Conquistadors!: Conquistadors!, #1

Cover Blurb

The Protectorate – an interdimensional empire that has conquered five timelines so far – has set its sights on ours. Led by a man willing to risk everything for power and conquest, armed with technology a hundred years ahead of ours – technology promising salvation to its allies and doom to its enemies – and drawing on a far deeper military history, the Protectorate Expeditionary Force has arrived to invade and incorporate our world into the greatest empire the multiverse has ever known, or die trying.

And as the war for the future of our timeline begins, and spreads right across the world, we are forced into a fight we cannot win ...

.... And yet dare not lose.

Introduction, by Dale Cozort

Over the last several years, Christopher Nuttall has become one of my favourite authors. He has a wild imagination which leads to unique world-building and characters. He also produces a mind-boggling array of novels, rivalling old pulp writers like Lester Dent in output for what seems to be an endless array of novels, all with a social consciousness that is never preachy or intrusive. He writes to entertain, not to deliver sermons, and his stories reflect that. He has one other rather unique trait: when he writes in a series, the books often get stronger as the series progresses.

Conquistadors is the beginning of a new series. I’m a little biased toward that series, partly because of its origins. Chris and I both belong to an alternate history writer’s group/zine-based forum called Point of Divergence. Several months ago, Chris issued a challenge: Find an alternate history idea that would go mainstream the way Harry Potter did for YA Fantasy. We have been brainstorming that concept for months without coming up with anything quite in that league, but still tossing around dozens of very good story ideas. One of those ideas: Have the modern world invaded from an alternate timeline with superior technology, putting us in the situation the Aztecs and Incas were in when the Spanish conquistadores arrived.

That idea resonated with Chris because he had previously written something sort of similar very early in his writing career, one involving an invasion by super-technology Nazis. He took this novel in a very different direction. The invaders are not stereotypical villains, nor are they the heroes of this novel. They are a conquering people, at times very ruthless, but with an internal logic to their actions. They arrive with a formidable army in a remote area of Texas, with no idea what they will be facing and immediately begin a knowledge race. What kind of society are they facing? What are its weaknesses? Can they conquer it? They need to understand our society before we understand the threat that they pose. When they think they understand us, conquest begins.

A near-future invasion from another timeline is surprisingly challenging. Among the challenges:  The potential for the book quickly becoming obsolete. An author could approach this by looking at what US forces are available, where they are based and so on. And if any of that changes, the book looks dated. Chris rarely mentions specific weapons systems and capabilities or bases while still managing credible battle scenes.

Any realistic discussion of an invasion of the US runs into another problem: The US military almost certainly has cards up their sleeve that will remain hidden in any emergency less than an invasion of the continental US. That’s part of the reason we have black budgets in the Pentagon, programs that may remain secret for decades before finally being revealed, or in some cases failing and being quietly abandoned, By definition, we can’t know for certain what those programs are, or what they can do. That leaves an author with both an opportunity and a danger. Black programs can emerge in the series if necessary, tailored within reason to the author’s needs. On the other hand, guessing too close to reality can cause issues.

Finally, the biggest, nastiest imponderable: How would the people of the US react to invasion? Would they forget any differences and unite against the invaders? Would they let the invaders pick them apart like the conquistadores did the people of the Aztec and Inca empires? That’s a political minefield because the real-life people being described are potential readers and offending them is a real possibility.

This wasn’t an easy book to write, though Chris did it at his usual blistering pace. I thoroughly enjoyed the results and I think you will too.

Prologue, Timeline A (Protectorate Homeworld)

And so, the final preparations have been completed, Captain-General James Montrose said. The holographic projection couldn’t hide the anticipation – and impatience – in his voice, his determination to get on with the operation before politics shifted and he was, perhaps, removed from his post. The 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division awaits your command.

