Mangor Wars: Genesis

“If you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.”

- Theodore Roosevelt

“In his retort, the alchemist repeats the work of Nature.”

- Jim Morrison

“It’s all about today. Yesterday? That capital depreciates. Tomorrow? You have to get through today first. Who knows if tomorrow will even be a concern?”

• Unknown Mangorian scholar

****Excerpt from My Trials: From Poverty to Party Leader****

My father gifted me life twice: first, when I was conceived and second, when he died gloriously on the battlefield. The first, I cannot pass blame; the second has caused me no end of living in his shadow and instilled a hunger to make my own mark on what I now concede is an inevitable path. Is that a gift, or is that a curse? I am Mangorian, and for that, I will die—everything I do for the glory and right of Mangor. We will not advance until we remove the parasites to our north and eliminate the dinroaches in our midst. I had done the impossible, and now those in power fear what I am and what I mean for Mangor’s future. So be it. Fire is necessary to burn out weeds and unruly foliage to permit new growth in soil fertilized by the past. Traitors amongst us will pay the ultimate price and our day fast approaches.

Aiden Halter, Conrow Prison, 1924

****Orotich 14, 1936 - New Bern City****

Aiden Halter stared at the desk where folders, pens, and rubble congregated in piles. The field telephone, long dead, sat abandoned. The red telephone remained ignored by Halter. Paperwork, dutifully signed and stamped, awaited his clerk, Marich, to take orders to the front lines that several months ago resided miles away from New Bern and now nested directly outside the palace. With no field telephones in operation, messengers offered the only way to get information to commanding officers holding back the enemy. How had things gone so wrong? With a bloody vengeance, Ptero-spitfires bombed and strafed the city with machine guns. Citizens and soldiers died regardless of wealth or party affiliation. With frightening accuracy, direct hits left gaping holes in the once proud People’s Palace, home to Halter as Mangor’s Hetmun and ruler. The new normal involved dodging potholes and keeping eyes on the sky. Air raid sirens served as an almost constant backdrop to the ongoing noise of the war. As if to mock the point, Halter observed a small, harmless dino flap its way into the office from a hole in the wall, looked around, labelled this area boring, and flew back out. How had it all gone so wrong?

A coughing fit burned his lungs. Holding a handkerchief to his mouth until the fit subsided. Red blood speckles created new stains. Small, yes, but still concerning. Glancing at the folio containing his Kanich-prescribed medicines, syringes with green liquid and tiny, red pills, the limited inventory meant only the most pressing attack required attention. For now, Halter could not justify depleting his limited reserves. Wiping his mouth, he continued filling out forms approving troop movements and signed off on all battery inventory to be used as needed by direct commanders. How much E-juice these contained would be a surprise to everyone. Glancing out the window, he wondered if his friend and former Commander Ferring, Supreme Commander to Mangorian forces, still lived. For the fate of Mangor, Halter hoped the most celebrated soldier would fight on. Another explosion shook the palace, jarring his thoughts.

Mighty Mangor and its capital New Bern, were once again brought to their knees and begging for more. Fifty years ago, the Confederate Free Cities (CFC) conquered northern Mangor and could have rolled over the entire continent until Hetmun Laden negotiated a miracle peace. Not long after, history repeated itself as Halter’s own father died a war hero in the border conflicts, dubbed as the Jack-Sher Border War; the two largest CFC cities, Jackston and Shermanton to the north, allied against Mangor. Apparently, Mangor never learned. Halter, a self-taught historian, could not reconcile his vision and contemporary circumstances. Mostly sheltered from the day-to-day due to Hetmun’s duties, he could no longer ignore the protests in the street, food riots, and citizen deaths from numerous attacks. Marich, amongst others, buffered the information and took on the pains of the citizens to focus Halter’s efforts on the overall strategy.

Outside, Mangorian troops desperately threw flack and missiles in futile attempts, though the sharp cry of an injured Ptero-spitfire falling to the ground sent great cheers through the ranks. Halter recalled a recent report outlining an injured CFC pilot pulled to safety and then hung in a local square for all to see. Machine gun fire increased near the Kanich Factory, and Halter peered out the window with an old pair of opera glasses to examine the eastern part of New Bern. Despite the heavy grime on the nearly shattered window, Halter spied entrenched Mangorian forces pushing back a frontal CFC attack. Several Raptor Riders from the CFC charged forward to try and dislodge their foes, only to be cut down by subsequent machine guns, small arms fire, and what appeared to be an Apostle raining down lightning on charging troops. Smoke hung heavy, and Halter heard Raptors screeching to their handlers for a merciful death.

The Mangorians retreated into their trenches, the muck and blood further camouflaging them in already drab olive outfits stained beyond intent. The CFC soldiers, a blend of humans and Kanich-manufactured Tagrems who served as CFC laborers, crawled back to their lines, the crimson-butternut uniforms only turning blacker from the soil and gore. Spiked helmets moved about both trenches and looked like small dinoroaches from this distance, skittering around for food. No doubt Mangorian troops would relish a full meal, as would Halter, who had not seen a steady source of food for some time. Several cookfires and supply lines fed the CFC forces, and Halter drooled with envy. How long had it been since he had eaten? And did a bowel of the bone broth really count?

“My Hetmun,” the soft voice called Halter back to current affairs. Putting the glasses down, he turned to his clerk, who shouted and saluted, “Death to Others, my Hetmun!”

Marich, flawlessly loyal, snapped his fist to the middle of his chest, knuckles pointed up, and his fist pressed firmly into his sternum as if stabbing himself to death. The archaic display hearkened back to Mangor’s beginning when Caliph Antonine adopted the salute to show supreme dedication as if saying, ‘I would rather kill myself than dishonor you.’ Over time, the salute took a more lax approach, where soldiers placed the fist high across the chest. To the audience’s surprise, Halter resurrected the original acknowledgment early on at MWP rallies. As the MWP gained power, the salute stuck. Halter returned the salute and motioned for Marich to continue. Marich, ever one for a ceremony and a true administrator down to his bones, served and reported only to Halter. As Halter’s secretary, Marich worked in a role that fits him better than any other.

