Original Work To Win or Lose it All (Conquistadors III)

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Castle Treathwick/Flint, Texas, Timeline F (OTL)

“Sir,” Jensen said, slowly. “The gate has started the power-up sequence.”

James nodded, keeping his face under tight control. It wasn’t in his nature to give up and admit defeat, particularly when it would lead rapidly and inevitably to the loss of all his hopes and dreams. The invasion might still succeed, once reinforcements poured through the gate, but it wouldn’t be his victory. He had too many enemies back home to have any hope of being recognised as the rightful ruler of the new world, if he wasn’t the one who led the Protectorate to victory, and the best he could hope for was being assigned a duty station in the middle of nowhere. If he were lucky ... if not, he’d likely spend the rest of his life as a cautionary tale.

He ground his teeth in frustration. Catherine had failed. There was no after-action report, not yet and perhaps not ever, but certain things were clear. The commando team was dead. Catherine herself was missing, perhaps dead. Senator Remington, a degenerate so degenerate he made normal degenerates look as prim and proper as his old schoolmarm, was in enemy custody. His network of friends, allies, clients and suchlike was lost, no doubt loudly protesting their loyalty to the United States and insisting they hadn’t had the slightest idea Remington was such a scumbag. James had no love for the wretched man – and he’d fully approved Catherine’s plan to have him executed as soon as he outlived his usefulness – but losing him now meant losing the last hope of taking the United States over from the inside, of shutting down the war before it was too late. And now everything rested on the one thing he’d been reluctant to do right from the start.

“Good,” he said, finally. How long would it take to open the gate? Was it even possible? The plan called for a gate to be set up in the original timeline, ready to detect the first traces of a gate in Timeline F and link up to allow direct transit, but there was no way to be sure the council would approve the connection. The fact they hadn’t sent a third fortress into Timeline F was worrying. If they declined to open the gate on their side ... no. He refused to even think about it. “Keep me informed.”

He studied the main display, telling himself firmly that the looming disaster was also an opportunity. The enemy was advancing on two fronts, their advance slow yet steady ... but being harried, constantly, by his troops and flyers. He had to admire their willingness to abandon the remainder of the occupied zone – more accurately, to put the destruction of the invasion force ahead of liberating territory – but it worked in his favour. Their lines were growing thinner even as he watched, making their spearheads vulnerable to a counterattack when his reinforcements arrived. He tapped commands into the console, ready to upload into the datanet as soon as the first armoured division drove into Timeline F. They would retake the offensive and they wouldn’t stop until they reached Washington.

“Sir,” Jensen said. “Captain Fergus is requesting permission to withdraw.”

James said nothing for a long moment. “Order him to hold the line as long as possible,” he said, finally. They needed the mobile point defence in place, as the enemy pushed forward. Their missiles were already within range of Castle Treathwick and a single hit, even with a conventional warhead, would be disastrous. The fortress would survive. The gate would not. “If he has to withdraw, tell him to take up position between the fortress and the enemy lines.”

“Aye, sir,” Jensen said.

James scowled, turning his attention back to the display. His position was coming apart at the seams. The big cities were rioting – radical groups he’d used, with the intention of disposing of them as soon as they were no longer useful, were already seizing control – while the smaller towns were turning into hotbeds of resistance activity. Millions of people were on the move, looking for a safety that was far from assured. Flint was still heavily defended, thankfully, but as his reinforcements arrived the town would turn into a war zone.

I can still pull it off, he told himself. Once the reinforcements arrive, we can turn the whole battle around.

***

Martín knew, all too well, that he was putting his head in the lion’s jaws.

There would be no way to avoid a gunfight, if anyone checked his biometrics against the database. He was listed as missing at best, an outright deserter and traitor at worst ... even if he’d been as loyal as the PEF could have wished, there were no shortage of ways to force a prisoner to betray his people, even to turn against them completely. He’d spent the last few hours mentally kicking himself for taking the risk, despite the priceless opportunity to save a world from the Protectorate. And yet ...

He sucked in his breath as they drove west, hundreds of other cars and vehicles surrounding them. The population was on the move, trying to get away from the front lines ... here and there, he saw Protectorate troops and sepoys, the latter clearly visible in their uniforms, as helpless as the rest. Some looked wounded, others looked ... broken. That was striking. The PEF had been in hard battles before, but they’d never broken. It felt like the end of the world.

Sergeant Boone tapped his passive receiver. “Drone says there’s a checkpoint up ahead.”

“Don’t show any signs of panic,” Martin said, despite the uneasy feeling in his own stomach. He’d never been really close to anyone in the PEF and most of his comrades were dead, killed in the Battle of Washington, but it was hard to believe no one knew him. He’d changed his appearance a little, and crafted a cover story that should stand up to brief scrutiny, yet it was hard to be sure. The United States didn’t have the technology to change his fingerprints, let alone his genetic code. “Remember, we have orders to return to Flint.”

“Got it.” Boone didn’t trust him. Martin could tell. “I won’t let you down.”

Martin kept his thoughts to himself as the traffic began to slow. A handful of Protectorate vehicles blocked the highway, their weapons searching for targets. The traffic kept inching forward, the drivers clearly angry as they were forced to wait. Others looked fearful, constantly glancing backwards as if they expected to see tanks crashing towards them, crushing cars and trucks under their treads. Collaborators could expect nothing but death if they were captured by their fellow countrymen, no matter what orders the President gave. No wonder they were fleeing. They had nowhere else to go.

The MP looked into the truck, his face grim. Martin didn’t really blame him. Angry men, whiny women, crying children ... he caught sight of a girl, not that much younger than himself, stamping her foot as though she were closer to eight than eighteen. Her father looked worn out and defeated, her mother was nowhere to be seen. Martín rolled his eyes at the little brat. If any of his sisters had acted like that, they wouldn’t have sat comfortably for a week.

“Our orders are to report back to Flint,” Martín said. The team was passing themselves off as sepoy engineers, rather than combatants. Too valuable, he hoped, to be ordered to get into the front line. “We’re to deal with the defences there ...”

There was a long pause. Martin braced himself. A shootout here would be utterly disastrous. The mission would fail even if they managed to break contact and escape. He silently prayed the MP wouldn't insist on calling it in, checking the paperwork ... if he did, they’d have to abandon the truck and run. He couldn’t fail. He wouldn't fail.

“Drive on the wrong side of the road,” the MP said. It took Martín a moment to realise it was meant as a joke. He’d never met an MP with any sense of humour before. They tended to dislike footmen on general principles. Immigrants such as himself were even lower in their eyes. “And don’t stop for anything until you reach the next checkpoint.”

Martín nodded, restarted the engine and drove off. The right side of the road was heaving with traffic, cars and trucks; the left side, sealed off by the MPs, was reserved for military vehicles. He spotted a cluster of captured American vehicles heading west, followed by a number of trucks; he scowled, despite himself, as he saw a fireteam taking up position a mile or two from the checkpoint. If the Americans kept advancing, and they would, the fireteam would slow them down.

“Fuck,” Boone muttered. “I can’t even call it in.”

“They won’t do too much damage,” Martín assured him. The ambush would cause a little delay, he was sure, but not much else. “They’ll be fine.”