Protector Julianne Rigby, one of the Triumvirs of the Protectorate, studied him thoughtfully. Montrose was a man on the move, a man of burning ambition, a man who felt he had something to prove ... a man whose hopes and dreams might someday carry him to the Inner Circle itself, where she sat – or send him crashing and burning into nothingness. He was tall and handsome, wearing a uniform tailored to make him look dashing and imposing ... he’d had it put around, more than once, that his looks owed nothing to cosmetic surgery or gene-splice techniques. His dark hair was cut in a manner that recalled Alexander the Great, barely within regulations, something Julianne couldn’t help finding both amusing and worrying. Alexander had conquered most of the known world, true, but he hadn’t known how to keep it. His empire had barely lasted longer than he had.

Her lips twitched. A man like Montrose would be a threat, under other circumstances. He was charismatic, capable, and experienced, having cut his teeth fighting primals and teaching degenerates the error of their ways. The Protectorate prided itself on being a meritocracy, and an ambitious man could rise far even if he started with nothing, but there were limits. No one man could be allowed to put himself above the rest, even in name. They were lucky, she supposed, that they could send him to fight in other timelines. He would have a chance to earn his spurs and develop the skills he needed to rise even higher, and the Protectorate itself would benefit. And if he lost ...

We will be in touch, Protector Horace Jarvis said. Your orders will arrive shortly.

He tapped a command. Montrose’s image vanished, leaving the three triumvirs alone.

I don’t trust him, Jarvis said, curtly. He’s too ambitious.

There’s no such thing, Protector John Hotham said, calmly. We need a man like him on the other side.

Julianne couldn’t disagree, even as Jarvis swung his head towards her. The Crosstime Transpositioner was the Protectorate’s greatest invention – with the Interdimensional Gates a close second – but it had its limits. The 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division would be transported to another world, through one of the ‘soft places’ the scientists had charted over the last year, then ... the division would be on its own until a second division could be rotated through the dimensions, or a pair of gates set up to allow instant travel between the two. Montrose would be on his own, without any supervision. There were agents on his staff, of course, with instructions to ensure he didn’t exceed his orders too broadly, but it was impossible to prepare for every contingency. A man like Montrose would have no trouble arranging matters so he didn’t violate the letter of the law, no matter what he did to the spirit.

Her eyes hardened. The Protectorate had discovered and colonised four timelines so far: one apparently devoid of human life, one shattered by a disease that had seemingly come out of nowhere, and two dominated by empires that had reached a certain point and stagnated. They had never developed anything more advanced than wind and sail technology, with gunpowder remaining little more than a curiosity rather than a weapon of war, and they hadn’t posed any challenge when the first expeditionary forces had arrived. The occupants of the disease-ridden timeline had been glad to see the invaders, something that still amused the occupation authority. They were very loyal, far more than any degenerates or primals from the home timeline. They might even qualify for full citizenship in a century or two.

We are the only timeline that has developed technology, Hotham said, echoing her thoughts. The researchers believed the Protectorate was unique. Their explorations of other timelines tended to back the theory up. There are limits to how far Montrose can go.

If he builds an empire, it will be difficult to dislodge him, Jarvis countered. Legally ...

He let the word hang in the air. Julianne saw his point. The Protectorate offered vast rewards to the men who conquered new worlds, from lands and titles to real power that could be passed down to their descendants. Montrose would be in a very strong position if he claimed the entire world for himself and his senior officers; trying to dispose of him would be disastrous unless there was very clear proof of mismanagement or treason. Montrose had his supporters amongst the Outer Council, and they would unite against the Triumvirs if they thought their hero was being treated unfairly. And others, who had little love or concern for Montrose personally, would back him for fear of setting a ghastly precedent that could – would – come back to bite them.

If he occupies yet another low-tech world, if he claims it all for himself, it is not a major problem, Hotham said. By the time his conquest is thoroughly developed, he will be dead.

Unless he encounters a high-tech world, Jarvis said. It could happen.