“My Hetmun, Vice Hetmun Schuler is here, and the escort has arrived. May I take you to them?” several bags surrounded Marich, no doubt supplies, clothes, and any valuables that may serve Halter’s exile. Marich thought of everything.

Halter picked up the red telephone handset. Marich, eyes wide, watched. The phone automatically rang its partner. “Yes, my Hetmun?” the Kanich’s gravelly voice on the other end, calm and dedicated.

“Dr. Zabo, commence Operation ‘Welcome Home.’”

“As you command, my Hetmun. The Havocs will be released.”

“How are the other experiments?”

“Going exactly as planned. You will find them awaiting you.” Halter could feel Dr. Zabo smiling on the other end.

“Excellent. Please, get to safety. Can you reach Commander Ferring? Yes? Good. I will alert the Vice Hetmun. Thank you, Doctor.”

“My Hetmun,” the line ended.

That done and plans irrevocably in motion, Halter began his exile. Halter took one final look at the office. How had it come to this? Grabbing the folio of Kanich medicine, Halter pointed to several documents. “Orders are on the desk. I released the remaining battery supplies so the Booster Backs could assist with a final defense. The commanders are also permitted to use whatever other batteries they deem necessary. The western forces can supply the eastern zone, and I’ve arranged for two Spino-shooter divisions and one Steggo-tank to complement additional field pieces. If anything, we’ll have them smash themselves against a wall.” How hard he had fought to get here. The years of serving, the years of crawling up, the years of devotion – miscalculations unraveling all efforts.

“Yes, my Hetmun,” Marich delicately collected the requisite orders.

Marich caught up to Halter’s quick pace, bags swaying with each step. Centuries of Mangorian civilization begged for protection - vases, paintings, busts - all soon-to-be fodder for looters and probably a final fire to the Peoples’ Palace to settle Mangor’s demise. Halter stopped before a celebrated piece by Bochitolvi, a romanticist who relished lines and unresolved loops. Glancing at Bochitolvi, bewitching you with the pathways, this madwoman decided to express her unrequited love for General Myzankol, a romance and one certainly out of place now. A coughing fit about to overtake him, Halter fought through as the palace shook with a direct hit, rubble congregating with others amongst the floors. Halter closed his eyes as two vases from the time of Hetmun Ratilian, over one-hundred years ago, shattered. Irreplaceable!

Steadying himself, Halter picked up the pace, coughing more specks of blood, and spotted Schuler at the base of the stairs, an armed entourage at the ready. As soon as Halter rounded down the steps, all snapped to attention and in unison, “Death to Others, my Hetmun!” their voices dripped with power and love, daring any bombs to shatter their resolve. Halter thought of those maddening lines and loops. “Do me a favor, Marich.”

“My Hetmun, at once!” He placed the bags at his feet.

“The Bochitolvi - please take that down. I would like to spare it from any harm.”

“Yes, my Hetmun!” Marich saluted and ran back up the stairs, another bombardment failing to stop his momentum. Pieces of stucco rained down on the group.

“Hetmun,” Schuler stepped up and, with sad eyes, considered his long-time friend. Schuler, seeing the cloth bespectacled with blood, looked concerned. Putting the cloth away and ignoring Schuler’s expression, Halter embraced him, and both men took strength from each other. Schuler’s normally meticulous beard was now unkempt, and his shabbier-than-normal clothes appeared two generations behind in style and noticeably dirty. Well, none of that could be helped now. Pulling back to consider Halter, “We will hold as long as we can. Those I have with me,” nodding to the Vice Hetmun’s SS guards, “will stand.”

Knowing this to be true, Halter turned to the SS unit. All, once again, snapped to attention and saluted in unison. “My fellow citizens, you serve Mangor well. You are children of Mangor, warriors of Mangor! Your blood is the blood of the mighty. May your final moments be valiant, and may you surround yourselves with the corpses of your enemies.” Unsure of what else to say and hoping this would comfort them, Halter saluted with “Death to Others!” echoed back from the elite guards. How they maintained such loyalty staggered Halter. He had to have done something right here, yes? How had this all gone so wrong?

Another SS unit approached, headed by Heydrich, who had served as Chief of Halter’s Secret Service from the beginning. Another sharp blast rattled the palace, dust and stucco blanketing the group in gray powder. Shattering glass echoed from another room, a direct hit, no doubt. Unflinching, everyone shifted to their teams to prepare for the next phase. Marich, a little rattled, appeared with the painting, neither he nor the painting damaged. Halter took the painting and directed Marich to use some wrapping left over from another packaging to protect the artwork.

Schuler looked everyone over and knew Halter needed to get moving, “For Mangor! Death to Others!” everyone saluted. Schuler once more embraced his friend, “Another time, my brother, another time. All will work out. They must!” looking around, “We still have work to do.”

“Shouldn’t I be telling you this?” Taking him by the arm, Halter led Schuler to the side and away from earshot. “I’ve called in several backup forces and released all batteries. Copies are on the desk.” Halter saw Marich handing out several copies to messengers who quickly ran to the front, “Also,” looking back at the others who stood a distance away for privacy, “Operation Welcome Home has begun.”

Schuler, eyes wide, “And the…”

“All released. Some will go ahead as planned.”

“As we discussed. Just get to safety and alert us when you are there. We’ll continue the fight. You know that. This is too important not to see through - this is a hurdle, a challenge, another phase.” The two men had fought war and death in the trenches, negotiations, and collaboration in politically charged backrooms for years. The trenches were made simpler as the enemies were obvious. Politics? Enemies hid in plain sight.

Schuler and Halter fully understood each other and deeply doubted they would meet again. “Please use caution, and I order you,” Halter emphasized, “do not throw your life away. You know the plan - let it come to fruition and let Dr. Zabo do what he needs,” his eyes directly on Schuler. “Fight for Mangor. Be smart. When I get to where I’m going, I’ll notify you so we can rejoin later. Until then . . .” With nothing left to say, he saluted the room and marched out with Heydrich.

I’ve left New Bern before. And I came back. Halter struggled to convince himself. Another direct hit on the palace darkened thoughts about the future.

