we begin with the Duke of Providence and his report on the state of the Army?" Said the King, motioning to the man in question.

Said Duke rose at the mention of his name, his chest filled with medals from years of campaigning and a rest sash across his chest denoting his Dukedom. His peaked cap held the insignia of the Royal Army instead of the usual gold stars which denote a Generals rank, this showing him to be the Chief of Staff of the Royal Army. The Duke of Providence placed his cigar carefully on the edge of a ash tray, and spread his right arm over the map.

"I, III, VIII, VII and IV Legions have been deployed to the western border, with their Legionary Headquarters located in Stamford, Albany, Fort Edward, and Burlington respectively. The 2nd Rifle Regiment has been detached from I Legion and sent to reinforce the Royal Marine company stationed at Fort Hudson in West Point. Additionally the 2nd Cavalry Regiment have both been detached from the II legion and sent to provide security for the construction of the Hartford-Albany Rail line after the recent raid by bandits. Finally in the west, the 11th Rifle Regiment of IV Legion has been sent to Montpelier and a joint task force of the 4th Cavalry Regiment of IV Legion and the 23rd Rifle Regiment of VIII Corp have been sent to Green Mountain National Forest where some raiders are believed to operate."

The Duke of Providence took a moment to pause as his colleagues took in his information and looked over the map. All that was said was marked on the map with little pins topped with flags showing the Legion Insignia or Regimental insignia. The King took a swig from his glass of cognac as he looked over map.

"Up north, the II Legion has been stationed in Quebec City, V Legion in Montreal, and the IX Legion to Halifax. The 5th Rifle Regiment of the II Legion was sent to Sherbrooke after there came reports of raiders in that area while the 13th Rifle Regiment of the V Legion was sent to Trois-Rivieres. VI Legion has been stationed in Portland, with its 17th Rifle Regiment being stationed Bangor, its 18th Rifle Regiment stationed in Concord and its 6th Cavalry Regiment was sent to the White Forest Mountain where we believe a group of raiders is hiding. X Legion, stationed in Hartford, has sent its 28th Rifle Regiment to New Haven and its 29th Rifle Regiment to Springfield."

Finishing his sentence, the Duke of Providence took a small binder handed to him by his aide and passed it along to the King, who opened it to view at its contents.

"You'll find a summary of our accounts for last year, including a summary of our supplies. We've had problems with food and I've instructed our quartermasters to begin issuing a Battle Ration to last the men a week if they are ever separated from their unit or, more likely, involved in a battle or deployment in which food cannot be easily accessed. Additionally we've had problems issuing all our men Rifles and some men have resorted to purchasing civilian arms, which has only made our problems with ammunition ever more dire. The fact is that the army needs more funding and our facilities in Springfield must be expanded, the civilian contracts aren't cutting it. The New Winchester company alone has a 63% approval rate with its arms, so many come to us with weak wood in the stocks or major defects in the receiver, not to mention the ammunition that comes to us from the civilian sector might as well be used as Grenades their so bad!"

The Duke ended his speech slightly red in the face, as his temper was well known throughout the Kingdom and his disdain for the treatment of the Army as Second Class also being well known. The King slowly closed the binder, handing it off to the Chancellor who began to read it. The Duke of Providence took his seat, and returning to his cigar and drink. The light above flickered slightly, as a low hum could be heard from the large fans used to keep the overall building cool.

"We shall discuss allocating more funds to the Armies budget at our next cabinet meeting soon, do take heart Richard for our troubles are temporary. In the mean time, I shall issue a Royal Decree for the nationalization of the New Winchester Arms Company as a second Royal Arsenal. Perhaps once your engineers and workmen take over we can have them cranking out arms for the army." Said the King, a smile on his face as he spoke with his old friend. He swiveled his head to a rather young man now standing from his chair; "Shall we hear from the good Duke of Long Island?"

The young man now stood at his full height of 6'2', towering over the table in his uniform which bore many medal along with the Ducal red sash. His cap held the insignia of the Royal Navy; a royal eagle holding a ship in its claws circled by a wreath of gold; designating him as the Admiral of the Fleets, commander of the Royal Navy. He reached to a sidebar of the table, picking up several small wooden pieces in the shape of crude ships and began to speak as he placed them on the map.

"The Gulf of St. Lawrence Division has been sent to patrol the waters between Quebec, Washington Island, the northern tip of New Halifax Province and southern Newfoundland. Reports of pirates preying on our shipping coming south or going north have come to the office, and so the Division shall be busy ensuring that the waters are clear of threat. The St. Lawrence River division remains anchored at Trois-Rivieres except for when they sent one or two ships up and down to patrol, there hasn't been much in the way of action there."

Several crude wooden boats were now arranged off the coast of Quebec and the Canadian provinces, swarming the small bay. The King, a man of the navy at heart, nodded along intently as he idly imagine a rouge pirate running into a Royal Navy ship on the open seas. Woe to the pirate.

"Now towards the Atlantic, traffic has been mostly quiet and only the occasional patrol is needed to ensure our dominance in the home seas. The First Frigate Division has established a patrol route from Cape cod to the southern tip of New Halifax province, and is supported by the First Escort Division. The Monitor Division has been doing patrols and exercises in the Bay of Fundy, as we don't want them to go too soft and wish to keep their strength up. The third and fourth Escort Divisions have been licensed, through the Royal Mercantile Society, towards escort duty with merchant ships while the Second Frigate Division is currently in Portland Naval Yard with the First Battleship Division. We plan to switch the First Frigate Division out with the Second Division around August so that the men can have shore leave."

The Atlantic coast of New England was now covered in wooden boat icons, creating an impenetrable line. It was now that many remember why the Royal Navy was considered the best in the world, and why the toast went "New England Rules the Waves". A smirk appeared on the Kings face, as he remembered his tour on one of those Monitors the Duke mentioned. Bay of Fundy duty was liked by those who didn't want to see combat, and disliked by those who hated the cold.

"The HMS New York and HMS White Mountain Monitors, of the Long Island Squadron, have begun patrolling the waters off the southern coast of Long Island. Smugglers from New York City, the SUC, and farther south have long found business on Long Island and so we're hopping that the monitors, supported by three unrated vessels, will be able to counter this illegal trade. The rest of the fleet is either out at sea or in harbor at Montauk. As for the Hudson Division, there has been a record number of crossings by raiders and tribal bands. The HMS Green Mountain, our Monitor on the Hudson, alone reports having sunk thirty-three vessels on the Hudson last year. This is very worrying and so patrols have increased, along with the local legions being notified and on high alert. As for our expenses and supply, my assistant will pass you our report. The Marines have done admirable duty in our efforts against smugglers and pirates at sea, and the Provisional's have done well at protecting our harbors and rivers."

All nodded in assent to the report from the Admiral, with the General of the Marines giving a smile and a nod to him on his closing statements. The rest looked over the map and thought over the two men's words. The King grunted as he looked over the binder handed to him by the Admiral Duke's aide, handing it off to the Chancellor shortly after and rising from his seat.

"Gentlemen I thank you for this meeting and your work. I shall now retire to my Palace, and see my Queen. Good day." Said the King, already on his way out the door.

The front door to the building opened once more, and the two riflemen stood back at attention as the King walked by. Washington strode down the steps as the carpet was rolled up behind him by his servants, and stepped into the carriage with his chancellor following shortly after. When one of his guards attempted to close the door, the King stopped him with his hand. He pointed to the two guards;

"Do give those two some gloves, I can already see their fingers turning blue"

---

HMS Ontario, Somewhere in the Gulf of the St. Lawrence, 2933

The ship rocked from side to side, its hull creaking and groaning as it passed through the crisp blue-green waters of the Gulf. The crew men moved about, trimming the sails and ensuring that everything was as it should be. On the quarterdeck, the officers stood speaking among themselves, passing information gathered while on shore leave or discussing bits of nautical info. Behind them stood the Midshipmen, standing tall in their proud uniforms with a school master currently instructing them in the proper procedure for calculating how many knots a ship was travelling. Among them was Midshipman Andrew Byron, the son of a Justice of the Peace he had secured a commission as a Midshipman just two months ago, on his 15th birthday. He was shipped out with the HMS Ontario, a 44 Gun Frigate assigned to the St. Lawrence Gulf Division. He had soon become fast friends with the son of a Quebecois Lord named Jean Baptiste, a fellow Midshipman. Both of them now stood with two other Midshipman, both twins from the Cowell family of Hudson Province, prominent merchants along the Hudson river. Their schoolmaster, an aging man of 57 named Allan Tuddle, stood in front of them with a spool of rope in his hand, with the end split into three and attached to a plank of wood cut like a rounded diamond.

"Now this is called the ship log, and its used to find the speed at which a ship travels at sea. The plank at the end shall be dropped over the side and the spool allowed to unwind as we make our headway. The plank shall hold in the approx. same spot, and the rope has been tied into small knots at intervals. Now, we'll allow the line to spool out for approx. 28 seconds, counting as the knots pass by. The amount of knots which pass in the span of 28 seconds is out speed, in Knots. One knot is roughly equal to the speed at which it would take a ship to travel one nautical mile in one hour. Now, if you gentlemen will please follow me to the gunwale..."