Julianne wasn’t inclined to believe it. The chain of events that had led to the industrial revolution of the 1600s – the overthrow of King Charles, the rise of the Protectorate, the development of steam-powered technology – were so unlikely she might as well have rolled a die a hundred times and gotten the same number every time. It might be possible, but it was vanishingly unlikely. The mindset one needed to develop practical technology was rare, apparently. Timelines held in the thrall of empires, or superstition, were unlikely to make any real progress. Even in their original timeline, it had been hard for the Franco-Spanish and later the Russians to realise they had to innovate or die.

Or he could run into something that could kill him, Hotham said. His mockery was hidden, but not carefully enough. It was no accident. He has his orders in that case.

And we know he’s loyal, Julianne added.

She studied the display thoughtfully. The researchers had done their best, but there was no way to determine anything about the new timeline until someone jumped in and took a look. The basic theory suggested that they couldn’t access a timeline too close to their own, certainly not one identical in every detail save one, yet no one had been able to figure out how to find the point of divergence from outside. It was possible there was a timeline in which the Roman Empire had developed technology nearly a thousand years before the Protectorate, or even one in which the dinosaurs had grown into intelligent beings rather than being wiped out by an asteroid strike. Or something completely inexplicable ...

He has his orders, Hotham repeated. It was true. If Montrose ran into something he couldn’t handle, he had strict instructions to blow up his base and everything else. The destruction of a Crosstime Transpositioner would - in theory - be detectable, warning the Protectorate that there was a threat on the far side of the interdimensional walls. Now ... do we clear him to proceed or not?

Julianne kept her face blank as Jarvis glowered at Hotham. The two men were polar opposites - one willing to take risks, the other too conservative to gamble everything on one throw of the die – and the Outer Council had elected her, in part, to ensure that the two men could never be deadlocked and throw the entire government into paralysis. It was her job to propose a compromise, and yet nothing she could reasonably offer one man would satisfy the other.

We assigned units to his command, did we not?

Of course, Jarvis said cautiously. He knew she was playing dumb. He just didn’t know why. He is the force’s commander, is he not?

Julianne keyed her console, bringing up the 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division’s Table of Organisation. We originally intended to assign additional logistic support, she said, tapping the listing. If Montrose found another primal world, the only thing limiting his reach would be local logistics. By the time we re-established contact, he could have the entire world.

She met his eyes. If we withhold two of the planned logistics formations, it would limit his reach, would it not?

A fitting compromise, Jarvis said. Sir John?

Hotham nodded, curtly. Julianne suspected he wasn’t entirely pleased with the agreement, but he was too old a hand to think there was any point in arguing now. Crippling Montrose would be dangerous, if he ran into a peer power, yet all the researchers agreed that was unlikely. He should have no difficulty securing a lodgement and waiting for reinforcements, if the natives proved troublesome. The PEF was loaded for bear – or dinosaur, her mind whispered – and had enough firepower, as well as supplies, to hold its ground against all anticipated threats. And if he did run into a peer power, he could at least talk to them ...

We can also expedite the second expeditionary force, Jarvis added. Once we have a solid lock on the other timeline, we can make sure Montrose is no longer alone.

Good thinking, Julianne agreed. The sooner they added Timeline F to their conquests, the better. Their term as triumvirs would be over soon and they wanted – needed – something that would ensure their names went down in history. Shall we proceed?

She felt a twinge of doubt as the two men tapped their consoles. There really was no way to be sure what was waiting, on the other side of the interdimensional wall. The odds of meeting a real threat were unlikely – no one had tried to invade the Protectorate yet – but they couldn’t be dismissed entirely. There’d been no way to avoid giving Montrose considerable freedom to act as he saw fit, and yet ... it might not be enough. If only there was a way to covertly recon other timelines ...

We make do with what we have, she told herself firmly. And the odds are very much in our favour.