Schuler watched until his Hetmun, his dear friend, a brother deeper than blood, hopefully made his way to safety and maintain the next phase of Mangorian rule - the Iron Revolution. He owed Halter his life. Memories of that day years ago brought all the pain back and fueled the flames of Schuler’s resolve. He was startled as a bomb toppled one of the beautiful and original minarets above and turned to consider the remaining vestiges of Halter’s regime. May they all be victorious. Death to others!

****Exile Again – Day 1, New Bern****

The palace took another hit, this time upstairs, as several windows shattered. Small arms fire, shrieking dinosaurs, and machine gun bursts crept closer and closer. The SS surrounded Halter. Nothing but a direct hit in their ranks would cause any to break away, and even then, Halter wondered if shattered bodies and bloody parts wouldn’t still climb to his side and escort him to safety. Why the SS moniker? Outsiders thought it stood for “Secret Service,” yet, the acronym referred to all agents who received the Kanich specialty crafted pistol, the Sidewinder Sweeper, now just for Mangor, which was easier to simply dub SS. It just so happened the initials took on several meanings. Halter glanced at Heydrich, cigar nestled to one side of his mouth, his eyes ahead like a Megalodon about to spring on an Ichthyosaurus. Those sidearms, Halter knew from experience, could cut down a squadron of soldiers at once. In the hands of the SS Agent, the ballet of death and bullets would stop anything from a successful assassination attempt. The Kanich firearm was specially designed for each agent, paired to their blood type, and injected special chemicals that granted near Apostle reflexes. As gunfire increased, Halter struggled to convince himself of their strength.

The back rooms, clear of debris and rubble, the group easily exited the palace and hastened down the large stone steps encircled by a large balcony. Designed over one-hundred years ago, this space held rallies and state galas to increase the palace coffers and to celebrate New Bern Day. While Babs, the prior Hetmun, used this space for more machinations and money grabbing, Halter preached from these steps to the ever-faithful and relaxed in the gardens that dominated the backspace of the palace grounds. Now, air attacks and spreading fires turned this once majestic garden into a blackened wasteland. How many New Bern Days had Halter and his friends spent here? No matter - the cost to maintain the gardens had become unwieldy. The attack, an ever-present symphony of death, diminished briefly as the group darted amongst small, smoldering fires feeding on the remaining vegetation.

As an emergency precaution, a hidden tunnel disguised as a large boulder sat between what was a copse of trees, now burned-out stumps unburdened of any foliage. Out of view, unless one knew where to look, the group ran towards the opening. Halter took one final glance and confirmed the palace burned, and while the air attack had let up, he could see the majority of New Bern engulfed in flames.

“Hetmun, please,” Heydrich awaited at the entrance. Halter ducked in with his SS guard following. Hearing Heydrich address him as such was always unnerving and cemented Halter’s recognition that Mangor loved its Hetmun.

Despite protests, Marich struggled with the bags and painting, and Halter took a few from his hands. The group stopped as Halter suffered another coughing fit, waiving away Marich’s desire to carry all the bags and irritated at his ailment. After the entrance is sealed, SS agents lead the way with Halter framed in the middle. Unused for many years, mold, undergrowth, and plenty of dinsects created interesting sounds underfoot and a few missteps. The battle above, muffled and growing ever distant, diminished the deeper within. After several minutes of only boots crunching the ground, a juncture to the left and right caused a quick pause. Heydrich consulted his team and quickly took a left. If Halter’s geography served him, the Church of the Burned would not be far overhead, meaning an imminent exit from the city.

The Church usually established itself within the outskirts of any city, New Bern no exception. While priests enjoyed some patronage, the Church maintained the illusion of separation. Halter had certainly encouraged a distinction between Church and State. After all, he wanted citizens worshiping the Iron Revolution, not a distant and no doubt hyperbolic account of a drug-addled drifter who gathered a rag-tag bunch of believers to sit around and smoke and drink. Anyone who followed that nonsense infuriated Halter. While the New Bern elite blessed Halter with support and taxes, he knew these same rich individuals visited the Church to indulge and wallow in verse. If they wanted to believe in the Pilgrim, let them. Mueller transformed into an insufferable traitor and early on harbored enemies of the state. Her treachery cut deeper and more savagely than anyone besides Schuler understood.

As for the Ghishone and their Jayben’s Witnesses? Nothing but garbage. Halter shuddered at their shimmery skin and leech-like tendency to latch onto a city to embed their kind. Halter came from humble beginnings and proudly honored his father’s heroic sacrifice and his mother’s iron will for hard work. He maintained his pride as a Mangorian, not the blasted Shimmers who pretended Mangor patriotism nor any Ghishone impoverished CFC refugees begging for handouts. Mangor and other countries, the CFC included, slandered Ghishone by calling them Shimmers, insulting the shiny, bright splotches characteristically marking their skin. They never faithfully served Mangor, and no doubt lived similarly around Gii, soaking up resources and adapting to wherever they happened to squat. No better than dinroaches and traitors!

Halter recalled the Jackston War (Ten years ago – seems closer), where he served and suffocated in Schuler’s arms while desperately needed supplies and food for the front lines languishing in greedy Shimmers’ cellars. Their betrayal cost Mangor the war and spiraled the country into depression. Not that things were any better before the war. The traitors simply increased the additional desperation of Halter’s fellow workers. This only enraged Halter to further the Mangor Workers Party, MWP, and fight for his own kind to bring all traitors to justice. Justice visited sweetly against them all.

And that had been the argument from the beginning and one that many in Mangor rallied around - Mangor first, and all others a distant second. In fact, “Death to Others,” the clarion call of the Iron Revolution, encapsulated the events from the last decade and contextualized the Mangorian attitude.

Halter paused as another juncture halted their progress and took a deep breath to ward off another fit. Heydrich decided and continued to leave. Halter continued seething. If everyone else only knew how badly the Ghishone damaged Gii, Halter may have been able to expedite his plans and ensure Gii’s survival. Now? Recollecting, Halter lost track of time. Ausands…what a mess that had been. If only they had six more months . . .

“Hetmun, we must stop here for the moment.” Halter looked up and saw a dim light ahead. Unused to such physical exertions after many years, he placed a few bags down and wiped his brow with the back of his jacket. Keeping the cloth handy, Halter was thankful the smoke from above failed to penetrate the pathway below. Marich, equally winded, settled the rest of the bags. Slightly embarrassed as a shame to his younger, soldier self, Halter awaited the agents to return, listening intently; the battle seemed a world away. The CFC most certainly deployed assassins to scour all parts of the city. Confirming his suspicion, Halter heard a scuffle at the entrance, recognizing the situation soured as agents drew in closer to him.