Boone shot him a sharp look. Martín didn’t really blame him, although he though the man a little immature. Using any sort of active transmitter would give the game away, even if the Protectorate no longer had the time or resources to drop a hammer on anyone trying to signal without permission, and Boone knew it as well as he did. There were other SF teams within the occupied zone, they’d been told. It was quite possible one would spot the ambush and call it in before it was too late.

His mode shifted as he kept driving, passing through two more checkpoints. Much of the traffic was being steered away from Flint now, while the military and the most useful collaborators were allowed passage back to the fortress. It was eerie to see footmen riding captured American vehicles, their faces downcast as they headed west ... he’d never seen anything like it, not even in the full-scale military exercises that were as close to genuine warfare as the military could make it. They’d been fought out over vast territories, with hundreds of actors playing civilians, collaborators and insurgents ... winning such engagements had brought glory, he recalled, and even losing was useful if the losers learnt from their experiences. There’d been nothing scripted about them ...

It feels like a noose tightening around our necks, he thought. The Protectorate still controlled vast swathes of territory, but that was meaningless. They were running out of space as well as time. And that means they’ll do everything in their power to open the gate.

“They didn’t waste any time making themselves at home, did they?” Boone was staring out of the window, at the new town growing by the side of the road. “How many of these places are there?”

Martín shrugged. He hadn’t seen any of the new towns before he’d been captured, but he’d known they existed. Homes for the collaborators and their families, places to keep them safe and under the Protectorate’s watchful eye ... he wondered, morbidly, how many people were already fleeing their new homes, how many were staying to face the music. Missiles flew overhead, speeding east ... he saw one explode, blown out of the sky by the castle’s point defence. One way or the other, it wouldn’t be long now.

“Turn off here,” Boone ordered. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

Martin nodded, and obeyed.

***

The world around him felt ... wrong.

Callam had been the Sheriff of Flint long enough to get to know the area around the dying town very well. He knew all the hiding places, he knew all the back roads ... he knew where young couples went to make out and where older, nastier, people got their kicks by popping drugs or churning out illicit and often highly-dangerous moonshine. There were few people who had seen so much of the area as himself and fewer still who’d had a rapport with the locals ...

Now, everything was different. There were new towns everywhere, new factories ... even new roads. He’d seen Flint earlier, during his brief period in enemy custody, but that had been just one town. Here ... he sucked in his breath as the defector steered them onto a side road, finally pausing at a set of coordinates that meant little to them. The resistance was already waiting for them. Two men ... the rest, if they were wise, would be watching from a safe distance. Even with a war on, and missiles flashing through the sky overhead, the enemy couldn't be discounted. They certainly wouldn’t leave an insurgent force alone if it was right on their doorstep.

Callam scrambled out of the cab and dropped to the ground. “Sam Houston was a jerk.”

The insurgent didn’t smile. “And Benedict Arnold was a hero,” he said. “You’d think they could have picked a better set of passwords.”

“We could have stuck with swordfish,” Callam pointed out, as more thunder rumbled in the distance. The passwords might be unpatriotic, but that worked in its favour. The Protectorate seemed to have a blind spot about such things. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” the man said. “Call me Davis. Did you bring the weapons?”

“In the back,” Callam said, motioning to the truck. “Get them out and get ready. We have to act fast ...”

His radio bleeped an alert, a handful of tones that meant everything to him and nothing to anyone who didn’t know the code. “Shit.”

“Shit?” Davis – and if that was his real name Callam would be astonished – sounded worried. “What’s happening?”

“Slight change of plans,” Callam said. “We need to move now.”

Davis blinked. “What do you mean?”

“They’re trying to open the gate,” Callam said. The plan had called for weapons to be distributed and a force slipped into the town before the shooting started. They were going to have to improvise. “Get the weapons passed out, get the mortar crews into position. And hurry!”

Davis hesitated. “What does that mean?”

“The end of the world,” Callam said, sharply. “Think of it as a pontoon bridge that lets troops drive tanks from one side of the river to the other, except one side is in their world and the other side is down there” – he waved a hand towards the looming bulk glowering over Flint – “and if their tanks burst into our world we’re fucked. Either we stop it or the whole place gets nuked or we lose the fucking war. Got it?”

“Got it,” Davis said. There was no contrition in his voice, just a grim acknowledgement that plans would have to be changed, then brought forward. “We’ll get on with it.”

“Another question,” Callam said, gathering himself with an effort as Martin signalled urgently to him. His accent was too noticeable for him to risk speaking openly, with insurgents who might shoot first and ask questions later. “Do they check fingerprints as people go through the gates?”

“They were doing it two days ago,” Davis said. Callam guessed the insurgent had a job within the wire. “They’ll probably be doing it now.”

“Shit,” Callam said. He’d hoped Martin could get them inside the wire before the shit hit the fan. There were already insurgents inside the lines, but nowhere near enough to pull off the mission without help. “All right, this is what we’re going to do ...”

***

I should have done something else with my life, Private Arnold Harris thought, as he stood guard at the main gates. He knew himself to be a brave man, but he wasn’t cut out for the infantry and so he’d worked hard, when he signed up, to get himself assigned to the logistics division instead. It should have worked out for him, when they’d transited into a whole new world ... except the war was going poorly, and the Captain-General was trying to assemble as much manpower as he could, and so Arnold Harris had found himself standing guard instead of doing something useful with his time. If I hadn’t wanted the vote ...

He put the thought aside as he waved a car through the wire, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the man behind the wheel. His ID showed him a willing collaborator, which meant he was likely dead when the Americans got their hands on him and his three young kids would be adopted out or sent into exile. There was no sign of any mother ... the folk here were so degenerate that single parents were all the rage, even though it was bad for both the children and the lone parent. Perhaps the mother was already dead. There had been no official announcements, but he’d heard through the grapevine that revenge attacks were already on the rise. The mother might have been killed by a shooter trying to get her husband. Or taken out in a missile strike. The explosions high overhead were making everyone jumpy.

Poor kids, he thought. The oldest looked seven, too young to lose a mother. Her father would need to find a second wife, perhaps one who had lost a husband. A blended family wasn’t ideal, but better than nothing. The parents would come to love their step kids as much as their biological children. Eventually. They’ll be safe here, for a while.

Another truck pulled up, the driver holding out an ID card as more explosions rumbled overhead. He didn’t turn off the engine. Arnold glanced at it, ran it through the reader, then held the scanner up to the cab. The driver smiled. It crossed Arnold’s mind, too late, that the driver’s hands were out of sight ... the truck lurched forward, crashing into the gate with staggering force. The bars held ... Arnold grabbed for his pistol, too late, as the cab crumpled under the impact. The truck was a bomb ...

The world went white, then faded away.

 

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Castle Treathwick/Flint, Texas, Timeline F (OTL)

The display lit up like a Christmas tree.

James stared, unable to believe his eyes. Bombings. Shootings. Mortar rounds incoming ... large explosions at all the gates, blowing the checkpoints to hell and making it impossible to determine which was the real attack ... perhaps they were all real. The enemy should have been hours away, even if the defence lines crumbled without a shot being fired ... it slowly dawned on him that he’d been outthought right down the line. Thousands upon thousands of refugees had fled south, back to Flint ... how many terrorists and insurgents had travelled with them?

“Sir,” Jensen said. “I have a confirmed report of shooting inside the wire ...”

The terminal bleeped. “Incoming missiles ... I say again, incoming missiles!”