Chapter One: Castle Treathwick, Spanish Wildlands, Timeline A

Captain-General James Montrose kept his thoughts under tight control as he walked through Castle Treathwick, inspecting the giant fortress one final time before the jump. The sheer size of the fortress was staggering – it truly was a castle, if not a design the original Lord Treathwick would recognise – and yet he was uneasily aware it might not be enough to cope with whatever the PEF found on the far side. There was no way to know what was on the far side. They were loaded for bear, based on what they knew from previous crosstime transits, but there was always a chance – however slight – that they would run into something really dangerous, perhaps even disastrous. Or fatal to his ambitions. To him, they were one and the same.

He was a tall dark-haired man, skin tanned from service in the primal regions of a world that largely, if not completely, belonged to the Protectorate. He was young for his role, barely in his forties; he knew, without false modesty, that he wouldn’t have been selected for the post without both consummate ability and careful politicking. It had taken two years, from the moment the crosstime researchers had zeroed in on another soft place allowing interdimensional transit, to ensure he was appointed commander – and he had no intention of wasting it. The rewards would be vast, even if they encountered yet another world of primals who’d committed civilisation-wide suicide by stagnating. He’d be the first governor-general, able to parcel out lands and locals to his supporters; he’d be able to build a power base that might take him to the Inner Council itself. If he managed to take a seat before he turned sixty, he would set a new record. And it would silence, once and for all, the fools who whispered darkly about his bloodline. They would be forced to admit, at least to themselves, that he had done well.

The thought made him smile as he walked from section to section, speaking briefly with his regimental and aerospace commanders before sharing a few words with the men and women under his command. He wasn’t fool enough to believe they’d give him their all if they didn’t like and trust him personally, certainly when they were a long way from home. He’d had commanders who should have fallen afoul of the Protectorate’s distaste for nepotism a long time ago, commanders who issued orders from the rear instead of leading their troops into battle. They had never quite known what was happening, and if they hadn’t been able to call on aerospace and orbital assets the primals would have given their troops a very hard time indeed. They might be primitive beyond words – it was popularly believed primals couldn’t even speak, even though that was very far from true – but they weren’t stupid. A commander who underestimated them would get a black eye – and far too many of his men killed. James understood that, sometimes, men had to be sacrificed, but getting them killed for nothing was worse than pointless. Their friends and families would bear a grudge until the end of time.

He put the thought aside as he surveyed the row of Cromwell tanks, ready to burst out onto the new world and take it by the throat. They represented enough firepower to daunt anyone, even a peer power, although James was honest enough to admit that primals were rarely intimidated for long. They had little choice but to fight, unless they wanted to join the Protectorate or simply cut their own throats. Who knew how the locals would react? Some had joined up at once, welcoming the intruders; others had fought, even though resistance had been pointless as well as futile. The videos of men on horseback charging tanks had been quite amusing, in a way, as wasteful as it was. They’d been brave, brave enough to join the PEF, but they’d been effortlessly blown away. And the shock had been so intense the remainder of the primals had simply surrendered, rather than adapting their tactics to give the invaders a very hard time.

James nodded to himself as he turned away and started the long walk back to the command centre. The man who had led the expedition to Timeline C was now wealthy and powerful beyond the dreams of avarice, with a seat waiting for him on the Inner Council if he chose to take it. James suspected, reading between the lines, that the older man – no fool – preferred to work in the shadows, rather than openly take control. It was tradition that, after serving a term on the Inner Council, a man would step into retirement to allow younger men to take his place. James knew he couldn’t abide it, at least not while he was young and energetic, and he suspected his predecessor felt the same way too. Glory and fame were important, but power was all that really mattered.

He stepped into the command centre and looked around, eyes flickering from console to console. Castle Treathwick was practically a closed environment in its own right, as isolated from the rest of the world as one of the giant orbital battlestations overhead. They were buttoned down as tightly as possible, just in case. They’d already encountered one timeline infected with something deadly – thankfully, modern medicine laughed at primal diseases – and there was always the risk of discovering something worse, something that might threaten the fortress and its garrison. James thought some of the planners had been drinking illicit substances, when they drew up contingency plans for scenarios no sane mind would contemplate, but there was no point in arguing. In theory, anything was possible. And besides, his enemies would use his doubts against him.