Silent scuffling and a muffled scream echoed down the pathway. A few minutes later, Heydrich appeared. “Hetmun, the path is clear. Limited resistance, so we should make our way now. I’m sure these missing scouts will be backtracked quickly.”

Halter nodded in agreement and followed the group outside. In the distance, flashes of battle and fire washed over them, and for a moment, all stood to absorb the reality of the burning city. Citizen screams, and battle cries ebbed and flowed between shrieks from Pteros-spitfires above and Raptors running through ruins. Halter’s chest throbbed as distant war cries of “Mangor Forever! For my Hetmun!” bounced back to the group and prompted one agent to instinctively clip her boot heels and snap her fist to her chest. Proud of their devotion, Halter surveyed the distant battle and spotted a large Mangorian Steggo-tank unit crashing through the CFC front lines, the massive, armored tail sending squads of CFC troops sailing above the trenches. At the same time, Mangor sharpshooters picked off any stragglers. Well done. A large explosion sobered everyone back to reality. Was that Stock Street? His brave forces bought precious time.

An unknown voice, dripping with hatred, “Dinroaches indeed.”

The SS immediately fell into attack patterns. Heydrich fired shots where the voice originated, his eyes turning purple from the Kanich injection embedded in the gun handle. One agent grabbed Halter and pulled him away to continue their escape, Marich stumbling to catch up.

Deep laughter, “Dinroaches coming from the ground, dinroaches running from the fire, dinroaches scurrying away.” An Apostle stepped into the moonlight, both moons shining directly on the new figure like a spotlight.

A wash of bullets harmlessly slapped against him, and the Apostle waved a hand to send two agents flying back. Flipping to the side, Heydrich continued his barrage and called out for Halter to be spirited away. As if expecting such, the ground in front of Halter and the unnamed agent collapsed, cutting off any escape. Where is Vichmann? The agent shoved Halter away before he could fall and sacrificed herself as she disappeared into the cavernous hole.

“I’m going to take out Mangor now!” this Apostle, obviously disturbed by Mangorian politics, took personal umbrage. No Ghishone Apostles existed, and Halter’s quick glance could not confirm whether this attacker was a half-breed human and Ghishone - a Ghistain and a true tragedy upon Gii. Halter stood by his country, not ethics, though he wondered if the Apostle would enjoy any debate on the matter. A smoky figure popped into existence and landed on the ground, flexing pudgy arms. Barely three feet tall and with an overly large head, the thing ran at them. “Crush, my beauty, crush!” the Apostle pointed directly at Halter.

The Totem, an entity from another dimension called Phasm and under the control of the Apostle who summoned it to serve, took the command literally. An agent unnaturally dodged due to the Sidewinder serum and unleashed a barrage. The Totem grabbed at the agent and missed as the Totem’s prey leaped over, rolling to cover. Unrelenting, the Totem turned, and the unlucky agent dipped to the side and out of reach. Arms growing unnaturally, the smoke limbs snaked out and encircled the agent, pulling off a leg that arced blood into the air.

Heydrich redirected fire and pelted the white figure with numerous shots. The serum helped with performance and aim, yet the concoction would wear off and tire the agents from further exertions. Thankfully, the attack seemed to slow the Totem. Halter used the momentary distraction to make his way further from the encounter for a safer spot to collect himself.

Damn, the Pilgrim! Vichmann, where are you? Another SS Agent flipped into the air only to be engulfed by the Totem, who popped off the agent’s head drop and kicked it back into the catacombs, eyes still deeply purple and mouth agape. Another Totem manifested, appearing as a large lightning bolt, zapping anyone nearby. A few agents retreated towards Halter to try and create something of a defensive line. The unlucky ones burst into clouds of tiny, bluish fragments. Heydrich continued his barrage and rolled into a nearby ditch, dodging several lightning bolts and the white Totem trying to crush him.

Halter went for his sidearm and realized his own personal Sidewinder remained on his desk. Wonderful! The few surviving agents unleashed on the two Totems. One female SS firing from a defensive position disintegrated into a bluish cloud as the white Totem peeled off a leg from another agent. Down to four agents, including Heydrich, Halter considered making a run for it. The transport may be nearby, and he would rather take his chances than an assured death here. Another Totem popped into view and appeared to be nothing but glittering, yellow blades. This would not end well.

The Apostle turned quickly and raised his arms in a defensive ward against an unseen enemy, at least unseen to Halter. The lightning bolt disappeared, and the white creature dissipated with a final shot from an agent. The yellow blades remained and turned their attention to an incoming enemy. One of Vichmann’s M-Squad finally arrived. On cue, another Apostle slammed to the ground, causing a dust cloud and several chunks of soil to fly around her. Halter remembered an older serial movie where a hero Apostle always came to the rescue. What was the Apostle’s name? I can’t recall. Perhaps this Apostle had seen the same movie and took this time for the dramatic entry. The Agents, not missing a beat, rallied to Halter and continued the retreat. Halter looked back to see his rescuer transform into a giant T-Rex and snap down jaws on the other Apostle. He could have sworn he heard some kind of music crescendo. The Adventures of Miracle Woman! That was the movie. Whatever happened afterward, Halter lost sight as the agents pressed forward.

The path fell apart with numerous potholes and ditches from repeated bombings, thankfully creating defilade against prying eyes. Relieved, Halter reached the city wall and exited through the large iron gate. Awaiting the scouts and with no enemies in sight, Halter approached a carriage with two robust Raptors standing at the ready. “My Hetmun!” the driver snapped a salute. “I am honored to be at your service.” Heydrich stepped ahead of Halter and inspected the carriage for safety. Happy with the circumstances, Heydrich ordered two agents into the carriage and took his place with the driver.