James cursed under his breath. His men were armed – he’d made sure everyone was carrying at least a sidearm, if the enemy moved quicker than anticipated – but their coordination was shot to hell. The security forces were having problems dealing with so many attacks, their formations broken down into individual units trapped in their own private hells ... the enemy were swarming the northern gate, pushing through into the new towns and the barracks and factories beyond. The war was within shouting distance of being lost. But if they didn’t know about the gate ...

“Deploy the reserves to seal off the northern quarter,” he snapped, forcing himself to think calmly. The truck bombs had killed most of the duty guards ... if any had survived, they’d been knocked completely off the grid. The enemy could break in and rampage all the way to the castle itself, if he didn’t act fast. “And signal the gate complex. They are to flash-wake the gate now.”

Jensen looked up. “Sir?”

“Do it,” James snapped. It would put colossal wear and tear on the gate machinery, no doubt about it, but there was no other choice. He couldn’t batten down the hatches and seal the castle when the gate complex was the real target. The Americans could pull back, if they destroyed the gate, and wait for his forces to surrender. The castle itself was worthless without the gate. “Now!”

“Yes, sir,” Jensen said.

James gritted his teeth. There was one last chance ...

“And order the infantry to be prepared to fall back on my command,” he added. “We’ll make our stand here.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Martin kept his head down as he ran forward, skirting the smoking crater and heading into the town. Flint had been degenerate as hell, when he’d first laid eyes on the settlement; he’d thought, at the time, that Texas was a decaying client state rather than part of a nation that dominated the world. Now ... the degraded buildings were largely gone, replaced by dozens of prefabricated barracks and factories; the former housing countless skilled locals and the latter offering them gainful employment. They would be drawn to the offer of work and safety, he knew, and in doing so surrender their freedom. It was an old trick that almost always worked ...

He shook his head and kept running, the rest of the team fanning out behind him. The air was echoing with gunfire and explosions, the resistance mortar teams bombarding the base while their footmen – infantry – tried to storm the northern gates. It was a tactical gamble, one they knew could easily fail; the defenders could isolate the insurgents and drive them back, if they acted fast. Hopefully, they would take their eyes off the prize. If they realised a small team had slipped in from the south, wearing Protectorate uniforms and heading right to the gate, all hell would break lose.

Sirens howled, loudspeakers broadcasting orders for all non-combatant personnel to remain where they were and stay there. The sound was louder than he’d expected, but regularly broken by more explosions as the point defence crews shot mortar rounds and missiles out of the air. Castle Treathwick was bristling with weapons and defences – he was sure Montrose was pulling his most important personnel into the fortress, digging in for a final stand – and it would be a difficult target, but it wasn’t the priority right now. The priority was right in front of him, the staggeringly large gate complex. Even from a distance, it dominated the landscape in a manner even the fortress couldn’t match. If they managed to bring it online ... something flickered through the air, a spark of raw potential. Martin swore under his breath. The last time he’d felt something like that was when he’d walked through another gate, as part of his training. They really were running out of time.

“It looks like the Stargate, only bigger,” Callam muttered.

Martin had no idea what he meant and he didn’t have time to care. The streets were emptying fast as soldiers hurried to the defence lines and everyone else fled to the shelters. They might wear enemy uniforms, but if someone realised they were out of place ... more explosions shook the air as something detonated high overhead, probably a cruise missile. He glanced back at Callam as the gate checkpoint came into view, weirdly solid compared to the gatehouse they’d destroyed only a few short minutes ago. The guards were footmen, not security troopers or MPs. Martin tried not to feel any guilt. He’d been a footman too.

The guard lifted a weapon as they neared the gate. “No entry,” he said. Two others were coming forward; there were probably others in reserve. The gate complex was the point failure source for the entire invasion, now the Americans were driving the invaders back to Flint. The guards would shoot first and ask questions later. “I ... Martin?”

Martin blinked. The guard knew him? That was a surprise. He’d thought everyone who knew him as anything more than a name in a file had died in Washington or gone into American custody. His mind raced, trying to come up with a story. There had been no reason for his former superiors to think he’d survived the battle, given how many others had been killed in the desperate fighting. They certainly wouldn’t have hidden it from the troops. And that meant ... what the hell could he tell the man? There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be suspicious ...

Callam Boone raised his weapon and shot the guard through the head, then the other two before they could react. Martin jerked himself into life as more alarms howled, yanking two grenades from his belt and hurling them into the security office. They detonated a second later, the blast walls channelling the explosion to do maximum harm to anyone inside. There was no time to feel anything, as he hurried forward. The gate was glowing now, the space within the structure starting to shimmer as it tried to link up with the gate on the other side of the mirror. Something thrummed though the air, pounding at his mind. He thought he saw a hundred versions of himself, each one stranger than the last. Some were so different that it was impossible to believe it was the same person.

“Fuck,” Callam muttered. “Hurry!”

Martin nodded. Time was about to run out.

***

“Sir,” Jensen said. “We have intruders in the gate complex!”

James’s blood ran cold. “Order all available security forces to break contact and get there now,” he snapped. He really had been outplayed. The enemy had distracted him and it had worked ... damn it. If they lost the gate, they lost the war. “Now!”

***

He was happily married. He was dead. He was straight. He was gay. He was a soldier. He was a sailor. He was an airman. He was a freeman. He was a prisoner. He was married. He was single. He was ...

Callam bit his lip as the visions assaulted his mind, alternate versions of himself that both were and weren’t at the same time. The gate complex was powering up, the air shimmering with raw power ... he thought he saw an entire army on the far side, just waiting to drive through and invade his world. His entire body staggered, sweat beading on his forehead as if he were suddenly feverish. He had to fight to keep going, to force himself to follow Martin to the control complex. The air was so heavy he couldn’t hear anything but the thrumming, the sound somehow hammering into his brain without going through his ears. It grew louder and louder, the alternates screaming in his mind as they teetered on the brink of unreality,

Martin tried the door. It was locked. Callam almost giggled as Martin knocked on the door with his rifle butt, then smirked as someone inside opened up. He shoved the door all the way open and charged inside, the rest of his team following him. The air grew quieter as they swept the complex, shooting down the operators. There was just no time to take prisoners and it was dangerous to risk ordering them to shut down the gate. The machinery around them was so alien there was no way to be sure the prisoners were doing what they were told until it was too late.

“They’ve locked down the control systems,” Martin said. “I think ...”

He looked up. “I’m going to have to cut the power.”

“Do it,” Callam said.

“I don’t know what’ll happen if I do,” Martin warned. “I ...”

“Do it,” Callam repeated. He wasn’t sure if he’d hallucinated the tanks on the far side or not and he dared not take the chance. Whatever happened when the power was cut, it had to be better than letting a fresh enemy army storm his world. “Now!”

Martin nodded, reaching for a heavy switch and pulling it down. The world seemed to shimmer in front of him, the alternates suddenly battering their presence against his mind once again ... he was a disabled veteran, he was dead on the battlefields of Iraq, he was marrying Sally Luanne of all people, he was ... the images were gone, as if they’d never been. He blinked away tears ... Martin was crying, staring down into his hands. Callam wondered what he’d seen, in those final moments, and knew he couldn’t ask. His visions had been striking and he knew, in the end, that he had a good life. Martin ...?