Sir, Doctor Cecelia Archway said. She looked ten years younger than he did, with short blonde hair and a face that drew the eye, but he knew better than to underestimate her. Most scientists in the Protectorate were female, a tradition started by the famed Lady Treathwick herself, and no one would have dreamed of questioning it. The Crosstime Transpositioner has completed the final set of checks. We can rotate into the other dimension in thirty minutes.

Good, James said. It would have been ironic, indeed, if the checks had failed. A technical failure would be bad enough – it would give his enemies more time to plot to have him removed – but a failure to parse out the soft place and plan the transit would be disastrous. Castle Treathwick was a major investment, fully the equal of an orbital battlestation or a deep-space explorer, yet she couldn’t be moved as easily as either. Any signs of trouble?

No, sir, Cecelia assured him. We should be able to rotate through the interdimensional barrier without problems. The receptors will just have to deal with the aftermath.

James nodded, curtly. Castle Treathwick was surrounded by heavy walls and enough firepower to deal with any reasonable threat, from biohazards from Timeline E to primals with actual weaponry. They would see the castle vanish, when the Crosstime Transpositioner was triggered, and be replaced by ... whatever was on the other side. The region had never been particularly heavily populated in Timeline A – the Spanish had largely left it to the natives – but that might not be true on the other side. The Inca Empire of Timeline C had established quite a few settlements in the region and would have gone further if they’d had the tech to make them permanent. Luckily for the invaders, they’d barely progressed past sticks and stones.

They’ll be able to deal with it, he assured her. The odds were good the receptor team would have to deal with nothing more dangerous than a patch of desert, perhaps – although it was statistically unlikely – with a handful of nomads thrown in. If worse came to worst, they could always call down orbital bombardment and sterilise the entire area. We jump as planned.

The doctor nodded, hurrying back to her duty station. James smiled as he took his seat and studied the main display. There weren’t many military assets – or townships – outside the fortress and the receptor force, something that worked in their favour. There would be no risk of an enemy force getting loose, let alone into the heartland, before it could be contained or simply smashed from orbit. The locals had largely been brushed aside, decades ago, and did their best to stay away from the townships. Some – descendants of Spanish and Mexican intermixing – had even joined the Protectorate, trying to build lives and careers for themselves in a world that didn’t give a damn about the colour of their skin. Others just wanted to be left alone ...

General Stuart Essex joined him, looking grim. Sir, they withheld the 2nd and 3rd Logistics Divisions.

James took the datapad, cursing under his breath. The reason behind the decision was almost painfully transparent. His enemies wanted to make sure he couldn’t stake a claim to the entire world, on the far side, before they sent in reinforcements ... and, on paper, there was nothing he could do to object. The public reasoning was simple, and unassailable. On one hand, the logistics units were needed elsewhere; on the other, James had strict orders to establish a foothold first and foremost, rather than haring off to take possession of everything. He had no need, on paper, for the kind of logistics support that could move an entire division from one side of the world to the other. And it was hard to argue otherwise when the demands of the endless war in Central Asia came first.

We should just carpet bomb the entire place, he thought darkly. The Protectorate saw the entire region as a training ground, giving its soldiers a taste of fighting in an environment where defeat would be nothing more than a minor nuisance, but personally he suspected it was as petty and pointless as landing an entire Army division on Mars. There’s no need to play war with the primals when we can put an end to them once and for all.

He studied the datapad for a moment longer, then looked up. We’ll cope, he said curtly. It wasn’t a major problem. There were ways around it, if they discovered an empty world, and if they didn’t ... they might have more serious issues to worry about. Have the logistics officers revise their plans to account for the missing transports.