Mister Tuddle lead the group to the side of the ship, where he proceeded to set up his hourglass. It was decided that one of the Cowell twins would toss the log into the sea, and that Byron would count the knots while Baptiste watched the hourglass. At his call, the plank was dropped in, and Byron took to counting.

"One knot... Two knot... Three knot... Four Knot... Five Kn-"

"SHIP AHOY! STARBOARD SIDE!"

The cry from the crows nest cut through the air like a ravens call, and every living being on the top deck froze in place for a fraction of a second before they heard the call of "Beat to General Quarters!" coming from Lieutenant Brewster, who held the con. The drums announcing General Quarters echoed across the ship, and men rushed out from below decks to take up their positions. The ships compliment of twelve marines came out onto the deck, their commander, Captain Nathan Younger, ordering them to positions in the rigging or quarterdeck to prepare. Mister Tuddle rushed down to below decks as Byron and the other Midshipmen moved to their posts. Byron moved to gunnery section, where his men were already standing at the ready next to their guns. The cannons were 10 pounders; the heavier 25 pounders were on the gun deck below them. The cannons were a smooth shape, almost like a bottle. The inside of their barrels were grooved in a rifle pattern, and they were fired using a percussion cap mechanism on the back of the gun. Next to each cannon was a small box containing various shells, some with their tips painted red or yellow. At the call of the Captain, the gun crews could switch between firing Fuse Shells, which contained a explosive charge and would detonate after their fuse ran out, Impact Shells, which contained a explosive charge and would detonate on contact, and Solid Shells, which were just solid pieces of metal.

"Prep the guns, lets wait for orders before we load shells." Byron said, nodding to his men who began to prepare the guns for battle.

The lookout in the crows nest was quite apt in his call, for soon over the horizon came the sight of a dark wooden ship in the distance. She was a small ship, maybe half the size of the Ontario. As the two drew closer, it was soon apparent that it was a schooner, and that it flew a black flag on its mast. Which meant that either New England had just made contact with a total new, previous undiscovered Canadian nation which flew a black flag, or that they had found a pirate.

"LOAD FUSE SHELLS, SOLID SHOT FOR THE BOW CHASERS!" Cried the Captain, who was now on the quarterdeck, having emerged from his cabin. He hands were on his hips, and his feat were spread apart along a line which ran down the middle of the ship. He could feel the rocking of the ship beneath him, and could tell how she moved just by feel.

"You heard the Captain, Fuse Shells!" shouted Byron, his gunnery crews quickly getting to it. A couple marines pasted them as they moved towards the Forecastle, rifles loaded and fixed with bayonets. They carried a Land Pattern Heavy Machine gun, along with a swivel mount which could be clamped and screwed to the railing. Byron watched as the two set up the bulky gun, and a bit impressed at the sound that came out when they fired a single test shot to make sure it was in working order. God help any pirate what went up against that beast.

The schooner came closer, and with it the officers could see the pirate crew more clearly. The schooner carried three guns, what looked like salvaged pre-war howitzers or anti-tank guns, along with several machine guns and plenty of crew. It was obvious that they did most of their fighting in boarding, and not in gunnery, for their crews were assembled on the deck with rifles and cutlasses waiting for the Ontario to come close enough to board. They probably thought that they could sail fast enough to get under the frigates guns, how foolish they were.

A loud bang echoed across the bay as the right side bow chaser fired its solid shot, landing well out of range of the schooner but giving it the obvious message. It was a warning shot, one which the pirates obvious did not heed. One of the ships salvage guns fired, the round flying and falling into the water away from the Frigate. Seconds later, a geyser of water erupted forth from beneath. They were using fuse shells as well it seemed.

"TURN TO PORT, PREPARE STARBOARD!" Shouted the Captain once more, his order echoed down the ship by every officer and seaman, ensuring that it was heard. Several seamen had now armed themselves with cutlasses, pistols, and shotguns. The rest were either up in the rigging working on the sails, or in a gunnery crew. Byron looked through his eye glass as the schooner came closer and closer, still out of range but closing in fast. The Ontario slowly turned to its port side, bring the starboard side ready to fire a broadside on the schooner and its cutthroat crew. The eyeglass slipped out of his grasp, hitting the deck and resting between his feet. His hands were slick with sweat, as was his brow, unusual since the climate today was rather chilly. Byron felt both anxiety and excitement fill up in his belly, the idea of his first taste of naval combat was both a wonderful and terrifying idea in his head. He swooped the eyeglass back up and stuffed it in his midshipman's jacket. He took his service revolver out of its holster and checked to make sure it was loaded.

As the Ontario turned, the starboard finally began to line up with the oncoming schooner. The pirates seemed to be determined to ram the frigate, which made them an even smaller target. The Captain seemed to be allowing this for now, and simply kept course. Byron ordered his crews to be sight the guns, and they got to working the winch on each guns mount, adjusting it until the small flip up sight attached to the left was in line with the projected path of the schooner. When the schooner came within firing range, the Captain called "READY TO FIRE!". Byron held his revolver in his right hand, his left on the lanyard of one of his sections guns. He waited for the call.

"STARBOARD FIRE!" Cried the Captain. The Bosun and other seamen echoed the order, but the Captain had been heard well enough.

"FIRE!" Byron shouted, pulling the lanyard with all he had and watched as the cannon bucked in its mount and spewed forth a brief flash of light and a small wiff of smoke. The crack of the cannon was deafening, and seemed louder than it did during drills. The entire section had fired, as had the other guns on the top deck and below on the gun deck. The shells flew out over the expanse of ocean towards the schooner, with many falling in the water around it, but a few smash into the wooden hull and either going through or lodging themselves in the hull itself. Splinters were sent flying inside the ship, causing great harm to the crew. A few seconds passed, and then the fuses ran out and the bow of the schooner erupted in flame. Several holes now appeared in the ships bow, and probably a good few men had been caught in the explosion. "RELOAD! IMPACT SHELLS!" cried the Captain, and the gunnery crews scrambled to their task. "TACK THE SAILS, TURN TO STARBOARD, HEAD DUE NORTH!" he shouted again, pointing to the sailors up in the rigging and sails.

As his sections crew reloaded, Byron felt the ship under him begin to the turn. Looking over the side, he noticed that the schooner was beginning to turn from its direct path towards the frigate towards its port side. The captain was obviously meaning to come upon the ship from its starboard side. The Marines stood on their toes in anticipation, with rifles and grenades clutched close they stared at that pirate schooner like a starving man looks at a roast turkey.

The pirate fired its starboard guns, the shells largely missing and being sent into the water around the frigate. The schooner was light and nimble, but it had come too close to get away. As it turned towards port, the Ontario turned in a almost 90 degree arch towards its starboard side. Now only a hundred or so meters away, the two sides began to exchange small arms fire. The marines in the forecastle opened fire with their heavy machine gun, tearing up the enemy deck, while they took cover and attempted to return fire with their rifles and submachine guns. Eight marines stood with their rifles on the quarter deck, firing deadly accurate rounds at the enemy across the water. The gunnery crews all stood by their guns, ducking to try to avoid the bullets flying.

"FIRE!" Shouted the Captain. Lanyards were yanked and this time the side of the schooner presented a large target for the broadside. Shells hit the enemy shit, exploding on contact and sending large chunks of wood into the sea or into the men who served the ship. A few shells landed on the deck, scattering the men who were taking cover, causing them to be chewed up by rifle and machine gun fire. The Schooner was badly damaged, but was still afloat, even though one of his masts has been cracked and her sails were full of holes. The Captain ordered the sails trimmed, and began to turn even more towards starboard; towards the schooner.

Byrons men put down their gunnery equipment and grabbed whatever weapons they could find at the middle of the ship. When they returned, Byron found himself in command of a crowd of maybe a dozen or so men wielding clubs, cutlasses, pistols and any gun they could find. As the two ships drew close, the sailors of the Ontario threw their grappling hooks over, latching onto the schooners side and dragging her in close. When the gap became manageable, the armed crew of the Frigate stormed over the side. The pirate were fierce, but withered from the previous fighting, and were cut down by the trained New England Crew. The Royal Marines jumped over to the schooners quarterdeck, cutting down the enemies officers and tearing down the black flag that hung over the schooner. Seeing their flag taken, the pirates began to surrender. Byron couldn't see this, he was too deep in the fighting. His revolver was in his hand, popping off shots at those pirates who decided surrender wasn't for them. In his other hand, a cutlass was held, dripping with blood as he cut through the masses on his way down to the schooners below deck, his gunnery section crew behind him. They reached below decks, firing a crew of pirates trying to stuff their pockets with something. Byron and his crew opened fire, cutting them all down. It was then that the items in their pockets spilled out, and reflected in the sun.

Gold.