“It’s done,” Martin said. “The gate is closed.”

“Then we hold the complex until relief arrives,” Callam said. He wasn’t the only one to be profoundly shocked by what he’d seen, but there was no time to worry about it. “And then we go home.”

***

“Sir,” Jensen said. “They’ve disabled the gate ...”

James barely heard her. His dreams were dying ...no. They were dead. The defences were crumbling, the world he’d built collapsing under its own weight, the ungrateful Americans rising up ... cowards. They hadn’t fought him when he’d seemed the certain winner, had they? They’d only joined the insurgency after the war had already been won. He wanted to order them crushed, to fire plasma warheads into their cities to punish them for betraying him, but they’d timed it well. He no longer had the manpower or weaponry to teach them a lesson they’d never forget.

“Get out,” he ordered, sharply.

Jensen retreated, fast. James didn’t watch as the hatch hissed closed behind him. There was no one to blame, not really. Essex had started the Battle of Washington, the first major setback in the war; Jackson King had driven his armour into a deadly trap ... no. They couldn’t be blamed. It had been James himself who had made the decision to start the war, when he’d realised the opportunity before him. The Americans should have broken. They hadn’t. And now he had lost everything. It was over.

It was the right choice, part of his mind argued. We could have won!

But we didn’t, another part pointed out. And that is all that mattered.

He stared at the display, seeing nothing. The decision had been inevitable. And right. And disastrous. His hand dropped to his pistol, his mind turning to the last thing he could do to regain his honour. And yet, he could still hurt the Americans before they crushed him. It was petty spite, but it was all he had left.

***

“Sir,” a young female officer said, as she hurried into the secondary CIC. “We lost the gate!”

Daisy looked up as Essex stood. “What happened?”

“They got a commando team into the gate complex,” the woman babbled. Daisy could barely follow her explanation, which ran from an American victory to Sally getting slapped by her wretched master. “And Montrose ordered me out of the CIC!”

“Good,” Essex said. He pointed to the terminal. “Stay here.”

He beckoned for Daisy to follow him as he walked up the corridor to the primary CIC, then stopped and turned into an officer’s quarters. Sally Luanne was sitting on the bed, a nasty red mark clearly visible on her pale face. Daisy winced in sympathy. Her uncle had strapped her a couple of times, once for underage drinking and once for careless handling of a firearm, but he’d never slapped her. Sally might be a filthy traitor, but the hopeless look in her eyes was devastating. Daisy was sure she was on the verge of killing herself.

“Here,” Essex said. He took a pistol from his belt and held it out to Sally. “Do what you will.”

Sally stared at him numbly, then took the pistol and stood. Daisy blinked, half-expecting Sally to try to shoot them both, but instead the older woman staggered out the door. Essex put a hand on Daisy’s arm, preventing her from following. If Sally was heading to the CIC ...

***

Sally didn’t know why Essex had given her the pistol and she didn’t much care, as she returned to the CIC. She was doomed. Montrose had lost the war and even if he hadn’t ... he’d slapped her once and he might slap her again. Or worse. She’d seen wives trapped in abusive marriages in Flint, before the war, and she’d sworn to herself that she would sooner die than wind up in such a nightmare. Montrose had been handsome and driven and a man and yet ... he’d lost. The war was over and she was a traitor. Her family, if there was anything left of it, would disown her. Her country would kill her. And ...

Montrose looked up, sharply, as she entered the chamber. Sally lifted the pistol and pointed it at his head. She’d half-expected him to cower, like other men who came face to face with a woman who could actually stand up for herself, but instead he merely regarded her with an almost-bored yet superior expression. He didn’t think she’d shoot. A surge of anger ran through her, driven by shame as much as hatred and rage. She’d been the one to go to him, not the other way round. She’d laid her own path to hell and walked down it, heedless of the risk, until it was far too late. There was nothing left for her, but revenge.

She pulled the trigger. The gun jerked in her hands. Montrose staggered, one hand going to his chest, then fell. His eyes seemed to meet hers, just for a second ... his lips shaped words, a curse ... or his family motto. Sally sagged to the ground beside him, the pistol falling from her hand. She no longer cared what happened to her, not now.

It was over.

To win or lose it all, she thought, numbly. Montrose’s family motto, quoted time and time again. And I have lost.

***

Daisy followed Essex into the CIC, her eyes noting both Montrose’s body and Sally kneeling beside him. The older woman looked completely out of it, her face stunned ... Daisy collected the pistol anyway, just in case, as Essex took Montrose’s chair. The holographic displays shimmered into existence in front of him, each one telling a tale of utter disaster. Daisy didn’t need to be able to read each and every icon to know the war was over.

“I hope your President keeps his word,” Essex said. There was an air of bitter resignation in his tone, a man who was trying to play poker with neither cards nor stake. Montrose had thrown away nearly every card he’d once held, in his final desperate bid for victory. Essex had inherited a hell of a mess. “Because if he doesn’t ...”

“He will,” Daisy said. She certainly hoped so. The Protectorate troops – those that survived - had a lot to offer. America needed them. Besides, if they broke their word to Essex it would be impossible to make a deal with any future invaders. “You’ll get all he promised and more.”

He keyed the console. “This is General Essex,” he said. “Captain-General Montrose has been killed by an American. I am assuming command of the force.”

There was a long pause. Daisy wondered if anyone would try to take command in his place. It was a poisoned chalice, but ... who knew?

Essex spoke with quiet intensity. “All units in contact with American troops are to break contact and withdraw as quickly as possible. You are authorised to fire only in self-defence. I say again, you are authorised to fire only in self-defence. If you are unable to break contact, you are to stand down and surrender yourselves.”

He paused, again. “This is not a debate. The war is over. I will not send more men to their deaths trying to change something that cannot be changed. Stand down.”

Daisy allowed herself a moment of relief. It was over.

But nothing, she reflected as the remaining troops acknowledged their orders and stood down, would ever be the same.

 

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Prisoner Holding Centres, USA, Timeline F (OTL)

The Americans had been surprisingly civilised, under the circumstances.

They’d treated Tessa’s wounds, once the camp had been organised, and allowed her to remain with Miguel and the other sepoys instead of shipping her to a camp for American traitors or insisting, at least, that she slept in the female barracks. There had been no torture, nothing beyond a handful of interrogations that had seemed rather minor; boredom, in truth, was more of a threat than anything else. A handful of sepoys had talked about escaping, as their captivity had stretched from weeks to months, but Miguel had shut that down before it could become anything more than talk. The Americans had made it clear that any misbehaviour would result in harsh punishment and he was unwilling to test it. They probably weren’t bluffing.

He’d paced the wire time and time again, fretting over his wife and children. The Americans had been unable or unwilling to tell him what had happened to them, let alone permit him to write or video call. They could be dead, their bodies decomposing in a mass grave, or being marched south ... he didn’t want to think about the other possibilities, about the nightmare of Carmen selling herself to ensure her children survived. If she did ... he closed his eyes, trying to recall her face. The picture he’d carried, ever since joining the sepoys, had been taken when they’d been processed, their uniforms and everything else confiscated and replaced by bright orange outfits that marked them out as prisoners. The guards had told them the locals would shoot first and ask questions later, if they saw anyone in such outfits. Miguel believed them. The end of the war had brought with it an orgy of violence and he doubted it had gotten any better, over the last few weeks. They were safer behind the wire.