“Snip, ho - off to the side, Kager - move on!” the drivers groomed their Raptors and crafted unique commands to ensure not just anyone could take control. With alacrity, the carriage sped off, dying New Bern drifting away. Why aren’t enemies here? That seemed a critical error for the CFC. Halter heard a sharp pop and jumped in his seat. The nearby agent waved off the concern and pointed to Halter’s side where the Apostle who came to the rescue earlier now hung onto the door. So, that ended in our favor. Miracle woman indeed! The carriage started to drive erratically, though no one seemed concerned. “Hetmun,” the agent beside him, “Pharaoh Vichmann is ahead with his Squad.” Oh, so that answers why there is no CFC presence. Halter buried his face into his handkerchief with a hacking attack, not wanting to acknowledge more blood. Perhaps an injection is necessary with all this smoke?

The carriage slowed down, and the Apostle jumped off to join her comrades. Vichmann approached the carriage, bloody and visibly exhausted. His small stature forced him to stand on the sidebar, his left arm in a makeshift sling and blood speckling his face. Halter, familiar with Vichmann’s core M-Squad, recognized some and realized new faces outnumbered the former. Vichmann’s status as Pharoah and serving as one of the leaders of the Decidio Family offered multiple employees and Apostles working for him.

“My Hetmun, we have secured this path. Apologize to have kept you in the dark and your security understaffed. This kept us much busier than I imagined, and I didn’t want to draw undo attention to you. This CFC army marches with less Apostles now,” Vichmann’s eyes flashed. This had been a heavy burden.

“As always, you have my gratitude. A bad fight?”

Vichmann’s expression turned painful and then receded back to normal, “Just an old friend I had to destroy.”

“Anyone I knew?”

“Agricola - the Beruvan. He was with me early on in New Bern.”

“I remember him. He betrayed you…us.” With increasing explosions in the background, “Are we safe to continue?” asked Halter.

“Yes, I’ll send one squad with you and send the remainder to Supreme Commander Ferring. I’ve already read reports that Steggo-tank units move forward, and Spino-shooters engage the front. I’ve seen the Booster Backs flying forward. If anything, you will be well on your way as the CFC smashes against the defense.” Somewhat embarrassed, “I’m not permitted to accompany you, at least, for now. My Apostles can only protect you from harm. I’ve asked and been declined to portal you to safety.” Vichmann, annoyed, considered his remaining followers, “They all wanted to go with you, and a few have suggested rebelling against whatever the Family mandates.” Halter and Vichmann appreciated the repercussions of not pressing. “For now, I’m overruling them.” Vichmann, far shorter than most, never let that affect him and stood in command, oozing power.

“My friend, I understand. I trust what steps you are taking. You don’t need to justify yourself to me.” The Cartel, the Firm, Apostles, Pharaohs - the names became interchangeable to the layperson. Halter knew more than most and still struggled to connect how The Families really functioned and exactly what they wanted. Apostles contracted themselves out and conducted business with relative immunity regardless of the task. If the Firm gained clout, resources, or cash, the ruling Pharaohs remained silent. War on this scale, though, could imbalance political connections. Vichmann may have to face off with colleagues to justify reducing CFC contracted Apostles. For now, all needed to play a political game, especially the Cartel.

Looking directly at Vichmann. “Operation Welcome Home has begun.”

Vichmann grinned, “Dr. Zabo, let me know. You will accomplish what we need. No doubt.”

Halter owed the Pharaoh so much, “I’m happy to be able to return the many favors.”

Vichmann, his eyes aflame, “No, my Hetmun. This is part of our plan. No favors here - not anymore. What I do now, I simply play the game. Soon, you’ll have more in your service. And the Iron Revolution will be where we need it to be.”

Gunfire and explosions disrupted the moment, shocking both men out of their thoughts. “In any case, you will be protected as best we can, my Hetmun.” Halter hoped no errant Apostle ended the war much earlier and melted whatever Iron Revolution they hoped to achieve.

“Your best…that’s all I’ve ever asked.”

****Some Distance From New Bern Front Lines****

Mazer collapsed onto the hard ground, panting and bleeding profusely. Wounded seemingly everywhere and unsure exactly of the full extent of his injuries, Mazer focused and simply listened. The battle of New Bern, away in the distance, would not trouble him for the moment, and his current surroundings offered no immediate threat. Thankfully, he detected no other Apostles in proximity. All Apostles could sense one another if nearby, like an ice shard in the back of the mind, though whether friend or foe could not be determined. True, Apostles could try to mask their presence with the right Totems, but Mazer thought this unlikely. Satisfied no one followed, Mazer leaned against a tree. He needed to collect himself and think about his next steps. He felt a wound split open in his side and grimaced with the pain, wetness soaking an already destroyed shirt and tattered jacket.

His entire M-Squad, the crew he belonged to, and the other squads that served his Deacon, Agricola, were gone, wiped out by that psychopath Vichmann and his Apostle brood. The last thing Agricola said before detonating was, “Find Halter. He’ll come this way!” Agricola’s ever-present Totem mask simply flashed, “Vengeance!” Mazer would miss the Beruvan terribly.

Mazer had one final trick in his Phasm bag and camouflaged against the rocks, escaping the chaos. Luck? Possibly. The Pilgrim? Doubtful. Agricola ordered enemy immobilization and containment. All seemed according to plan until Vichmann attacked. Outclassed by Vichmann? Most definitely. Mazer, an actual Apostle per his Firm’s guidelines and well below the ranks of Pharaoh, could only defend himself and his comrades to diffuse a total massacre. Vichmann had other plans. What was that called when you could count a victory but still call it a failure? A Purpla victory? Blood seeping into the ground settled the matter.

Mazer needed critical attention, and with no Kanich medical unit on hand, he snatched two healing injectables into his leg. Warmth and energy flooded his limbs, and the wound in his side sealed up enough for limited mobility. Any action would quickly break the wound open again. The energy helped Mazer focus, and he could now at least function without bleeding to death. While Agricola, at a Deacon level, could call forth a Totemic portal to a medical unit, such skill was beyond Mazer’s current reputation score and ability within Phasm.

Mazer slowed his breathing and held his fetish tight to his chest, surprised the fetish remained with the amount of damage the coat sustained. The fetish, a pewter cylinder no longer than his palm, felt cool and buzzed ever so lightly, Mazer’s power manifesting. Even though accessing Phasm left him prone, the world would slow down so that he could quickly regain consciousness if any attackers came along, though it would be a struggle. No other choices presented themselves.