Gold coins to be specific, minted ones. A shipment had been hijacked from a New England Treasury ship on its way north to Quebec. It seemed that the cargo was finally saved. Captain Younger came down below, his marines in tow. He whistled a low whistle when he saw the gold, chuckling as he approached the young midshipman, revolver raised and saber dripping in blood. "You've certainly seen your filled of action haven't you lad?" Younger asked, laughing a low laugh as his men moved to secure the cargo and the bodies. Byron only offered a small nod as he holstered his revolver. He wiped the blood off on his sleeve, and slid his saber back in its scabbard. He motioned for his men to follow him, and they exited the below decks.

Above, Byron looked over the deck with glazed eyes. The deck was covered in bodies, some in Royal Navy uniforms, but most in the garb of the pirate. A gang of maybe two dozen or so pirates were on the forecastle, held at gunpoint by armed sailors. Their weapons were in a pile before them, and they were being bound for transport back to Quebec, where they would stand trial for piracy and most likely be hanged. The Captain of the Ontario stepped onto the schooner, which was now legally his prize ship. It'd sell for a decent price back in Quebec, and the Captains monetary prospects grew even more when Captain Younger informed him of the cargo below. He couldn't keep it of course, but the reward alone for the minted coins return was more than a Captain of his post would make in a year. Yes, today was a good day. The Captains gaze wondered over the ship, and landed on the young Midshipman on the quarter deck, uniform stained with blood, standing in front of his gunnery section.

The Captain nodded at Byron, and Byron nodded back.

---

New Caanan, border of White Plains and Hudson Province. 2933

The sound of hammering filled the air, pervading every element of being and blocking out all other sound. No matter where you went in the sprawling village of New Caanan, the sound of the hammers seemed to seep in like a miasma of sound. The people of New Caanan were a pious people, it was their town which sparked The Revival and spread the teachings of New Christianity across New England. They believed that to the true way of life for a child of God was that of the humble farmer, preacher, or merchant; and their town certainly reflected that. The entire village had been built up by the New Caananites, and the result made it look like something out of the old west. Wooden buildings, no more than two stories, dotted with dust roads and merchant stalls scattered like jacks all along the route. The New Caananites, despite their claims to humbleness, did not shun technology, and many pre-war street lamps had been repaired and ran on old salvaged fusion batteries or generators, along with a large watermill on the Blackberry river which provided power for a power system which ran to the various houses and buildings in the village. If there was one word to describe the village, it was quaint.

Of course, that quaintness was a bit disturbed by the large work gang moving through the north of the hamlet.

When King Washington VI authorized the Royal Massachusetts Railway company to expand the railroad connecting Hartford to Boston via Worchestor and Springfield, the company decided to use the old world Highway 44 as the route for the line, which set it to go right through the north side of New Caanan. Workers were strung along the former highway, setting down pieces of steel and then hammering them into the soft dirt. Many of the workers on the rail line itself were what one might call the Lower class; ex-convicts, former tribal's, and immigrants from the south. Meanwhile, blue collar New England workers from Boston and Providence worked on a large wooden platform which would soon become a Railroad Station. Others lounged around on break in the camp set up, a veritable city of tents and fire pits. Overseeing it all were a hand full of men from the Company, and a troop of Royal Cavalry; McPheresons troop, of the 2nd Cavalry Regiment.

The Troop had set up on the northern edge of New Caanan, setting up a weak defensive line with their two machine guns and some low trenches and earthworks. They didn't expect an attack, not on a large town like New Caanan, but it didn't hurt to be a little prepared. The sun was beginning to set, sending streaks of orange across the sky and causing many of the workers to breath sighs in anticipation of their soon to come dinner and slumber. A bell rang out, and the cavalrymen of McPheresons Troop came to their part of the camp. They sat down around a large fire, with several logs set up in a circle, along with a few benches behind them. The cook from the local tavern had been hired by Lieutenant McPhereson to cook for the troopers, and so the men practically ran to the line with their mess kit in hand. Each one was served a large helping of pulled pork with mashed potatoes and a warm biscuit, both covered in a dark gravy. As each man got his food, he rattled off his name and rank; Lieutenant didn't want anyone getting second helpings.

A rather small man, wearing the standard pattern Cavalry uniform sans the protective chest armor and helmet, and sporting a full head of jet black hair which seemed to reach almost to his shoulders at its point came up to the cook. He held out his mess kit, and watched as the cook slapped its contents into the kit, almost looking a little displeased. He turned towards the Sergeant holding a list, most likely the Troop roster. "Name and Rank" the Sergeant gruffly spoke, stilling looking down at the list.

"Daniel Prescott, Private." said Private Daniel Prescott.

The Sergeant looked up at Daniel, his eyes bore into him as the mans face morphed into a sly grin. "So, his Highness dares to eat with the peasants? Well what'dya know, HA!" chortled the Sergeant, who Daniel knew to have the last name Charles. He shot the Sergeant his best death glare, which was really a rather meek stare, and walked off to his tent. As he passed the men huddled around the fire, he heard a small hush fall and then a few whispers, followed by suppressed laughs and eventual roars of hilarity after Daniel had passed out of sight. He threw open the flaps on his tent, startling his bunk mate who seemed to be enthralled with a penny dreadful crime novel he'd bought back in Hartford. "Jesus, give a guy a little warning next time Prescott. Whats got you in a huff?" said the man, a trooper named Alan Hanks, the one man who Daniel had made a connection with. "Charles giving me shit again, I swear I should have gone into the navy..." Daniel said, placing his food down on the small trunk at the end of his cot and taking off the sash around his chest. The Sash made of a white silk, with a red border.

The sash worn by children of Dukes to denote their heredity.

"Yeah well your dumbass self wanted to see the Wild West, and here ya are. Except it ain't very wild, in fact its a bit too humble like for my preference." Hanks snorted out, placing the small novel under his pillow and picking up the biscuit from Prescott's tray, breaking it in half and shoving one half into his mouth. Daniel considered protesting, but thought against it, too steamed to really care. I'd been four months since he'd enlisted with the Royal Army, wanting to be deployed somewhere far from Boston, far from his Father and all his business and political dealings, far from the stuck up naval officers and merchants. He'd been bored of life, and decided that dying in the frozen tundra of Quebec or the wild wastes of upstate New York was better than withering in Boston. His father had immediately pulled all the strings he could and transferred Daniel from the Infantry to the Cavalry during basic training, hoping to at least keep him alive until the end of his tour. Daniel had been thrilled; the chance to join the elite scouts and riders of New England, the Vanguard of the Army. He'd taken the train from Boston to Hartford, meeting up with the Troop who'd immediately taken him for a joke when he walked in with an escort of three servants and his personally tailored red and white uniform. Lieutenant McPhereson didn't take him for a joke, just a damn fool. The servants caught the train back to Boston and Daniel had been stuffed into standard pattern uniform, being only allowed to wear the Sash as they were allowed under the regulations.

Daniel Prescott knew that he stood out, with many of his fellow troopers being former hunters, explorers and settlers from the Hudson territory turned to the Army to make ends meet. They were grizzled, veteran men, who had killed before and could do it again, all standing among the fresh faced nineteen year old son of the Duke of White Plains who had only ever shot a deer before. He'd been assigned a tent with Hanks, who at least seemed to hold some sympathy for him and decided to befriend him, the two finding a shared interest in literary works. When the troop shipped out, many were dumbfounded to learn that instead of being sent to White Plains like they'd expected, they were given last minute orders to provide a security detail for the Hartford-Albany railroads construction.

Shaking his head, Daniel shoveled a fork full of pork and potatoes into his mouth, washing it down with some water from the jug in their tent. His family were staunch Abolitionists, and he didn't feel now to be a good time to be the first in his recent family to become a drunkard. A knocking sound came from outside, and one of the tent flaps was thrown open revealing Sergeant Charles to Daniels view.

"Lieutenant wants you and Private Hanks to the officers tent, pronto." the Sergeant said, his smirk off his face replaced with a grimace. Daniel and Alan looked at each other briefly before picking up their kit and strapping it on. The rather heavy chest plate worn by the Army, which protected against most small and medium caliber small arms fire, was attached to Prescott's royal chest, going over his sash. The two grabbed their holsters (large leather affairs which had a large slot for holding a Cavalry Saber and a smaller on above the sword to hold a service revolver) hanging on their cot posts and clipped them onto their belts.

They exited their tent to face a sky just starting to turn to dusk. The sun was already dipping below the horizon, and those orange rays now had a purple hue to them. Prescott and Hanks quickly followed Sergeant Charles to the officers tent, passing by the rest of the troop who seemed to be quite inebriated. It seemed that the local cook had decided to bring some of the taverns ale and sell it off for a price, not seeming to know that cavalry troopers weren't supposed to drink on duty. As they approached the officers tent, they noticed three other troops, all privates who had been recently brought in. Daniel knew two of them; Private George Edwards was from Providence, an orphan who enlisted when he turned 17, and Private Frank Win from New Halifax City, who had joined up to impress a girl on a drunken night in the dark quarter. The third was a rather tanned man, no older than Daniel himself, but who carried himself with the confidence of a older man. All were in full uniform.