But where was his family?

A shout echoed through the camp. “Set Four, report to the office; Set Four, report to the office!”

Miguel groaned and turned away, finding Tessa and making his way to the makeshift office. He’d been there a couple of times, since he’d been deemed one of the senior prisoners; his comrades, Tessa and the remainder of Set Four, joined him as he pushed open the door and stepped inside. It wasn’t much of an office – a desk, a set of chairs, an American flag hanging from the rear wall – but Commandant Bradford didn’t need much. Miguel suspected the commandant had a proper office, somewhere outside the wire, and probably living quarters as well. It wasn’t as if the guards bedded down with the prisoners.

“I’ll make this quick,” the commandant said. He had an accent Miguel didn’t recognise and a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. “Your cases have been reviewed by the military judges based on your interrogations, your personal files and, in some cases, testimony provided by others. If it turns out that the information used to review your cases was inaccurate, the case may be reopened.”

He paused. “There is no evidence suggesting any of you committed war crimes. In your cases, specifically, there is evidence that you intervened to stop war crimes. That works in your favour. At the same time, you took up arms against the United States, which makes you hostile actors at best and in one case” – his eyes speared Tessa - “an outright traitor.”

Tessa said nothing, but Miguel felt her shiver against him.

“You have two choices,” Bradford continued. “The Protectorate Expeditionary Force surrendered on terms. One of those terms was that they’ll be granted a patch of land to serve as a de facto reservation, in exchange for working with us to repair the damage from this invasion and prepare for the next. You can review all the legal details later. Another term is that those who collaborated, at least those not guilty of war crimes, will be permitted to move to the reservation instead of facing the wrath of their countrymen.”

He paused. “Your first choice is to go to the reservation. Your second, for foreign citizens, is to be returned to your home country. You will be permanently barred from returning and, if we catch you within the United States, we’ll hang you without further ado. For those of you who are Americans” – his eyes lingered on Tessa again – “the terms are slightly different. You can remain in detention here, and be tried for treason, or head to the reservation. If you choose the latter, you will effectively be sent into exile. Your citizenship will be revoked and if you are caught within American territory you’ll be hanged.”

Tessa blinked. “Don’t we have rights?”

“You committed treason,” Bradford said, curtly. “You’re lucky the Protectorate has a sense of honour. If they hadn’t insisted on such terms, you would be hanged already.”

Miguel stepped forward. “What about my family?”

“We can check the records, if you wish,” Bradford said. “Some sepoy families moved to the reservation. Others returned home. I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you,” Miguel said. “How long do we have to decide?”

“Two days,” Bradford said. “I’ll call you back and you can tell me what you decided. If you refuse to make a decision, the Americans will be transferred to a long-term detention facility and the foreigners will be shoved across the border. And that will be that. Dismissed.”

Miguel nodded, then stepped out of the office. His mind was already made up. Carmen wouldn’t go back to Mexico, not when it had been chaotic before the war and would now likely be even worse. She’d take the chance of going to the reservation and ... he’d have to go with her. God alone knew what Tessa would decide ... no, he already knew. She wouldn’t stay when it meant spending the rest of her life in jail, or a short dance on the end of a rope. He wondered what Carmen would make of her, then shrugged. It was just something they’d have to endure.

And it is better than we deserve, he thought, numbly. He’d wanted a new life. It seemed he’d gotten one. It could have turned out a great deal worse.

***

The prison cell was small, cramped, and lacking in anything resembling luxuries.

Sally lay on the hard bunk, staring up at nothing. Imprisonment was rough and the interrogations were worse, but it was just a matter of time before she met her fate. The military lawyer she’d met, briefly, had told her that the Military Commissions Act had been reactivated, that martial law had been declared and military courts empowered to deal with collaborators, traitors and others as they saw fit. She wasn’t sure it was constitutional or not, but it hardly mattered under the circumstances. There was no doubt of her guilt. She might receive a posthumous pardon – and pigs might fly too – yet it would be no comfort to the dead. She had no excuse for her crimes. And the whole world knew it.

“On your feet, prisoner!”

Sally winced as she stumbled upright and staggered towards the bars. Lana was the worst of the guards, a middle-aged woman who had taken great delight in telling Sally that her husband and kids had been killed in the war and that she was going to make Sally suffer as much as possible ... Sally gritted her teeth, offering no resistance as she was shackled and then searched so roughly she knew she’d be aching afterwards. She had no idea what the guards thought she could be hiding, after her body and cell had been searched thoroughly, but there was no point in protesting. She was powerless. The whole process was designed to make that clear, beyond all doubt.

Lana held her arm as she stumbled forward, through a maze of corridors and into a small office. A man sat behind the desk, his face so much like her father’s that she felt a moment of desperate hope before realising it wasn’t him. She’d been allowed to write letters, a mercy she wasn’t sure she deserved, but there’d been no reply. She wasn’t even sure they’d been sent. Lana had certainly refused to confirm or deny.

“Sit,” the man said. He spoke with a Texan accent ... Sally wondered, suddenly, just what he’d been doing during the war. “My name is Antony Fernando and I am the senior legal officer assigned to your case. This whole affair poses a number of interesting problems.”

Sally said nothing. She didn’t much care, to be honest. If the government wanted to hang her, it could hang her. She’d made a ghastly mistake and she would spend the rest of her life paying for it. If she was about to die ...

“On one hand, there is no doubt of your treason. You joined the Protectorate willingly. You did far more than just about any other collaborator, even the sepoys; there was certainly no coercion. Some collaborators are trying to make the case that they were forced to collaborate and they might succeed. You can’t.”

“No,” Sally agreed. She was a lawyer, but she didn’t need any legal training to know her case was as conclusive as humanly possible. “Get to the point.”

“All in good time,” Fernando said. “On the other hand, you did shoot Montrose, which opens up a whole new can of worms. There’s a case to be made that you were secretly part of the resistance all along – I’ve no doubt your lawyer will certainly try to claim as much, if we put you on trial. Nonsense, of course, but who knows? It wouldn’t be the first time the courts have swallowed a lot of nonsense.”

Sally snorted. “People will believe the world is flat, and that the moon is made of green cheese, before they believe in my innocence.”

“Quite. There’s also the minor detail that the terms of surrender include the right for all collaborators, including you, to move to the reservation instead of facing justice here,” Fernando added. “The principle exception covers people who are accused of war crimes, who’ll be tried and punished as they deserve, but there’s a lot of debate about if you actually committed any or not. Lots of room for the argument to go either way. The bottom line is that we don’t want to actually put you on trial, if it can be avoided.”

“So take me out back and shoot me,” Sally said. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding volunteers for a firing squad.”

“No,” Fernando agreed. “But the country needs to heal and that needs us to refrain from vigilante justice as much as possible.”

He leaned forward. “You have a choice. You can go to the reservation. You may face charges there, depending on just how the politics sort themselves out. No one is actually mourning Montrose’s death, it seems. Or you can stand trial here. You have two days to decide.”

“I see,” Sally said.

“And I need to ask you a question,” Fernando added. “Why?”

Sally didn’t bother to pretend she didn’t know what he meant. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

Fernando raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I had nowhere else to go,” Sally said. “No job, no chance of getting one. No way to escape Flint, no way to ...”