Stuart scowled. James kept his expression under control. He hadn’t wanted Stuart for his second-in-command, even though the man was – on paper – perfectly qualified. Stuart was well-connected, which meant he’d been promoted ahead of other officers ... often without the experience he needed to make full use of his new rank. He was a good organiser and bureaucrat, and the PEF needed a senior officer who knew how to handle logistics, but he’d never been tested in combat. Worse, the other captains looked down on him for not being a combat officer. James had calculated it would make it harder for his subordinates to unseat him, if they thought they had cause, but it was a gamble. He would have preferred a more experienced man serving as his second.

Although a more experienced man would seem a worthwhile replacement if I slip up too badly, he reminded himself, coldly. Plus I needed support from his backers.

We will have trouble keeping the regiments supplied if we run into trouble, Stuart pointed out. James couldn’t help thinking he looked like a fussy bureaucrat, even though his family had ensured he and his siblings had the best genetic treatments money could buy. Even with the remaining logistic transports, it will be difficult ...

It depends on what we encounter, James said. We will adjust our plans accordingly.

He smiled, rather dryly. If they encountered a timeline like Timeline B or E, there would be no threat. The local wildlife in Timeline E was remarkably aggressive – there’d been no humans to tame the beasts – but it wasn’t a threat to armed men. Local humans might be more dangerous, yet the PEF still had enough firepower to dominate the local region until reinforcements arrived. The only real risk was a peer power and that was vanishingly unlikely. No one had tried to invade the Protectorate yet.

Stuart nodded. Do you wish to check in with the remaining captains?

They know their duties, James assured him. He’d never liked senior officers peering over his shoulder when he’d been a junior himself. The captains were prickly and independent, not the sort of officers who’d be happy with their superior checking on them. They’d worked long and hard to earn their posts and they had no intention of letting their efforts be wasted, not when they might be able to climb even higher. We did enough drills to know the captains can handle their regiments.

Stuart saluted, then hurried off. James watched him go, keeping his thoughts to himself. The drills had been carefully carried out, pitting the PEF against a series of enemies from primal insurgents to modern-day armoured forces, but there had always been a question mark over their true enemies. They thought they were ready for anything, yet ... were they? They’d worked out how to coordinate in the middle of a battlefield, against enemies who matched their tech and had the umpires on their side, but ... what would they face when they rotated into a whole new world? The drills, even the live-fire field exercises, hadn’t been real. The coming transit was.

We’re warned to expect the unexpected, he thought, as he studied the live feed from the various regiments, departments and orbiting sensors. But if we knew what we were expecting it would hardly be unexpected.

The timer blinked on, counting down the minutes to transit. James keyed his console, checking the links to the receptor force. They’d be cut, the moment they jumped; he’d be alone, in sole command of an isolated force, one that would remain out of touch with its superiors for weeks, perhaps even months. They would be completely alone, unable to summon reinforcements or requisition supplies. It was a terrifying thought, for all the fabbers and machine shops within the vast fortress. He’d been in the military for nearly twenty-five years and yet he’d never been out of touch with his superiors, not even when he’d been stationed briefly on the moon. He was solely responsible for the men and women under his command, in far more ways than one. Success would boost his career to the very highest levels; failure would send him crashing into obscurity, blighting the family name even if he never returned ...

To win or lose it all, he thought. The family motto, stubbornly kept despite their ancestor being on the wrong side of a civil war ... James had never been certain if the Protectorate quietly admired James Graham, First Marquis of Montrose, or if his family had been lucky just to survive long enough for reconciliation, when it became clear that Charles Stuart’s cause was hopelessly lost. James could not stop himself from reaching for the stars, even though defeat – or even ambiguous victory – would ruin him. He could not fear his fate when the prize was worth any risk. I could not be me if I didn’t gamble everything on victory.