They were ushered into the tent, and Lieutenant McPhereson looked up in surprise and then somewhat in disgust. "Sergeant Charles, I instructed you to find me five men for this mission, five seasoned men of experience who could be trusted. Instead you bring me all the rookies?" the Lieutenant asked of the Sergeant, who looked quite sheepish under his commanding officers glare. "Well sir, due to the ale the whole damn troop is either passed out or too off their rocker to ride. The new boys are the only ones who didn't drink... much." Charles said, speaking in a rather clipped and even tone, one which he reserved for his superior. McPhereson huffed and looked down in defeat before standing up suddenly and moving towards the men. They stood there, awkwardly assembled shoulder to shoulder in a loose line. The Lieutenant looked each one up and down, seemingly weighting his options. It seemed that his calculations were done when he walked over to a large chalkboard, over which a map of the south west was stretched.

"Earlier today, the company sent a surveyor north along the 7 with a escort of troopers. They were supposed to be back by eight, but its been two hours and they haven't even answered our radio calls. Somethings up, and I don't like it. You five will be sent under Sergeant Charles to ride ahead and see if we can find our men, and maybe what happened to them." Lieutenant McPhereson told them. It was then that Daniel noticed a man in a civilian suit and hat behind McPheresons desk, the man was a little pudgy around the belt but his eyes were an alert blue. The pudgy man interjected "And if at all possible recover the Surveyor or his charts and work, he and they are invaluable to the work of the Massachusetts Company" said the man, visibly upsetting the Lieutenant. "Right, what Mister Baker said. Now, the expedition was to end around here, at the village of Sheffield. You'll be travelling along the road until you reach there or until you find out what happened to the expedition. If you find either, then turn back and report to me once you return. Understood?" McPhereson finished, earning nods and a few grunts from the assembled men. "Good, dismissed."

Daniel was the last out, following behind Alan as they all moved in a line towards the stables where the troops horses were kept. On the way they stopped by the quartermaster and picked up their rifles, ammunition, and other paraphernalia of war. They arrived to the stables to find their horses saddled and fresh, the farriers obviously having been given prior notice of the mission setting out. Daniel patted the mane of Elizabeth, the black mare who he had brought with him all those months ago when he first joined the troop. He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself onto his mount, shoving his rifle into the holster attached to Elizabeth's saddle. He looked to his side at the other members of the ad hoc squad as they did the same. Daniel followed their lead as they began to trot out of the camp, pulling up his scarf to cover his mouth and sliding the goggles on his helmet down over his eyes. When they began to get clear of the city, their pace increased until they were in a weak quarter gallop. Daniel held tight to Elizabeth's reigns, loving the feeling of the wind whipping past his cheeks as he rode off into the night. This was the action he had craved.

He heard a crackling and then a voice come from the small radio strapped to his chest, "Testing comms, do all copy?" Daniel heard Sergeant Charles say, with the rest of the squad answering with a low "10-4" over their own walkie-talkies. "I want everyone alert, I don't like riding into wild territory in the twilight" Sergeant Charles said, falling silent as everyone eased their horses to a slower pace to help reserve their stamina. Soon the sound of hooves clipping on the hard concrete of the highway that once carried thousands of motor vehicles carried to the ears of the cavalrymen. Daniel took a pair of small ear buds out of his pocket and plugged them into his radio, tuning the freq until he came upon the frequency for New England Radio, and the sound of music helped him stay sane in the saddle.

I've been holding out so long

I've been sleeping all alone

Lord I miss you

I've been hanging on the phone

I've been sleeping all alone

I want to kiss you

Oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh
Oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh
Oooh oooh oooh

Oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh
Oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh
Oooh oooh oooh oooh


BANG

Daniel was startled a wake, surprised to find that he had slightly dozed off in the saddle after the hours of riding. He saw Sergeant Charles raised his hand in a fast, and everyone came to a stand still. Rifles were slipped out of holsters, and everyone looked around scanning the area around them. Daniel reached up to his goggles and flicked a switch, covering his vision in a green light that allowed him to see properly in the dark. "I heard it come from up ahead, maybe fifty or a hundred feet out I'd guess" said the tall tan trooper, who Daniel had learned was named William. "Roger, lets leave the mounts here and move ahead on foot." Sergeant Charles replied over the radio, seeming to take the Privates rough estimation at face value, which Daniel found a little odd. Everyone slipped out of their saddles, grabbing what pieces of kit they needed off their steeds and leading them to a small depression off the side of the rode. They tied their reigns together and attached the combined ends to a small weight which held them to the ground. The horses could easily get out of knot if they needed to, but they were well trained enough to stay put.

With the horses sorted, the squad fell in behind Sergeant Charles with their rifles at the ready. They advanced along the side of the road as it began to rise into a small hill, plateauing at its zenith and then falling towards the Konkapot river. They fell into a crouch as they moved, eventually reaching the top and laying flat in the grass as they surveyed the scene in front of them. The only light they saw was that of a street lamp, and inside its golden halo of light they saw bodies, two to be exact. One cavalry trooper and a man in civilian clothes. Assembled near the bodies were a group of eight men dressed in a variety of armors, ranging from simple cloth clothes to leather or metal gear. All wore no head wear, and had their heads shaven with a single red line going down their head. Two men seemed to be discussing something with a third, a man dressed in what looked to be a New England Infantry Uniform which had been stripped of all its insignia and heavily marked with symbols. He carried a large rifle, which Daniels guessed to be an anti-material rifle. The rest of the men were standing guard over two small row boats, one of them containing several men wearing the uniform of McPheresons Troop of Cavalry.

"They've taken them prisoner, most likely to be sold off as slaves across the Hudson..." Sergeant Charles whispered, his face deathly pale. He clutched his Land Pattern Shotgun tightly to his chest, and seemed to be debating his options. He turned to Private William, speaking in the same low tone. "Do you think you can get a bead on the fella with the big rifle?". William nodded and spoke something in a language Daniel didn't understand, began to fiddle with the adjustments on his Marksman Rifle. After a moment he looked through the sight and gave a thumbs up to Sergeant Charles, with said Sergeant giving a long sigh as he attempted to plan his next move. "Prescott, take Hanks and try to flank around on the right, through the grass. The signal to attack will be William's shot." he whispered, and both Daniel and Alan nodded in response, and began to roll and move on their bellies through the thigh high grass.

"We're in position Sergeant" Alan radioed in, lying next to Daniel with a look of fear on his face, looking odd next to Daniel's own face of excitement. Finally, he thought, he'd get a chance to see some real combat, some real action against raider scum. The two of them sat in waiting until they heard a shot ring out and the leader crashed to the ground. The rest of the raiders were startled awake, looking around to see where the shot had come from. Daniel and Alan rose to their knees, rifles tucked against shoulders and fingers on triggers. Daniel brought one of the bandits into his sights, lining up the little metal post with the mans head and pulling the trigger, feeling the rifle buck in his hands. He felt dazed as he watched the man fall to the ground, motionless, while his friends looked down in shock only to feel death come upon them. Sergeant Charles was advancing with Private Edwards and Win, his shotgun blasting while the two privates gave it their all with their rifles. The raiders, seeing themselves caught, ran towards their boats.

"Advance! Don't let em get aw-" Charles said on the radio. Daniel looked away from the battle for a moment, wondering why the Sergeants transmission had cut out. He couldn't see him, but he did see Private William running from his sniper position, probably following the Sergeants orders. Figuring he didn't want to be left out, Daniel rose to his feet followed by Alan and the two moved towards the river. They arrived to find three raiders had gotten in the second boat, and had gathered the captives in front of them, pointing their guns at the hostages. "You come any closer and we'll shoot them!" one of them yelled. Daniel, joined by Alan, Edwards, and Win, stood on the shore with their rifles at the ready, just standing there. The two sides were in an uneasy standoff; none of them wanted to shoot their own men, and it seemed the raiders weren't very much in the mood for surrender. "Just let them go and we'll let you go!" Daniel shouted in a vain attempt to diffuse the situation. "HA, no way boy, these be our in-sur-ance. We'll be heading on home now, and if any of ya'll try and follow then we'll shoot em all!" the same raider said, following his word by kicking the engine, starting it up into life and sending the boat to start moving away from them. Daniel tried to see if he could get a proper sight on any of them, but they made sure that the capture troopers were between them and Daniel. As the boat moved out of range, Daniel brought his rifle down with a huff, echoed by the rest of the men. He turned around, hoping to find the Sergeant.

"Wheres the Sergeant?" Daniel asked Win, who hooked his finger towards the hill. Private Prescott began to hobble his way over, only to find the Sergeant laying flat on his back in the halo of the street light, with Private William crouched over him. Daniel crouched next to the Sergeant, using his rifle to balance himself, and placed two fingers above Charles's carotid artery. He felt nothing, and breathed a sharp Damn under his breath, shaking his head. He looked to Private William, who held his usual stone face while looking intensely at the Sergeants face, a small track of moisture on his face showing that once a tear or two had traveled across the tanned plum of his cheek. It was then that Daniel noticed the dog tag around Private Williams neck, and that it showed his full name to be William Charles. "Well, we can't take him with us. We'll have to bury him here, come back after the mission and give him a more proper burial. Same with the rest of the troopers." Daniel said, apparently to Private Charles but mostly to himself. The others, who had gathered around the body, nodded in agreement, and the lot got to work.