She shook her head. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“I see,” Fernando said. “And so you betrayed your country.”

Sally looked back at him. “What did my country do for me?”

She held his gaze. “Flint used to be a prosperous town, believe it or not. People had good lives. They had hopes and dreams ... a man could raise a family on a factory worker’s salary, back in those days, while his wife stayed home to take care of the kids. And then the factory moved to China and took all the hopes and dreams with it. The men fell into drink, the women fell into despair ... the kids either left or joined their parents in sheer fucking hopelessness. I was the most successful student in my year, believe it or not, and I still couldn’t get a fucking job. All I got was debts and hopelessness.”

The old bitterness welled up again. “Does that answer your question?”

“Maybe.” Fernando shrugged. “The guards will take you back to your cell. I’ll be back in two days for your answer.”

“No need,” Sally said. “I’ll go to the reservation.”

“And you will stay there,” Fernando said. “If you’re caught outside the reservation, you will be hanged.”

He let the words hang in the air for a long moment. “This is a mercy. Some argue you don’t deserve it. Others are prepared to send you into exile so they can avoid a trial. Still others think you’ll be executed by the Protectorate or murdered by a vigilante, letting them get rid of you while they keep their hands clean. Whatever. Bear this in mind. There won’t be a second chance.”

Sally nodded. “I understand.”

***

Senator Thaddeus Remington – he clung to both the family name and the title, even though he’d been told the Senate had expelled him and his family disowned him – tried not to shake with fear as he was wheeled into the tiny chamber. His guards didn’t trust him not to try to kill himself, it seemed; they’d wrapped him in a straitjacket and shackled him to a wheelchair every time they’d taken him out of the cell. He’d tried to insist that he needed a lawyer, and then he’d tried to bribe the guards, but it was useless. They hadn’t even allowed him to write to his family.

“Why?”

Thaddeus looked up, shocked. The President sat facing him, arms resting on his lap. His eyes were dark, intense. “Why?”

“I ...” Thaddeus had no answer. “I ...”

“I saw the videos,” President Hernandez said, coldly. “You. A child. A very definite child. Children, rather. Why?”

“Deepfakes,” Thaddeus managed. It had been a common excuse before the war, all the more so now the government was confronted by the sheer perfection of the Protectorate’s deepfakes. Sorting the innocent from the guilty would be tricky without access to the enemy records and even so ... people would always wonder. “Faked by ...”

“They existed before we knew the Protectorate existed,” Hernandez said, cutting him off. “You did those things. You ... why?”

Thaddeus shook his head. He couldn’t put it into words. “I ...”

Hernandez leaned forward. “You could have come to me, when she contacted you,” he said, bluntly. “You could have earned a pardon. Instead ... how many people died because of you?”

“I couldn’t,” Thaddeus said.

“There’s a man not too far away who worked for us in Afghanistan,” Hernandez said. The raw anger in his tone made Thaddeus flinch. “He had a catamite. You know what that means? A young boy, dressed up as a parody of a girl, used as a sex slave. Fucking paedophilic asshole. And yet we gave him asylum, because he was useful and we owed him. You think we couldn’t have made a deal with you?”

Thaddeus shook his head. It wasn’t just that he doubted Hernandez would have kept his word, if it had ever been offered. The man had loudly protested the Afghan asylum scheme – it had been held against him when he’d tried to run for President – and Thaddeus doubted the refugees would be allowed to live in America much longer. It was that he couldn’t have taken the shame of being exposed, of having his family disown him and everyone else cut him dead. He just couldn’t. And now ...

He’d been close to the Presidency. His dreams had seemed within reach. And now they were gone.

“She’s vanished,” Hernandez said. “Where do you think she went?”

Thaddeus shrugged. He had no idea. Catherine was smart and capable and she’d taken ruthless advantage of his network of clients while she’d had the chance. She could be anywhere. Perhaps she’d made it down south in time to take part in the final battle, perhaps she’d gone elsewhere. She certainly knew enough to get ID and everything else she needed to pass unnoticed. He didn’t know where she’d gone. If he had, he would have betrayed her.

He looked up, blinking away tears. “What now?”

Hernandez straightened. “It is my duty to tell you that your trial was held two days ago,” he said. “The five-man panel found you guilty of a number of crimes, including high treason and the rape of at least five minors. Sentence was passed immediately. Death.”

Thaddeus heard the door opening behind him. “You can’t ...”

“You made bad choices,” Hernandez said. Two men stepped into view, one carrying a medical case. “And then you made more bad choices. You could have been a hero. Instead, you allowed yourself to become a traitor. The worst kind of traitor. Your appeal was heard and summarily dismissed. It is time for you to make peace with yourself.”

“I ...” Thaddeus tried to struggle. The straitjacket held him firmly. “I can give you anything ... I can ...”

The executioner opened his sleeve, revealing bare flesh. Thaddeus panicked. It didn’t help.

“Please,” he pleaded. Tears came freely now. “Please ...”

“You enjoyed watching the boy beg, didn’t you?” Hernandez’s voice was as cold as ice, utterly unrelenting. “You got off on it. Didn’t you?”

“I get a last meal!” Thaddeus felt his bowels give way. “I get a priest! I get something ...”

“You get to die in a hole,” Hernandez said. There was no mercy in his tone, just a hint of sick pleasure in watching the condemned man’s final moments. “Burn in hell.”

Thaddeus felt a prick. Something cold entered his arm. The world started to blur, everything slowly fading away. The President’s face, cold and hard, was the last thing he saw ...

And then he was gone.

 

Finally a story with a big shot not weaseling out of his punishment

 

Chapter Forty: Washington DC, USA, Timeline F (OTL)

The Oval Office felt ... wrong.

Felix took a moment to compose himself as he sat behind the desk ... the new desk. The old desk had been shattered in the fighting, the remains cleared away in the aftermath of the attack that had kidnapped and killed President Hamlin. The new one was modern, although the computer he’d requested had been removed in the wake of the war and replaced with an older system the techs swore blind was safe from enemy infiltration, Felix hadn’t kicked up a fuss. It would be a long time before anyone blindly trusted their computers again. The war had left just too many scars.

He sighed, shaking his head as he waited. The war had left utter chaos in its wake too. Texas, New Mexico, Nevada and California were still largely under martial law, as the government tried desperately to restore order after the invaders surrendered. The once-proud road and rail network was in ruins, making it hard to get food from the farms to the people who needed it; the farmers too were in crisis, their carefully-maintained systems in ruins thanks to computer hackers and missile strikes. The global economy had practically ceased to exist ... Felix felt a twinge of sympathy for Andrew Johnston, utter coward and traitor though he’d been. The problems of Reconstruction had dwarfed the problems of fighting the Civil War. No wonder he’d fallen and fallen hard.

“Mr President,” his secretary said. “Foreign Minister Yuri Romanov has arrived.”

Felix nodded, composing himself with an effort. “Send him in.”

He kept his face a blank mask as Romanov was shown into the office, his face difficult – almost impossible – to read. The Russian had been reluctant to fly to the United States, unsurprisingly, and the whole visit was being kept as quiet as possible. The Russian embassy had been stormed by a mob, when the news broke about Russian atrocities, and a handful of other places had been burnt to the ground. Felix had condemned the violence and a number of rioters had been arrested, but it was difficult to believe they’d be convicted. Anti-Russian feeling was so strong it was quite likely the jury would acquit without hesitation.