A low tremor ran through the fortress. James tensed, eyes darting from console to console. The Crosstime Transpositioner was ready. The armoured infantry and tanks were ready. The aerospace forces – flyers and drones – were ready, the latter linked to command-and-control stations within the command chamber. The point defence, too ... it was unlikely, to say the least, that they would emerge into a battlefield, but there was nothing to be gained by taking extra chances. They were already taking the biggest one of all. The medics, the intelligence staff, the logisticians ... volunteers all, mercilessly drilled to ensure they could handle anything, and ready. He could feel the tension pulsing in the air, training holding it at bay. They were ready.

His terminal bleeped. Sir, the Council has just sent us a good-luck message.

Thank them for us, James said. He had enemies on the Council, but even his worst opponent would understand that the Protectorate came first. If the mission failed, the consequences would be incalculable. And tell them we’re beginning the final countdown ... now.

His finger ran down the console, taking them past the point of no return ... although, in truth, they’d committed themselves long ago. Another tremor ran through the base as the fusion generators powered up, channelling vast amounts of power into the Crosstime Transpositioner. The power levels required to transit, even once, were so high that it was a given the system would not survive the jump, no matter the outcome. James had a private suspicion that the Council hadn’t pushed to correct that problem because it ensured enemies on the far side couldn’t capture an intact Transpositioner. The databanks had been carefully purged of anything that might allow the natives to build their own. James understood the logic, even though it worked against him. If they did run into a peer power, the last thing they wanted to do was make the new threat more dangerous.

Now hear this, Stuart said. His voice boomed through the fortress. Ten minutes to transit. I say again, ten minutes to transit.

James lifted his eyes and studied the display. It was just past midnight ... it would be the same on the other side, allowing them to arrive in the dead of night. It was possible no one would even notice their arrival, at least at first, or ... who knew? The basic shape of the North American continent would be the same, he thought, but beyond that ...? The politics could be very different. Or they might not exist at all.

He braced himself as the timer started to count down the final seconds. It wouldn’t be long now.

Chapter Two: Flint, Texas, North America, Timeline F (OTL)

The desert might be dangerous, particularly in the daytime, but Sheriff Callam Boone had always enjoyed driving through it at night. There was a grandeur about the environment – the scrubland, the rock formations, the moon and stars overhead – that was lacking in daytime, when there was no way to avoid all the problems of the region, from the economic collapse that had blighted the towns and cities to the endless emigration of people in search of a better life. Callam wondered, sometimes, if anyone up north realised how bad things had become, in what had once been a prosperous region; sometimes, he suspected they just didn’t care. It wasn’t easy being a law-enforcement officer at the best of times, but doing it in a district where everyone regarded the police as enemies was almost impossible. There was no shortage of stories about people taking the law into their own hands after they’d been let down by the authorities. It was often very hard to blame them.

He glanced back as the road rose slightly, looking back at Flint. It had been a prosperous town, once; there’d been two factories and a whole host of smaller businesses, unaware that their prosperity depended on factories owned by distant corporations who cared nothing for the town. They’d pulled out, sending the town into a depression that it had never managed to escape. It didn’t matter, in the end, if one blamed globalists and traitors in high office or the cold dictates of capitalism. The end result was the same: hopeless people, trapped in poverty and burning with anger driven by fear and desperation. It was no surprise to him that drugs, alcohol, and suicide were so prevalent. Why bother trying to work and live when it was completely hopeless?

The town had once been as brightly lit as any other, a shining beacon of civilisation in the darkness. Now, he could easily make out patches where the lights had failed; broken streetlights, shuttered buildings, darkness that hid a grim reality of people doing everything in their power to scrape out a living, knowing it was hopeless. The resentment was almost a palpable force, seeping into everything ... even children who might have hopes and dreams of a better life elsewhere. They learnt better, soon enough. You needed to go to the cities for hopes and dreams and moving to the cities cost money. They didn’t have it. The only way out was the military, and even that was drying up. Too many young men had gone to war and come back crippled, only to be abandoned by their country. Callam knew he’d been lucky – he’d been in the Marine Corps, serving in Iraq and Afghanistan – and that there were others who hadn’t been anywhere near so fortunate. Being crippled by terrorists and insurgents was bad enough, but being tormented by the VA was far worse.