Four shallow graves had been dug, with each body wrapped in a linen bag before being carefully placed and buried. Private Charles had taken the Sergeant's shotgun and used his bayonet to break off the receiver and barrel, and used the simple wooden stock to mark the graves. He had also said some phrase, "nwebin", repeating it over each tomb. Daniel resisted the urge to probe into who exactly Private William was, instead decided to move towards the shore line. The raiders had left one of their boats behind, and it seemed that this would be how they'd get their men back. A groan startled him, causing him to turn around suddenly and find one of the bodies moving. The others saw the movement, and they all surrounded the man as he rolled onto his back. It was the leader, the one with the anti-material rifle which was now a good few feet away from him. It seemed that William's shot hadn't done the trick, and had grazed his skull, causing him to pass out. The raider opened his groggy eyes to see several New England rifles pointing down at him, eliciting a groan of defeat from him. "What are we gonna do with him?" Private Win asked, looking a little bewildered at the man survival.

Daniel smiled, an idea coming to him. "We're gonna use him. But first, we're gonna have a little chat..."

---

Onboard HMS New York, off the coast of Fire Island, Long Island. 2933

The small rowboat rocked under Lance Corporal James Halsey as he clambered onto the hull of the low schooner, his rifle slung on his back and his hat snugly fit on his skull. The rest of the six man Marine compliment joined him along with several armed Sailors and the Captain of the HMS New York, Arthur Nelson. They crew of the Schooner were assembled on the deck, obviously looking displeased at the invasion of their privacy. Halsey and the Marines fanned out in a loose line, their automatic weapons held low but at the ready. The Captain approached the quarterdeck with his armed sailors behind him. "You fly no colors, where do you come from?" he bellowed up to a small man dressed in fine clothes standing behind the ships wheel. "We are of no nation, we operate under the Blue Water Monopoly... And this is the Georgina which you step upon." the Schooner Captain replied.

Captain Nelson nodded, turning to move towards Lieutenant Quincy, the commander of the New York's Marine Contingent. "Lieutenant, can you spare two men to assist us in searching this vessel for any contraband?" the Captain asked, although Quincy knew it to be an order and not a request. He nodded, and motioned for Halsey and another marine, Private Xavier, to join the three Sailors. Together they went down below, where they found row upon row of various crates and barrels. Halsey found a crowbar next to the entrance, and went over to one of the barrels. He stuck the bottom end under the lid and thrust his weight down on the other end, sending the lid flying. Inside, Halsey was shocked to find small red bottles attached to what looked like an inhaler. Jet, he recognized it from dozens of previous searches. Contraband in the Kingdom, outlawed for close to sixty years now. Halsey heard several other crates behind opened, the men finding other bits of contraband such as Psycho and others.

Halsey came back up on the deck, two men behind him carrying the barrel of Jet. He motioned with his hand, and the two tipped the barrel over spilling dozens of containers of Jet all over the deck of the ship. Several of the Marines and the Captain raised their eyebrows at this. The Captain of the Georgina looked absolutely outraged, "THAT'S MY CARGO! HOW DARE YOU RUIN! WHAT GIVES YOU THE BLOODY RIGHT!" he bellowed, about ready to kill one of these blue uniformed men. "The King and Parliament of New England, Sir. These Chems were outlawed decades ago, and you sail in our waters which means you are subject to our laws. You and your entire crew will be taken into custody." Captain Nelson calmly replied to the angry Captain. Halsey and Private Xavier moved up the steps to the Quarterdeck, and took the Schooner Captain into custody at gunpoint, binding his hands with rope. After he was in the boat, the sailors began to row him back over to the New York while Halsey and the Marines moved to disarm the rest of the crew.

A flash caught Halsey's eye, and he noticed the bright red tunic of one of the sailors move as he reached for a holster under his leather jacket. Without thinking, Halsey turned on his heel and, with his Automatic Rifle braced against his hip, fired a burst of six shots at the sailor, sending him careening backwards in shock. His legs hit the railing, and he tumbled over into the churning ocean. It had all happened within a split second, and the sailors were shocked. "Anyone else want to try something?" Halsey shouted at the sailors, who quickly nodded no and began to quickly throw down every pistol, cutlass, shiv or club they had.

The smugglers were taken into custody and put on a rowboat, guarded by the Marines. A second boat passed them, containing a number of Sailors who would act as a skeleton crew so that the Schooner and its cargo could be sailed back to Montauk to be used as evidence and then later auctioned off as seized goods. Halsey smiled as the sight of the New York came into full view, its shining metal hull lying low in the water, and its two big 155mm Howitzers sticking out of the large rotating turret at the front of the ship.

She was a truly ship of war, and she was home....

---

[The Traansval]

Somewhere over Green Mountain National Park, 2933

"Keep on course boys, another dozen miles or so and we'll be on target crackled a voice over the radio headset. An observer on the ground might be startled to look up and see eight flying craft floating above them, although out in the Green Mountain there weren't many observers. The place was a home to tribal's and bandits, pushed there by the advance of the Kingdoms armed forces, including the Royal Army Aeronautics Corp. "Lieutenant Foster, you've got point. Over." the voice said once more, sparking said Lieutenant James Foster to reply "Copy".

As he sped up to take his place at the head of the loose wedge formed by the squadron, Foster thought back to the briefing for the mission. Command had issued orders for the Squadron to grab a handful of fly boys and send them to support an assault on a raider camp in Green Mountain. Foster, a brave young man who'd just earned his Lieutenant commission, had eagerly volunteered. He had flown countless missions in the rear seat of Recon aircraft, snapping pictures and manning the rear turret when needed, and now he finally had the opportunity to fly his first combat mission, with his new plane, Nancy Quincy. He held the controls to the plane in a stiff grip, nervousness and excitement running through him as he remember all the stories told. The fly boys were like Knights of Medieval times to him, except they had Aircraft and Machine Guns instead of horses and lances. The thought of joining their illustrious ranks was sending excitement through the young lad of seventeen.

He moved a little farther in his seat, peaking over the fuselage of his NEM-XVI. "Uh, Captain McNeil? I think I see water. Over." James radioed over. He could just see the blue dot on the horizon, along with a small brown and grey mass just around it. "Copy, I see it too, we're coming on the target. Begin descent, Over." McNeil radioed on, and the detachment began to slowly move closer and closer to the ground, cutting their engine speed as the lake came into view. James could see the outline of houses and buildings, along with what he suspected as a large wharf with several ships docked. The buildings were mainly wooden, probably built from the vast forests of the Green Mountain, and it was then that James understood why they were ordered to load half incendiary and half shrapnel bombs. The ground was coming fast, James estimated his altitude as maybe one to two thousand feet. They were coming close now, and James could see the Infantry and Cavalry assembled, waiting for the planes to make their attack before moving in to mop up the mess. The tree line began to fade out, and soon they were over a flat open plain, a plain on which the village sat.

"Engage boys, DIVE DIVE DIVE!" McNeil shouted, and the entire group swung down and low, reaching the ground low just before the village. James cut his engine and pulled back up, practically gliding. He could see the people on the ground look up sharply, hearing a loud whistling sound of air passing over the diving planes. Foster's Nancy skimmed over the ground before coming over the roofs of the low lying huts and buildings. With one hand he yanked on a cord and his four bombs fell from their metal hook racks towards the ground. He flicked his engine on and pulled up, rising into the air once more as he went over the village and now coasted over the pristine lake. He began to turn to his left, moving to circle around back towards the city. He looked over his shoulder and saw smoke and flames everywhere. Several of the buildings had caught fire and it seemed the inhabitants were running to get out. Finally orientated, James moved to bear down on the city. Finding a rather straight and open portion, which obviously used to be a road, he turned towards the ground and placed his thumbs on the two triggers for his dual .50. Seeing some tribal dressed savages running out, he pressed down hard and watched as a line of dust was thrown up where his shots fell, sending many careening towards the ground.

He began to pull up, a cry of victory on his lips, when he felt a sharp sting in his lower side. Scratch that, it was more like a stab, the pain was immeasurable as he slumped forward slightly. He took his foot off the pedal, tried to pull up more but could barely move. His head hit the dashboard, sending him into a daze. He felt his wheels touch the ground, and then he heard a loud snap, and then he was thrown out of his seat and off to the side, onto the wing. The last thing he saw was the sky above, and the tree around him.

The harsh sun's rays pierced his eyes through their lids, and forced him awake from his stupor. It had been early when they set off, but now it seemed the sun was high and mighty in the sky, and spared no mercy for a poor fly boy. James sat upright, and looked down at his poor Nancy, who had lost one of her landing wheels, had gotten her propellers all snapped or bent, and had a crushed right wing from hitting a rather large pine. Foster stood up, his legs shaking a little, and went towards his seat and grabbed his head set. "Hello? Hello? McNeil? Anyone? Do you copy, Over? he said, and waited for a response that would never come. Throwing the headset down in frustration, he groped around the inside before finding the survival kit strapped to the side of the cockpit. He hooked the satchel around his shoulder and stuffed the 9mm pistol he'd bought in Albany into his waistband. The woolen leather jacket began to make him sweat, and he threw it off and stuffed it into the cockpit. He turned around to get a bearing of his situation.