To outsiders, he collapsed limply against the tree, his head falling to his chest. To Apostles, a snap, hiss, and grayish cloud encircled Mazer. Accustomed to the transition, Mazer ignored any nausea and discombobulation to establish his avatar in the grayish landscape. Mazer decided on a horrific combination of random bones (human, dinosaur, whatever), patches of hair, and standing approximately ten feet tall. For extra fun, Mazer opted for an elongated skeleton neck with a wrinkly baby face topping the end. Totems loved it, and competing Apostles shuddered. It worked well all around. His avatar, usually for defense and official duals in Phasm, would stand out like a beacon for any Apostles hunting Mazer. None of that could be helped now.

The world outside drifted to an almost pause. Mazer turned back for one final look before dipping fully into the grayish soup surrounding him. A few leaves hung slowly and crept their way to the ground. Feeling secure, he succumbed to the gray and floated in the misty miasma. The Totems felt the vibrations in the misty clouds, faces swarming around the Apostle for Mazer to consider and listen.

Mazer envisioned attack and defense, so several Totems exhibiting those abilities faded into view. Mazer’s experience and reputation to date failed to garner the best and brightest Totems. At his current level and reputation, Mazer attracted two lower-class Totems: Ix and Finx. While Ix served as inanimate and unintelligent objects, Finx offered additional services and demonstrated more intelligence, albeit not much. “Honorable, Totems – I come to you for negotiation and partnership. Please, come forward and identify your kind and price.” The same line never changed, and the protocol has been the same for generations. Who was Mazer to deviate? Thankfully, the pain from the other side dulled here, so no distractions diminished negotiations.

Four Totems emerged from the gray soup, all Ix level. Disappointed, Mazer required something to at least reduce incoming damage and keep him alive until he could get to a Kanich medic. One Totem served as a suit of armor, and the others resembled giant pills. The armor wrapped around his entire body and could deflect bullets and Totem projectiles for one hour of protection, so he needed to strategically activate. One pill provided unnatural strength and an hour in total time, while the other two pills seemed unsure of their exact nature, though one had a giant triceratops picture and the other showed clouds. With not much to go on, Mazer selected the armor and strength pill, having to part with much more than he could afford.

After closing the deal with the two Ix, the others drifted away. To Mazer’s surprise, three Finx stepped out of the gray mist. Curiosity? Finx remained within Mazer’s purview and reputation score, and these new options may be enticing yet out of his price range. After Mazer repeated the introduction, one Finx stepped forward and engaged Mazer. Finx, unlike Ix, could speak and did have a defined script: “Mighty Apostle, I come forward to offer my services. Let’s work to see how we both can benefit and develop a strong partnership.” The formalities closed, and the Finx and Mazer haggled.

Out of the three, Mazer could only afford two and dismissed the most expensive Finx, who could serve as a sort of mini bomb. While certainly a worthwhile and powerful Totem, Mazer’s current resources prohibited the expense, and he knew he could deploy the others more creatively. One Finx would create an earthen wall according to the surroundings, so Mazer would have a sand wall or dead wood barrier depending on what was handy for the Finx. True to form like most Totems, the Finx appeared like its ability, appearing as a brownish, wooden barricade. Both Totems agreed on three uses where Mazer would gift a bottle of wine, red and from southern Mangor, each day. Totems enjoyed sweeter wine. The Finx cackled with delight and took his place beside Mazer

The final Totem looked like a green, glowing ball, large enough that Mazer would need both hands to hold it. The Totem granted the ability to cast the Totem as a projectile, the ball would bounce to distract enemies, or it could be used to hit and potentially charm a person to commit one simple deed that Mazer commanded – drop your gun, run away, hit that guy – simple actions. The ball could be used twice a day, and Mazer had his choice of actions. This Totem also wanted a bottle of wine, though it seemed to favor the CFC region on a continent to the west. No matter – it will be a miracle if I survive to pay for any of this. Higher-level Apostles with loftier titles employed lower-level minions like Mazer to collect and manage these arrangements. Mazer was not there yet.

With no other resources to offer, Mazer collected his new team and emerged from Phasm. Normal onlookers saw a wounded man pull out of unconsciousness, while Apostles saw Phasm clouds disappear. Again, checking his surroundings and giving himself an all-clear, Mazer picked himself up slowly, ready to activate any Totem as needed. Where were the Kanich tents? Go towards and then around the battle? Maybe run into a CFC division? Mazer took it slow and plodded his way back. Let’s just hope these wounds stay closed and that Vichmann and his crew are nowhere around. I just need a Kanich tent.

****Battle of New Bern, Mangorian Front Lines****

“By the Pilgrim!” Supreme Commander Ferring hugged dirt as two barrages converted the former field command tent into a fiery whirlwind, two soldiers trapped inside screaming as their flesh melted. Just a few moments earlier, Ferring stood at the table and shook his head at a map that showed many more crimson-butternut troops and much less of the drab olive Mangorian soldiers. Ferring could still not fully conceive how far back his troops had been pushed. The additional Spino-shooters and Steggo-tank units kept the CFC at bay for the last few hours. Ferring sent in his elite Raptor Rangers to allow more New Bern citizens and government officials to escape safely.

Not that he could tell anyone. The field telephone, dead long before the command tent exploded, forced Ferring to lean on messengers, soldiers desperately needed to fight, not serve as mail carriers. Prior to the explosion, the red telephone reported Operation Welcome Home had commenced. If Dr. Zabo had any further news, Ferring would be just as surprised as the CFC.

Hunkered down with a spyglass, “With an endless supply of Taggers, how are we supposed to do this?” angrily shouting at no one in particular, Ferring did not expect an answer. Taggers, the awful slang term for the Tagrems, cursed the manufactured people who sprouted up from CFC Kanich factories with apparently no shortage in sight. Brutish and dumb - they made perfect CFC soldiers to simply overwhelm enemies. Though a similar build and height to humans, their bright green skin, fire-red hair, and blank white eyes fooled no one.