“Mr President,” Romanov said. His English was good, only a faint accent in his words. “Congratulations on your victory.”

Felix pointed to a chair, silently indicating the Russian should sit. Romanov’s eyes narrowed as he sat, clearly aware it wasn’t going to be a boilerplate diplomatic meeting. Felix would be surprised if Romanov had ever felt otherwise. He’d spent most of his career in a political snake pit, one that could turn nasty with terrifying speed. Romanov was a good judge of a situation. He had to be.

“I’ll make this quick,” Felix said. “Your country allied with the invaders of our country. Your country sent upwards of twenty thousand troops to fight alongside those invaders. That is, by any reasonable standard, an act of war. Those troops also committed atrocities against American civilians, atrocities that were not only against the laws of war as they are commonly understood but also against the Protectorate’s articles of war. The Protectorate itself executed a number of your troops for breaking their rules. There is no doubt about the facts. None at all.”

He met Romanov’s eyes. “There is a case to be made that you betrayed the entire world,” he said. “Was whatever they offered you worth it?”

“It was our belief that working with them would allow us to gain time to study their technology, device defences and countermeasures, and prepare for the inevitable conflict,” Romanov said, tonelessly. “It was also our belief that the United States was and remains and irredeemably hostile country, backing our enemies and weakening our economy in a manner no American government would tolerate for a moment. Nor are we alone in this. The Chinese, Mexicans, Cubans and many others agreed.”

Felix couldn’t tell if Romanov believed what he was saying or not. It didn’t matter.

“The Chinese Civil War has thrown up, so far, six different governments claiming control over all of Mainland China,” Felix said. The CIA’s assets in the country had been practically wiped out, making it hard to get any solid information. “We’ll deal with the other countries that declared against us in due time. Right now, we are dealing with you.”

“I see,” Romanov said.

Felix leaned forward. “We took two hundred and seventy Russians into custody after the Protectorate surrendered,” he said. “They will be held until we determine if they are guilty of war crimes. If so, they will be hanged. If not, they will likely be returned to you. What happens afterwards is not our concern.”

Romanov nodded, a hint of relief crossing his face. Felix hid his amusement. The Russian was going to regret that.

“You committed an act of war against us,” Felix continued. “And that comes with a price.”

He went on before Romanov could interrupt. “We have captured many pieces of Protectorate weaponry, including antiballistic weapons platforms, flyers capable of circumventing the entire globe and a number of others. Those weapons have been redeployed to bases in Poland and Eastern Europe, as well as our coastlines and northern bases. We killed a number of your submarines during the fighting and we have your submarine pens blockaded. Your ability to threaten us and our European allies with nuclear strikes has been sharply reduced. I would go so far as to say it is non-existent.”

Romanov said nothing. But his mind was clearly racing.

“You have two options,” Felix said. “You will end the war in Ukraine. You will pull back to your borders, the 2014 borders. Sevastopol will become an independent city-state; the remainder of the territory will be returned to Ukraine. Ethnic Russians living within the territory will have the choice between swearing loyalty to Ukraine or being transferred to Russia or Sevastopol. You will cooperate fully in removing minefields, clearing battlefields of unexploded munitions and so on. If you agree to these terms and carry them out without demur, we will relax sanctions and give you a chance to rebuild your tottering economy.”

“You ...” Romanov caught himself. “And if we refuse?”

“You will be removed by force,” Felix said, bluntly. “We’ll use both American and Protectorate technology to drive you out of the region. Your ability to stop us without using tactical nukes will be very limited and, if you do so, we will retaliate in kind. We will continue the war until you are not only driven out, but Russia gets a government that actually cares about its people. I trust that answers your question?”

Romanov said nothing for a long moment. “I will have to consult with my government,” he said, finally. “What about the Chinese? Or the Mexicans?”

“We’ll see what emerges from the Chinese Civil War,” Felix said. “And as for the Mexicans ... we’ll deal with them too.”

“Really.”

Felix looked Romanov in the eye. “You sided against us. You sent troops to fight against us. Those troops committed atrocities. The population out there” – he jerked a hand at the window – “wants blood. You will be punished. And that punishment is going to hurt. You can choose to accept it, if you wish, or fight. You have one week to decide.”

“I will have to consult with my government,” Romanov said. He stood, brushing down his suit. “You are not a very diplomatic man.”

“No,” Felix agreed. “I never claimed to be.”

He watched Romanov leave, the Russian trying to maintain his dignity in the face of Felix’s demands. It wasn’t clear which way the Russians would jump ... Felix hoped, despite himself, that they would concede their holdings in Ukraine without a fight. Their offensive had bogged down, again, and the government was unsteady ... no matter. Felix knew what was brewing, knew he had little time before the emergency elections were completed and newly-elected Senators and Congressmen took their seats. He had to get out in front, to lead the charge, or be trampled beneath the feet of everyone who wanted bloody revenge. If the Russians didn’t concede without a fight ...

We’ll see, he thought, numbly. Right now, there are far too many other problems.

***

“I hear you’re running for office,” Cozort said, once the service came to an end. “Can I vote for you?”

“Not unless you live in Texas,” Callam teased. He’d been surprised when the younger man had asked him to join them, after he’d been invited to the service. “The election will be the safest in years.”

“Always a good thing,” Colin agreed. “I never did trust those voting machines.”

Callam nodded, torn between amusement and a grim awareness the world would never be the same. Texas had been devastated. The bigger cities had fallen into anarchy as Protectorate rule collapsed, while the smaller ones had isolated themselves as much as possible or simply been abandoned as chaos spilled out into the countryside. The border had been open until the military had shut it with extreme force, allowing uncounted numbers of illegal immigrants into the country, and with the destruction of many public records it was tricky to tell who was truly legal or not. Vast numbers of people were starving, while others ... he shuddered. The nukes had been fired for a good cause, no doubt about it, but they’d left a mark that wouldn’t soon fade. And that was just the beginning.

Cozort gave him a sidelong glance. “Why you?”

“It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it,” Callam said. “Knowing my father’s name is no longer disqualifying.”

He shook his head. “Texas was failed, Colin. America was failed. The politicians fucked around up here, while the ordinary people struggled under the weight of bureaucratic nonsense, political correctness and other silly ideas that simply don’t work in the real world. It wouldn’t have been so easy for the Protectorate to convince so many to sign up if the government hadn’t fucked them over first. Even Sally ...”

His face darkened. He understood the logic behind sending Sally Luanne and the others like her into exile, but he didn’t like it. He suspected he never would.

“Someone has to speak for the real people,” he said. The Protectorate’s final spasm had wiped out much of the party machinery, killing the leaders and leaving their subjects in disarray. There were opportunities, for a man who cared about his country, And for a man who was a war hero. “If I don’t, who will?”

“I wish you luck,” Cozort said, sincerely. “Even if you have gone to the Dark Side.”

Callam snorted. “Bastard.”

They stood together, enjoying a moment of comradely silence, before Cozort broke it. “I have to get back to the Pentagon,” he said, seriously. “Good luck with your campaign.”