A couple hundred yards away, he could see the village that he'd just attacked. It was a smoldering ruin, its buildings burnt to a crisp and bombed all to hell. He saw several moving persons, and at first thought that maybe the attack had been unsuccessful and that he'd have to deal with some raiders. He thought that, until he saw a flag bearer carrying the New England flag with them. It seemed that they had taken it. Sending a quick praise to the Lord, he began to jog over to the riflemen.

As he closed in, a few of them saw him coming and raised their rifles. "Halt! Identify yourself!" an older one said, wearing the campaign hat of a Non-Commissioned Officer. "Lieutenant James Foster, Royal Army Aeronautic Corp, Albany Squadron." Said Lieutenant James Foster of the Royal Army Aeronautic Corp, Albany Squadron. The riflemen put their guns down and cocked their heads in confusion and curiosity at the airman. "What'd'er you doing here? Didn't the fly boys already make their run a hours ago?" said one of the more junior Riflemen who had already slung his rifle on his back. "I got shot in the side, a grazing wound, and it sent me down to earth. My planes crashed that'a'way" James said, pointing in the direction of his downed bird. "Do you know where your officer is? I need to be getting back to Albany."

The NCO, who James could now see was a Color Sergeant, hooked a thumb towards the ruined village. "The Lieutenant General is by the docks, they set up a tem-por-ary HQ down there by the big ole lake." the insightful Color Sergeant told him. Tipping his flight cap and muttering a thank you, James took off in that direction. He went around a series of charred buildings, coming close to what seemed to be a road. As he neared it, he began to get a whiff of a rather unpleasant smell. Foster took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose to combat the smell, but it only helped a small bit. He rounded the corner of the houses and came onto the wide road, and was startled to discover this was the exact same road he had buzzed with his dual .50's. He began to walk, the smell getting even worse and worse and he walked down. As he passed a large stone building, all bombed out and destroyed, he turned his head to the side. Next to the building was a large empty space, the remnants of stalls and pens showing to have once been a place of commerce. But now? Now, all that Foster could see was a large pit, into which bodies had been piled like logs at a saw mill. They made a small mount, perhaps six or ten feet high, and the smell he soon realized was that of burned flesh. Several Riflemen stood around, with their scarfs pulled up over their face as they began to dump lye all over the pile.

James turned and fell to his knees, his handkerchief falling from his face and his lunch suddenly being ejected from his stomach via his gaping maw. He collapsed onto his back then, his guts all spread over the dirt. His head lolled to the side, and his eyes bore into the glazed and lifeless eyes of corpse. He sat up on his elbows quickly, his eye widening as he took in the image of a small girl, wearing some sort of deer or buckskin dress, which was stained with blood. She held a small doll in her right hand, her left one was stretched out in the same direction she was looking, as if in her final moments she had called out to someone for help. The two maintained eye contact, one not blinding because he dared not to, and the other because she was no longer able to. Two Riflemen came by and grabbed the corpse by its arms and legs, and dragged her off towards the grave. Foster felt something hard digging into his hand, and lifted his palm to see something shiny and metal underneath it. He picked it up, and held it to the light.

It was a slightly impacted .50 caliber machine gun round, and it had blood on it.

---

Montreal, Province of Lower Quebec. 2933

"Fruits frais! Maïs de New York! Obtenez-le frais!" a market vendor shouted, holding up a ripe apple, thrusting his hand out towards the throng of people passing by. Market day in Montreal was hectic, as thousands came out to buy the wares and goods hawked by the cutthroat merchants and salesmen. A young man wearing wearing a Class B uniform of the Support troops walked up the market dealer and took the apple out of his hand, chomping down on it. "Merde! Jacque, you scared me! What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with your unit?" the old man asked, wiping his brow of sweat with a small towel. "Relax pops, Chauncey me and swapped duty. He mans the phones and I get to pick up the Captains coffee grounds." Jacque replied, munching on his apple. His hat was seated back on his head, exposing his rather young face to the air. He looked down at his uniform, a little bit of pride entering his heart when he looked at the Specialist stripes on his chest plate.

"Well get to it boy! Don't keep your Captain waiting, Rapidement! Rapidement!" Jacque's father said, swatting his son with his towel. Jacque laughed at his fathers antics and strode off, tossing the apple core to the ground. The streets of Montreal were alive with movement, as the citizens on foot attempted to navigate the sea of people, horses,and carriages. A group of children scurried past Jacque, and he saw one reach into the pocket of the man in front of him and swipe his wallet. Jacque laughed a quiet laugh, remembering how just years ago that had been him before Remi had taken him in. Glass crunched under his boot as he passed by one of the more infamous dives in Montreal, the House of the Rising Sun. Jacque took his hat off as he stepped through the saloon doors, his face assaulted with smell of smoke and alcohol and the warmth of a nearby fire pit. His hands stuffed in his pockets and his campaign cap tipped a little lower, he walked towards the bar and sat down, ordering a double shot of whiskey from the rather gruff bartender who doubled as the enforcer. When the bartender handed him his glass, he slid a small red token down on the table, which has a white fleur de lis on the front side and a rising sun emblem on the reverse.

The men nodded pointed upstairs, "Chambre 8. Profitez de votre séjour." he said in a think Quebecois accent. Jacque nodded, downing the shot and getting to his feet. His head spun for a few seconds and his legs quaked as he moved up the stairs. He found the door, a large eight painted on a wooden board next to it in white paint, and rapped his knuckles against the dark oaken door. He heard a small "Entrez" from inside and slid his hand to the handle, opening it and slipping into the room. Perched on the bed was a women wearing a light white dress, with fiery red hair and piercing green eyes. "Roxanne" her name slipped from his mouth as he held his hat in his hand, a nervous look on his face.

Roxanne smiled up at his, bouncing to her feat and embraced him. "Jacque, oh its so lovely to see you. Captain Picarde has kept you for too long I swear" he said with her head buried in his chest. His armed wrapped around her and he tucked his cheek against her head. "I know, I swear I shouldn't have joined the Signal Corps, If I have to spend another hour in front of a radio waiting for a message that will never come I'll have to desert!" Jacque said chuckling, receiving a corresponding laugh from the girl in his arms. Roxanne slipped out of his arms, moving towards her bed with a laugh on her lips, "Oh like you'd desert, I swear you love the Army more than me" she said, sitting down on the bed and picking up a small wooden comb. Jacque put a mock scowl on his face, his hand on his chest in fake hurt, "You wound me, Ma belle dame. My love for thee is immeasurable." he said, taking a seat next to Roxanne, who just continued to pull at his long red mane.

"Just three more years Ma chérie, three years and my service shall be done and I shall be able to buy a plot of government land. Just imagine it; you, me, snuggled in a small farm cabin, a low fire keeping the cold out. No one to tell us what to do, no one but us." Jacque said wistfully, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her into his side. "You'll never have to work another day in your life." he finished, fingering the small golden band hanging on a chain around his neck, and staring at the identical one around her neck. "Three years is a long time Jacque, and I worry for you. They say bandits have sprung up in the south, and who knows what might happen up north." she said, her tone turning from light to somber. "I've lost so much Jacque, I don't know if I could lose you."

Jacque fully wrapped her up in his arms, planting small kisses on the crown of his head as he rocked her. He looked at her nightstand, and at the picture of a family sitting in a Settler wagon, a spry Roxanne standing tall and proud next to an older man with a full beard. He ran his hand up and down her back, reassuring her with his presence. "and I onto you Roxy, but you can't get rid of me so easily. No one can get rid of Jacque Lessard!" he proclaimed, his hand raised in the air, earning a chortle from his beau. His eyes were drawn to the old clock on the wall, and realized the time. He hurriedly stood up, grabbing his hat from the bed post and making his way towards the door when he felt an iron grip on his wrist. "And where do you think your going Mister?" Roxanne asked, her eyebrow quirked and a smirk on her lips. Jacque looked sheepishly back at her, "I have to get the Captains coffee from the Market, I traded radio duty with Chauncey. If I don't go I'll be late and the Captain will have me hung!" he said dramatically, knowing full well the most he'd get is a stern talking to by his Commanding Office. Roxanne sucked her teeth, "Good thing I bought a bag earlier today, Chauncey really is such a dear. Now you've got plenty of time..." she said, giving him a saucy look.