A high-pitched groan distracted Ferring from the wreck of his tent. A Mangorian Bronto-bomber command unit slung one last trench buster towards the CFC lines. A CFC sharpshooter struck the payload, producing a chain reaction that blew off a portion of the Bronto’s already damaged head. The Bronto bellowed one last time and flopped onto the field, another victim of the conflict and an additional broken body on a well-populated battlefield. The surviving soldiers set fire to the remaining munitions and retreated. Despite the cover, three soldiers crumpled onto the ground, perhaps the same sharpshooter scoring more hits.

Hearing a rumble, Ferring hunkered down, especially since a sharpshooter haunted the field. The ground shook again as two Tricero-turrets climbed over the final CFC embankment towards Mangor, scattering machine gun barrages across the lines. Wiping out an entire Mangor Spino-shooter crew, the troop corpses spun in the air as the munitions exploded, pieces of the Spino raining down in green, bloody chunks. The Tricero-turrets crew crawled over the dino in special harnesses, quickly reloading as the driver pushed the beasts forward. A few brave Mangorian soldiers focused fire on the turrets, bullets harmlessly deflected off the Tricero’s armor.

Ferring grabbed a nearby aid, who seemed in shock at the oncoming Triceros. A stem cigar hung from the corner of the aid’s mouth. Advertised as the “Fuel for the worker, the fuel that moves us,” the stems energized workers for long hours and came in handy for troopers pulling longer hours during combat. After imbibing the cigar, smokers would usually sleep like the dead after the stimulants washed out of their blood days later. Ferring could still hear the advertising jingle on the radio, “Tell the Vice Hetmun the field is lost, and the CFC will be pressing in shortly towards the palace. The additional units were overwhelmed!”

Machine gun fire screamed in nearby trenches, briefly interrupting Ferring, “I’ll do what I can to stall but will be in full retreat within the hour, if not sooner.” Two opposing Pteros-spitfires swept the field with machine guns and lobbed two hand bombs before climbing back to the smoky sky. The bombs whistled their way to the ground, though thankfully within a safe distance from Ferring. Unfortunately, both bombs annihilated a group of soldiers rebuffed from the Tricero units, their final screams snuffed out, “Grab two others and tell them the same! Go now!”

The nameless aid slung his rifle and snatched two other comrades. Per their training, all three ran in separate directions back to the palace. That damn sharpshooter, prescient as any good sniper should be, took out one messenger as the other two ran low and hopscotched through battlefield debris. Ferring, assured of the remaining messengers’ survival, decided to relocate.

As he scouted out a pathway, Ferring snapped his eyes to the northwestern section of the city, fearing the worst when hearing massive metal clangs and thuds followed by powerful Gatling guns. Pulling out his spyglass and staying low, Fucking snipers! Ice shot to his stomach. Two CFC Stonenauts thrust their way through dead dinos and barb-wired defenses. The CFC deployed less and less of these armored nightmares, the war was equally unkind to the northern enemy regarding shortages, and Mangor gained a monopoly hold on batteries energized with E-Juice. The manned suits offered impregnable protection against regular soldiers and provided versatile weaponry for the attackers. Specially trained dinos could engage them, and only then with a courageous handler and dino crew. Here? Now? This fresh attack mowed down Mangor’s line, and troops jumped back into trenches as one Stonenaut showered bullets as the other switched to a flame thrower.

To Ferring’s momentary elation, three Booster Backs flew in from behind Ferring and bombarded the two Stonenauts. Soldiers equipped with rocket boosters who could fly for brief periods of time and drop bombs, strafe soldiers, and deliver needed supplies came to be called Booster Backs early on in development. Equipped with helmets and steering gears on arms and legs, pilots made up most Booster Backs for those who desired something riskier than a Ptero-flyer. Ferring thought depleted supplies and limited energy batteries ground the Boosters. Obviously, not as these three demonstrated. Based on Kanich tech and patented by Mangor, Booster Backs leveled the field when Stonenauts and Scorchers entered the fray. One Booster hovered and sprayed both Stonenauts with machine guns that tore through armor, the pilot equipped with high-powered rounds. The other two dropped small grenades and whipped through the air too quickly for the Stonenauts to aim. You’d have to be suicidal to fly in those things. Pilgrim bless them!

Bright flashes drew his eyes towards the northeastern trenches. Now what? Sherman Scorchers unleashed fire along Mangor’s trenches, swathing nozzles of searing death to cascade across troops whose tortured screams quickly dissipated. Troops emblazoned in chemical fire climbed out of trenches and ran in fear. Some smart enough to roll on the ground tried to assist others as CFC soldiers aimed at easy targets. As planned, special Mangorian units blitzed fire deterrents and retardant powder, dousing the troops and ground, though a few fell as machine guns backed up the Scorchers’ approach. Ferring recognized the futility as some troops fell back on their own, and he knew, in less than an hour, the enemy would breach the palace. Thankfully, one unlucky Scorcher’s backpack unit exploded with a crack shot from a Mangorian officer. This attack scattered the remaining Scorchers as the backpack continued to fester and spit burning chemicals agnostically across the battlefield. The short-lived victory delayed the CFC press and allowed Mangor to pull back to a stronger trench.

The Booster Backs continued to barrage the Stonenauts. Not for long, though, as a Gatling gun pelted one Booster unmercifully and with frightening accuracy, sending the pilot to the ground. Changing tactics, one Stonenaut fired its own rocket jets, sending the Stonenaut arching up towards one of the Boosters, grappling the pilot in a metal embrace, and slamming them back to the ground. The remaining pilot continued to bombard the two Stonenauts. Whether brave or crazy, the tactic paid off as one Stonenaut suit burst into smoke, and the CFC pilot bailed out. Ferring lost sight of the battle of the suits after that.

“Lori!” Ferring’s aid was reloading a Gatling gun with the crew. Slapping down the final chamber, the rotor coughed back to life and spun-out bullets.

Lori acknowledged, “Yes, sir!” saluting no longer mattered. A rifle shot rang out, and Lori either ducked incredibly fast or was incredibly lucky.

“All out retreat. Back to the eastern quadrant and to the palace.” Motioning to another soldier as the Gatling gun rattled off speedy death, “Get the messenger rockets ready – immediately!” The soldier ran off as Ferring turned back to Lori. “How soon can we move? How embedded?”

Lori calculated quickly, exactly why Ferring hired him. “Four divisions can be pulled out now. Divisions 3 and 7 are cut off completely!”