He gritted his teeth. He knew, all too well, why so many people fantasized about violence and rebellion. There was only so much someone could take before they started looking for a way out – or revenge. He knew better, but he was one of the lucky ones. If he’d come home crippled, or found himself unable to feed his family, or watched helplessly as his wife left him, taking both the kids and two-thirds of his salary ... he’d had to arrest a man, only a week ago, for beating his wife to within an inch of her life after she’d cheated on him. The asshole had called him a traitor, and there had been part of Callam that had agreed. But adultery didn’t excuse nearly killing one’s wife ...

His mood darkened as he spotted a handful of lights up ahead, just off the beaten track. The feds were there, as they’d been for the last few days. They’d brought a handful of unmarked trucks with Federal licence plates, some clearly designed to serve as mobile homes; they’d set up enough spotlights to ensure no one, not even a lone coyote, could sneak up on them without being spotted. There was something glaringly amateurish about their set-up, Callam noted; they’d positioned their vehicles in a manner that would have earned him a sharp reprimand from any halfway-decent commanding officer back in the Sandbox. He could have led his former fire team right into the heart of their formation easily, even if they saw him coming. But then, there was no real risk of being attacked. The talk of civil war was nothing more than talk, people shooting their mouths off because they were bitter and frustrated and helpless in the face of global storms they could neither understand nor fight. The response to such talk was more dangerous than the talk itself.

And their spotlights will probably keep the cartels away, he thought, as he parked just outside the perimeter. There was nothing stopping him from driving further, but involving yourself with the feds was always risky. He’d met too many FBI, ATF and DHS agents who looked down on the locals – local yokels, they implied – and pushed them around whenever they thought they could get away with it. They’re probably not in any real danger.

He climbed out of the car and looked around, not bothering to disguise his interest. The trucks were surrounded by devices that reminded him of his service in the gulf, from counter-battery radars and sensors to gadgets that looked as if they’d come out of a science-fiction movie. It was hard not to feel a twinge of resentment as the devices glimmered under the spotlights, a grim reminder there was money for advanced fighter jets and half-baked weapons concepts that rarely worked in the field, yet almost none for securing the border or reforming the police. They could have solved so many problems, Callam was sure, if they took the money for the latest jet program and invested it in police departments across the nation, but he knew better than to expect sense from the Federal government. Or anyone, really. The governor in Austin wasn’t much better than the lame-duck President in Washington, DC. They had no contact with the folks on the ground, so the folks in Washington most likely believed the lies and bullshit they were being fed by polls and reporters who had no contact either.

And what, he asked himself, are the feds doing here?

He tried not to roll his eyes as a hatch opened, allowing a middle-aged man to clamber to the ground and hurry towards him. If he’d had bad intentions, he could have done a hell of a lot of damage before they tried to stop him ... he pushed that thought out of his head and studied the man, allowing himself a moment of relief as he noted the newcomer was neither wearing a Secret Service suit or tactical chic. The latter would have been a real problem. Someone turning up dressed as a stormtrooper could always be relied upon to make a bad problem worse, and then take no responsibility for it afterwards. Callam had solved problems by talking that the Feds had tried to solve by shooting ...

Hey, the newcomer said. His accent suggested he was from Washington DC, or at least he’d spent most of his time there. The shorts and shirt he wore were better suited for the heat than a suit and tie ... it was hard to be sure, but he didn’t give the impression of ever having been in the military. Callam had met drone pilots and keyboard warriors who’d had more military bearing. What’s up?

It’s too late for anything being up, Callam said, dryly. "I just wanted to check in and make