"So get on the bed, Soldier Boy"

---

Blackchurch, Old Boston. 2933

"Your cut off David, get to bed before I have to knock some sense into you!" yelled the barmaid and owner of the Drunk Falcon, taking a glass mug out of the grip of middle aged man, his head resting against the solid wood bar. He wore a grimy pre-war suit, his face covered in a salt and pepper beard and a dark brown mop of hair on his thick skull. His blue eyes rose and gave a menacing death stare at the woman, who returned it in kind. He stumbled off the bar stool, the room empty of all human life except for a serving girl wiping down a table and Matt, the bouncer, who stood next to the door. Reaching into his suit, David withdrew a handful of New England notes and slapped them on the table as he walked to the door. There he picked up the ratty wide brimmed fedora and slapped it on his head, and slipped the black overcoat onto his shoulders, stuffing his hands into a pair of woolen gloves. He tipped his hat at Matt, and strode through the door he held open for him. "Goodnight Detective" Matt said, and David mumbled a quiet "Thank you" back.

The sky outside was dark, but the streets were as bright as early morning. Street lamps above, combined with lights from all the restored buildings, bathed the lanes of Old Boston in light. The City that Never Sleeps, they called it, both for its constant commerce and the general restlessness of its urban population. Some romanticized this trait, saying that It made Bostonians a cut above the rest, made them dreamseakers and explorers, while others thought that Boston was the center of moral decay in the Kingdom. David didn't much care for either, all he knew is that Boston had the highest crime rate in any populated settlement in all of New England.

He stood under the golden halo of a street lamp and took a pack of cigarettes out of his coat, sticking one in between his lips and bringing the lighter up to start the little cancer stick. The heat provided some warmth to his cold face, and the nicotine helped wake him up. He heard a bell ring from afar, and he dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. He walked out into the street, empty for the most part, and watched as a street car came out from behind a bend in the road. David reached his hand out and caught the metal bar on the rather slow moving street car, launching himself up onto it, his boot planting firmly onto the steps. He looked inside, seeing no one but a conductor sitting in the little booth at the end, his head lolled back in sleep. The seat was a hard plastic, not exactly ergonomic but it was comfortable enough. He crossed his arms on his chest and sat back, letting his eyes close as he relaxed.

Like a movie at the cinema, he saw images projected onto the inside of his eyelid. He saw them, dressed in their leather clothes, green paint on their faces. He saw them run, he saw them...

"Next stop, Massachusetts Square" said the conductor through the small speaking tube. Davids head jerked up, looking around and seeing that a young couple had now boarded, and that he was a good deal away from his original destination. He cursed under his breath, and decided that he might as well get off at Mass, plenty of rooms to rent there, although not exactly of the highest quality. He stood up from his chair, his fingers already finding the loose cig in his coat pocket, bringing it to his lips as he jumped off the steps, his feet planting themselves once more on solid ground. The lighter brought the little tube of paper and plant to life, and he sucked in a lung full like a drowning man with air. He stuffed his hand in his coat pocket and walked down the cobblestone of Massachusetts Square. The park for which it was named was to his left, a bland expanse of brown grass and dead trees populated chem dealers and whores, a place so rife with crime that the Uniformed didn't even bother going there, too much trouble have to deal with em all. At least that's what they'd say, reality was that a good deal of the money that changed hand in that den of crime would eventually find its way into the BPD's budget.

He walked past the park, ignoring the cheers and cries of a few working women as he kept moving. He ignored most everything as he walked, focusing on the sound of his boots hitting the concrete as he kept going. All he wanted was a bed and a few hours sleep, anything else was not important to him right now. He took another draw from his cigarette, leaving a small trail of smoke in his wake. As he passed the park and headed further into the square, the lights seemed to dim some and the streets grew darker. The streets were empty, as it was too late for any brigands to expect a lost wanderer or visitor to come stumbling past, and too late for any respectable citizens to dare walk the streets of Massachusetts Square, or all of Blackchurch for that matter.

This apparent isolation made it all the more surprising when a high pitched scream echoed across the square, cutting through the air like a knife. It was blood curling in its content and ear splitting in its pitch. Daniel had heard a lot of fake screams in his time as a policeman and could tell the difference. This wasn't the scream of a thief trying to attract a good Samaritan, this was the scream of someone who was acting totally on instinct, with no other thought than that of pure fear. It sent a chill through him, shocking him to his core, for it had been nought three years since he last heard a scream like that...

He hand found his trusty .45 in his holster, clipped to his belt sitting at his waist. He slipped it out of the leather, flicking off the safety as he moved towards an alley maybe fifteen or twenty meters in front of him. He had heard the scream come from this direction, and was now closing in. He back touched the red brick of the building bordering the alley, and he ducked his head around the corner to peer into the black. He saw a mans form roughly outlined in the light bouncing off the brick from a flashlight in his hand, a flashlight pointed at the body of a young woman lying in a puddle of blood mixed with street water and sewage. In his other hand he held a knife, what kind David could not tell for he could only barely see the outline of it and the man. But he could see the woman in full detail, from her light blue dress which ended around her ankles in a white frill pattern to her collar bone which was adorned with a simple chain of gold and finally to her pale face framed with black curls. Her mid section was covered in blood, and several rips and tears were present where the blood was reddest.

The man moved the knife, wiping it on the sleeve of his jacket. Daniel moved from his position and fired a single shot in the air, startling the man and causing him to drop the flashlight. It landed next to the woman's body, aimed directly at Daniel and causing him a moments blindness. "STOP! BOSTON POLICE!" he shouted, running forward into the alley. When he reached the body and kicked the flashlight, he found the murder gone, a manhole cover left open at the end of the dark and dank alley. Daniel cursed his luck and shoved his .45 into its holster in a huff. He looked down at the dead woman's body, seeing it more detail now. She wore faint makeup, nothing like the overdone stuff the local working girls used, and her dress was rather modest and simple. Simply put she didn't look like she belonged in Massachusetts street, or anywhere in Blackchurch for that matter. Then again, maybe thats why she was dead on the ground now...

Stumbling out of the alley, Daniel made his way across the street to an old payphone, throwing open the door and not bothering to close it behind him. He grabbed the aging receiver and stuck his finger in the rotary, turning it as he entered the numbers 911. The phone rang for a moment before he heard the line click and a womans voice hit his ears, "Boston Royal Police Department dispatch, whats your emergency?" the woman said in a rather plain and straight forward voice.

"Detective Daniel Muller, 3rd Precinct, badge number 3111. A woman's been murdered in an alley on Fleet street in Massachusetts square, send over some Uniformed and call Spangler" he growled into the receiver before slamming it down into its cradle.

[Ralnis]

Lewistown, Montana Wasteland

As the Brotherhood were preparing to attack Missoula, they had gotten word of it's surrender from the Frumentarii that were sent. They had heard of the conquests of the other cities and didn't want to face the Techno-Legion. With the Legate reporting on a victory, the Council wanted to know what would be the next move. As Augustus looked at the map now, he ordered a Council meeting to see what to do next.

As the Legates got to the bunker inside town hall, Augutus was sitting with a glass of whiskey at the holographic table. He had a smile on his face, just enough to find pleasure in what the Brotherhood had done. As the Legates got around and Legate Machina downloaded the current events of the state. It showed the pacified region of Montana where the Brotherhood was in and saw it got substantially bigger.

"My Legates, we have done much in the last month. The cities fell like wheat to the chaff and we finally have the supplies needed to improve our operations across the Midwest. Still, I'm sure you all know that we need more improvements on how we do war and the logistics needed to improve it."

Legate Agatha spoke up," with the conquest of the three cities, we have been able to solidify a hegemony over the western half of the state. Still, when looking around the city, and the state as a whole."

Agatha loaded up new information in the holographic table.

"Montana's industry is very basic. Similar to other Wasteland settlements. Most of the state's economy is based around raw resources, mostly agriculture and mining. Very little processing and refining is done, mostly we provide with any sort of automation and high technical expertise.

Among them is the service, commercial and other services. They are very small and have the potential to provide large amount of caps but this is usually tied with how many people are educated in those perspective fields. Speaking about education, it is lacking but that is normal I-"

"Legate Agatha" Augustus interrupted.

"My Imperator?" Agatha looked at him.

"We are well aware of the poor infrastructure and economic development of the state beyond us. The entire state isn't under our ward. We have as much as Western Montana and that's by power projection. Not to mention that we still have descent and pacification is still going underway. Now Legate Tulius has been talking to improve our industry and to start a focus to other trade supplies in order to fund support for the New Legion and enforce the Colorado Expedition. "

"Well my Imperator, I was thinking of doing it in the form of panem et circenses as we are seen as a foreign invader to our wards, one that takes and never gives back. If I can recall the history of the Old Legion, they never truly gave back to the people or build up their power base. "

Augustus was thinking, remembering on how the Legion use to operate. He remembered that a lot of the industry the Legion had was lacking in comparison to what the NCR had. This was mostly because of Ceaser's policies against using Pre-War tech and industrial power, not that the Legion had knowledge to use them.

Still, they weren't the Old Legion and Augustus needed to get away from those ideals. His daughter had to remind him that too much.

"You make a good point. Legates, Agatha has made a motion on the policy of economic development of our wards. I suggest we do a revitalization of basic factory work, scientific management and Fordism to try and develop some degree of mass manufacturing and give the people jobs beyond just scavenging and farming. I also believe we should develop long-term education studies by using the pre-war knowledge but start enforcing Roman culture to those that live under us.