Callam nodded, feeling cold as the younger man walked away. Nothing would be the same again. Too many people were dead or missing, too many others send into exile or hanged before troops could take them into custody. Two-thirds of Flint’s original population were just gone, their ultimate fates unknown. He didn’t know how many people had died in the fighting, directly or indirectly, and he suspected he never would. The war had only lasted nine months and yet it had been the most devastating war in American history. Only the Civil War came close.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to remember names and faces. There were just too many, from his friends and comrades from before the war to the man he’d arrested – repeatedly – for speeding ... where were they now? Alive? Dead? He might never know. That was the true cost of the war, when all was said and done. Dead men and women – and survivors who might, sometimes, envy the dead.

Callam took a long breath, then opened his eyes and started to walk. It was time to go back to work.

***

“Thank you for coming, Mr Cozort,” President Hernandez said.

“Thank you, Mr President,” Colin said. He wasn’t quite sure where he stood now. His old post in the Exotic Tech Division had been put aside when the war began, while he’d been given responsibilities that had been somewhere well above his pay grade. “It’s good to be back.”

Hernandez nodded, his eyes lingering on Colin even as his mind was clearly elsewhere. Colin couldn’t help feeling sorry for the older man. He’d seen enough of the chaos gripping the United States to know it had to be far worse for the man in charge, the man who would be blamed for everything even though it wasn’t remotely his fault. Hernandez was incredibly popular at the moment, the President who had steered America to victory ... but the public was fickle and that wouldn’t last. He’d be Public Enemy Number One when the next crisis hit and there was no way around it.

“I have a question,” Hernandez said, shortly. “What are the chances of another invasion?”

Colin hesitated. That was something that had barely been discussed, although it was a very real concern. There was no reason the Protectorate couldn’t rotate another fortress into the United States, or another country; hell, there was no reason another timeline couldn’t launch an invasion of its own. The Protectorate had assumed it was the only technological society in the multiverse, but that was clearly untrue. Colin could easily imagine everything from a Victorious Nazi Germany timeline to one dominated by dwarf Japanese pirates. If they decided to invade too ...

“Impossible to say,” he said, finally. “The Protectorate may assume we are too strong to invade and give up, or they might assume we’re a permanent threat and try again. Our captives don’t know. It’s never happened before. And if there is a third technological society out there ... it’s unpredictable. The day after tomorrow, Mr President, we could be invaded by intelligent dinosaurs. We just don’t know.”

“Quite.” President Hernandez studied him for a long moment. “Right now, I have vast power and considerable freedom of action. That will change, as new elections are held and opposition gets organised, but for the moment I can get a lot done without having to forge a political consensus by fair means or foul. We will be putting together a new agency to handle crosstime matters, including the development of our own crosstime technology and countermeasures to enemy crosstime technology. I would like you to head the agency.”

“A Stargate program,” Colin said. “Right?”

“Perhaps,” Hernandez agreed. “I watched the movie. Never saw the series.”

He leaned forward. “The country is in a mess. Another invasion will break us. We need to learn as fast as possible, to come up with our own technology and countermeasures before it is too late. You’ll have full access to everything we captured, including Protectorate personnel who have accepted our offer of citizenship, and a sizable budget. We need results.”

Colin nodded, slowly. “There’s no way to guarantee a breakthrough,” he said. The challenge thrilled him, but it was also worrying. “Not on any sort of timescale. Developing the theory for crosstime traffic is only the beginning. Actually producing any sort of viable technology will take longer.”

“But knowing that something is possible is half the battle,” Hernandez said. “I understand your problem, but the Protectorate is still out there. A new invasion could come at any moment. We have to be ready.”

“I understand, Mr President,” Colin said. “I won’t let you down.”

“Good,” Hernandez said. “Miss Steele will coordinate from the Reservation. She agreed to remain as a liaison officer. Your former charges will, hopefully, play a role.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Colin said. Martín Cortés and the others had abandoned the Protectorate completely. They wouldn’t want the next invasion to succeed. “But like I said, there’s no way I can give you a timetable.”

“I know,” Hernandez agreed. “Just remember. The Protectorate is still out there.”

Epilogue: Timeline A (Protectorate Homeworld)

“If the analysts are to be believed, there was a brief attempt to open a gate from Timeline F,” Protector Horace Jarvis said. “The attempt cut off abruptly and that was that.”

He paused. “What do we do now?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment. The Protectorate didn’t lose. It certainly didn’t lose to degenerate primitives who’d never developed fusion power or antigravity generators, primitives too foolish to develop a proper space program or too cowardly to give their enemies a thermonuclear thrashing. Montrose was an aggressive commander, with a cause that should have spoken to all ... and yet, if the data was correct, he’d lost. The war was over.

“We may have underestimated the ... Americans,” Protector Julianne Rigby conceded, coldly, “Or perhaps we missed a far more ... understandable ... superpower in their world.”

“Perhaps,” Protector John Hotham said. “What do we do now?”

Julianne considered the problem for a long moment. The Protectorate prided itself on facing the truth squarely, no matter how painful. There was no way to hide the scale of the defeat even if they wanted to try, not with two entire fortresses and nearly a million trained and experienced men missing, presumed dead. The operation had failed and, in doing so, it had revealed the existence of the Protectorate to another technological society. If the Americans were the clients of a more powerful society – or even if things were exactly as the captured data suggested – they now knew crosstime was possible. It was just a matter of time before they developed Crosstime Transpositioners and Gates for themselves, just a matter of time before they came looking for the Protectorate. The multiverse was vast, with a near-infinite number of potential timelines, but it was possible to zero in on one particular universe. If the Americans invaded ...

Or even if they start setting up bases of their own in alternate timelines, she reflected. We could find ourselves outflanked very quickly.

“We must prepare to launch the next invasion,” Jarvis said. “First, we cannot allow a perception of weakness to spread. It will undermine confidence in our system while giving false hope to the degenerates. We may have lost this particular battle, but the war is far from over.”

He paused. “And second, they know about us now,” he added, echoing Julianne’s earlier thoughts. “How long do we have until they invade our world?”

“Difficult to say,” Julianne said. “It took nearly twenty years for us to move from crosstime theory to practice. Them? Who can tell?”

The discussion lasted for nearly two hours, but all three of them knew what the outcome would be before the meeting finally came to an end. The war could not be allowed to end with anything less than victory, all the more so given the risk of a technological society reaching the homeworld. They would do whatever it took to regain their supremacy, whatever the cost. The war would pause, for a while, but it would begin again.

And next time, it would be different.

Next time, victory would be theirs.

The End

 

Hi, everyone

I hope you enjoyed reading the story. I’m sorry about the slow production, although I did manage a nice run from Sunday to Thursday, and I hope I made up for that in quality. (Please don’t spoil my illusions <grin>.)

Anyway, if you have any comments, suggestions, corrections, et cetera, please don’t hesitate to offer them. Like I mentioned earlier (I think) I do intend to do a collection of short stories and interviews and suchlike (such as World War Z) for this universe; if you have any suggestions for that, or want to write any, please feel free to post these suggestions here or get in touch.

I’d also like to remind you that you can side up for my substack here (chrishanger | Substack) and my mailing list here (List information - chrishanger@chrishanger.simplelists.com | Simplelists). Updates on this book will be published through both.

Thank you, once again

Chris

 

Good story,well written. Bought the first two books on kindle, was always looking for the third and was amazed finding it on this site. Big fan of your writing ability,I have none.