On top of that the Brotherhood will also start looking into the Missouri River by retrofitting the river ships in the harbors of Missoula and Grand Rapids. The River is a branch to larger Mississippi, which will be one of the most important trading ways that we have. All of this will ultimately allow us to try and reestablish the western railroads around the cities.

Are all in agreement?"

The Legates agreed in a majority vote. With it Legate Agatha was in charge with overseeing the economic development of their cities. The idea of the economy needed to be improved and have a large overall. Western Montana would benefit from it and trade of the Missouri River was one of the most important tradeways that the Brotherhood could use. From all things, Roman culture needed to be spread across the state and they will do so in their cities.

However, to the matters of the economics came with the matters of military. Damocles lead the military efforts as well as the Colorado Expedition. He knew that many of the problems that the Brotherhood of Mars had that other similar organizations suffered. Power armor were strong, very strong assets of force multipliers but were tools of attrition, not for what is needed in the post-war era. For years, Damocles has been working to make the Brotherhood more mobile.

To be able to strike anywhere against the larger armies, especially the Bear, was something they have been trying to achieve. It's only been a year since they figured out how to produce vertabirds and power armor en masse. However, they have a sort of mismatch on approaching with ideas to increase mobility but with things like power armor not being able to help it's wearer withstand be dropped from thousands of feet without being crushed.

Now that has been solved. The Legate had been working with the Scholars division and had came up with Project Angelos. While the name Angelos can be associated with Christian angels, angels were also messengers to the Christian god. The Brotherhood decided to adopt the word as the Project would allow the Brotherhood to employ their own warrior messengers from the gods, blessed by Mars himself.

In more technical terms, the new power armor would needed to be build from scratch as the T-45s and T-51bs weren't good for the philosophy and military doctrine to match the full effectiveness of force multiplication, overwhelming firepower and mobility. The research was given an approval with oversight from Scholar Titus to meet standards that Augustus wanted in order to fight the Bear better.

Cheyenne Mountain Complex,
Colorado

Technology was gathered from this mountain fortress. Legate Damocles also held his forces as a bulwark and listening center to have a fair accuracy to when the NCR incursions will continue in Colorado. So far, Frumentarri have infiltrated NCR territory and had gauged the current expansions of the NCR. Apparently the frontier settlements near Texas and New Mexico were having trouble by large raider attacks, two settlements had been razed as a of now and some of the people fear that it could be anything from the Legion returning to a Texan Invasion.

There was a growing need to have spies within the Texan Wasteland as they heard rumors of Legion survivors that had settled in Mexico. This was important to know for one of the main goals of the Brotherhood of Mars is to find and help independent Legion splinter groups, they just don't what this Legion is or if they would want their help. The Imperator still remembers that it was difficult to get the New Legion to accept the Brotherhood in their lands and support against the NCR.

Among the information that was gathered at the Mountain Complex, one mysterious information has been uncovered that has been making the Council talk. The information was about a mysterious research base called Big MT. Augustus remembered of the mysterious place called the Big Empty but never knew where it was until now. Frumentari spies had been sent out to find out if the pre-war information was valid only to confirm it.

The fabled research base was hidden underneath a force field that was capable of keeping out the entire Wasteland. It was strong enough to shield the entire mountain crater and this made a subject of what to do about it. One problem was raised, it was deep in Nevada and that posed the biggest problem.

As of right now, the Bear never knew about the Brotherhood of Mars and were able to move around the growing territory but anything larger would get them to be asking questions. The Imperator believed that now wasn't a good time to investigate on breaking into Big MT or anything different. The Brotherhood haven't develop enough of a power base to try and fund major expeditions or raids. The information was tabled as of right now but it may come back up at another time.

On top of that, new operations have been green lit with Frumentarii were sent to the Midwest and the New Legion for clandestine operations that could better benefit the Brotherhood in the long run.

[Dragos Bee]

Panama Canal Council

The delegation to Texas would be given a secret message via Radio: Find an excuse and withdraw. The Panamanian Embassy to Texas will then pack up and go back to their airplanes; if asked for the reason why they got recalled, the embassy would say curtly, "Emergency at home; we'll be back."

Surprisingly enough, they weren't lying: Radio signals would say that there had been a coup in Panama; several of the mercenary bands brought in to help police the slaves had sided with said slaves, sabotaging the radio control towers for their slave collars and starting a rebellion - an organized revolt that soon acquired elements of a coup, as the merenary-slave coalition took control of several points of Panama City, including the arsenal and communications centre. There was no response from the Navy, no response from the Air Force. The infantry was either forced to surrender, were killed fighting a last stand, or defected to the mercenary-slave coalition.

The leader of this coup is unknown, but as the dust emerged and there was no large-scale looting yet, it was evident that it was a coup, not just a rebellion.

[Tysoania]

Six Islands

Aldersea Day Spa

"Next up, we've got a classic tune from the Ink Spots, It's All Over But The Crying. Gotta say, folks, this makes me tear up every time." The tinny voice of the DJ rang out over Aldersea's speaker system. "You're listening to Waves Crest Radio." The familiar strains of the Ink Spots began to drift through the pre-war spa.

Helen Turnbull groaned aloud. This song seemed to always be on, and she knew that the DJ had to have hundreds of records at his disposal. So why this one, right now? The last thing she wanted right now was to listen to this downbeat tune. Something more fun would be a drastic improvement, but it wasn't like Waves Crest Radio had much competition. The hills and the fog of the Islands blocked most mainland radios, and even Island-based signals were sometimes blocked by fog or radstorms.

Whatever, the song would be over in a minute or two anyway. Turnbull turned back to the massive cage that had been installed over the Old World swimming pool, which was now filled with a dozen or so baby Fog Crawlers. Back when Turnbull had been a conscript in the Army, her battery had stumbled upon a Fog Crawler nest while sweeping Rayburn Point for raiders. After losing 6 soldiers to the deadly claws and scythes of the beast, the battery had eventually brought down the Fog Crawler. Along with the mangled corpses of several raiders, the Fog Crawler nest had turned out to contain several baby Fog Crawlers, who were too small and trusting to even attempt to flee at the approach of the surviving soldiers. Although the babies had proven to be a good feast for the soldiers and arriving scavengers that day, the experience had given Turnbull an idea.

That was why, as soon as she had left the Army, she had settled in Aldersea Day Spa and begun repairing it. When reports of another battle with a Fog Crawler had come in over the radio, Turnbull had rushed to the scene just in time to pay off the victorious soldiers and seize the nine orphaned baby Fog Crawlers. She'd originally given them a small outdoor pen, but the Fog Crawlers seemed to be terrified of storms, so she'd moved them to the indoor pool inside the old spa. They seemed to be happy there, and with regular feedings of fish and Razorgrain, they were starting to grow.

Although most creatures were reportedly murderous as soon as they were born, Turnbull supposed that these Fog Crawlers had assumed her to be their mother figure, as she had only seen one of the Crawlers hiss once, and that was at a Radroach that had dropped into the pen. In fact, one of the Crawlers, the one with a green stripe along its back, had even sidled up to Turnbull and promptly curled up in her lap for a good half hour as soon as she had sat down to write down a note on the incident. They were now about the size of dogs, but stood on their hind legs rather than on their swimmerets.

Turnbull had no idea what she was going to do with them. She had originally thought of breeding them and raising them for meat, but had lost that idea as soon as they had arrived at Aldersea. Maybe she could sell them as some sort of mount for the Army or something. Maybe they would be good animals for finding and killing prey. If one died, the carapace would sell for a few hundred caps, at least. Based on their current growth, she figured that the Fog Crawlers would be mature in about three more months. In the meantime, Turnbull had to find a way to bring in caps for food. At the moment, she was selling off scavenged supplies from around Aldersea, but that wouldn't last forever.

Suddenly, she spotted a small gap in the fencing over the pool. She grabbed a pair of pliers and carefully reshaped the fencing to cover the gap. Another chunk of rebar must've fallen off the ceiling. She was lucky that her living quarters, in the old sauna, were in good shape. The pool room must've had a tree fall on it or something. Whatever it was, the problem was gone now. Turnbull straightened up and turned to find the toolbox and replace the pliers. She still had to eat dinner and scrape some caps together for her trip to the nearby trader at the National Park Visitor's Center. Maybe she could hawk part of the old Mirelurk carapace that had been here. She had been saving up to get a pair of tough leather gloves for working with the rubble, so she hoped that she could get a fair price for the carapace.

Suddenly, Helen Turnbull had a flash of inspiration that would change her life forever.

The Island was riddled with Mirelurk nests and Mirelurk carapaces were cheap and plentiful at every shop on the Island, as well as the other five islands in the Six Islands. However, useful armour was almost impossible to find, and what little was available was extremely expensive. What if she, Helen Turnbull, made carapace armour? She'd need a good source of carapaces, though. If she turned the outside patio into a series of Mirelurk pens and started breeding Mirelurks, though, well, that would make things easier.

And with that, the Aldersea Lurk Ranch was born and, along with it, the first Lurk Armour.