As expected. Ferring studied the field.

The CFC surrounded 3 and 7 at the outset. That portion of the city fell almost instantly. “Order full retreat. Let’s have 6 hold the line here,” the nearest trench, “and cover us.” Unsure if they eluded sniper range, “And Lori…that sniper. . . I’m thinking to the north – that’s everyone who’s been hit so far.”

Nervously glancing in that direction, “Seems right sir. I’ll have Division 6 open up and spend all ammo as we move back, and we can regroup to the west near Stock Street.”

A massive explosion collapsed a portion of the Division 6 trench, entombing troops in dirt and frayed wood, weakening potential cover fire. Ferring looked over and saw a gaping hole where the Gatling gun used to be. Yep, time to get moving. “Lori, let’s go now!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Lori ran to the trench and leaped in, somehow finding an officer, and relayed the urgent instructions. As troops extracted themselves from the mud and others grabbed helping hands to break free of the sucking muck, the officer bellowed commands and took out her side-arm. The sharp officer’s whistle galvanized Division 6 to unleash everything at the CFC. And that’s our cue.

The CFC caught in a mid-charge found themselves having to drop down for cover and crawl back to their lines. Raptors and riders shrieked as small arms fired and Gatling guns shredded flesh. Division 6 crafted a wall of death as troops made their last stand. Lori bound out of the trench and returned to the crate near Ferring. Now decidedly lucky as another rifle shot missed, Lori tossed away the crate’s top hatch. Pulling out and setting up three message rockets into the ground, Lori lit them all. The rockets whooshed into the sky and exploded into blue and green coded messages that provided directions.

Ferring felt a collective vigor and intake of breath from the entire battlefield. As if returning from furlough, a renewed energy flowed through the troops to move towards the next phase and hopefully, a better outcome. After all, what had this gotten them so far besides mud, death, and wounds? Officer whistles pierced through trenches, and the troops shouted out battle cries as they vacated trenches and abandoned front lines. “Hetmun Halter! Mangor forever!” Ferring watched some troops ignore the retreat and continue to man the machine gun pill boxes, bullet casings piling around them. One soldier, terribly wounded, grabbed a box of grenades and ran screaming towards the enemy. Bullets slapped him, but nothing stopped his momentum. “My Hetmun! For Mangor!, screaming in midair as he leaped into a CFC trench. The explosion provided the cover needed, and only the bravest CFC soldiers, currently rare with the stunning counterattack, attempted halfhearted parting shots at retreating soldiers. Ferring caught site of the sniper picking up his left arm, stunned and pumping blood from the wound, stumbling back to his lines. Ferring did not stay to observe the sniper’s fate and hoped it ended horrifically.

****The Palace, New Bern****

“Vice Hetmun, a messenger has arrived.” Schuler motioned for the solider to enter. The soldier snapped a salute, and Schuler returned the greeting, “Death to Others!”

“Vice Hetmun. Supreme Commander Ferring ordered a full retreat to the palace for Divisions 2 and 4. Divisions 1 and 5 are falling back to their designated last-stand locations. Division 6 is covering the full retreat while Division 7 assists.” The soldier awaited further instructions.

“Well done, soldier. Please, at ease. There is some water on the table and some bread.” And fight for that bread. Schuler cannot recall his last hot meal.

The soldier snapped another salute and marched out. The clerk nervously considered the shattered windows, “Vice Hetmun, shall we fall back? Do you wish to remain here?” This man was no Marich, but Schuler was no Halter.

“I will remain here.” Thankfully, the retreat threw off the CFC drive, and the bombardment paused. “You have the most pertinent records gathered, correct? Anything else I need to sign?”

The clerk took a quick mental inventory and handed Schuler several folders. “The records are secure and ready to move. The last batch of other records has either been relocated or destroyed. No trace.” The clerk pointed where Schuler must sign.

The documentation completed, Schuler stood up and checked his Sherman Sidewinder to confirm a full load. Walking to the window, Schuler was not concerned with snipers requiring Pharaoh-like ability to send a successful shot through the shattered glass. The Apostle in the corner raised no alarms that a fellow Phasm-caster lurked nearby.

The clerk, what was his name? Burning the most damning accounts may help in the end. Mangorian government and bureaucracy prided itself on documents, proclamations, signings – all the machinations of government crafted in ink. Naturally, pros and cons to this method, Ausands damned Mangor and Halter’s regime. If Schuler did not end up hanged or shot before a firing squad, it would all be a miracle. It would certainly be a miracle if Schuler could rejoin his friend, who he hoped at this very moment made good on his exile. “If any of us survive.” He said this to no one in particular. How had it all gone so wrong?

The red phone rang. The clerk and Schuler locked eyes, and Schuler’s hand shook, holding the receiver. “Yes?”

“Vice Hetmun, I have released all Havocs. Operation Welcome Home has begun,” Dr. Zabo sounded elated.

Schuler placed the phone back in its cradle. The war cries, and screams of the retreating troops grew louder. Schuler closed his eyes and mentally converted the troop screams to crowd cheers, recalling that particular rally in New Bern. What was it? Ten, twelve years ago? They were all so eager and so sure of themselves. Would they have done anything differently? Would Mangor be better off if this had never happened? No, Schuler was sure their original path was sound regardless of New Bern’s present situation. Yet, to go back, he could smell the baked pretzels and feel the sun on his face. Taste the beer. It had been such a beautiful day.

****Excerpt from My Trials: From Poverty to Party Leader*****

The trenches taught simplicity - eating, sleeping, killing. Eat this. That’s all we had. Sleep here. Now get up. One shot - don’t waste it! You did things simply.

Aiden Halter, Conrow Prison, 1924

******* Something like 12 years ago, New Bern Day*******

“This day is shit!” Fergey slammed the wrench into the toolbox and grabbed a nearby rag, already speckled in oil and grime. Looking back at the shaft, he could see the damage clearly. The lug bolts completely jammed up the springs. No wonder this trolley car nearly flipped over.

Halter walked over and brought the lantern underneath. “Damn! We are going to have to take the whole wheelbase off. I say we just replace that; otherwise, we’ll spend a week aligning the wheels to the new shaft.”

Fergey, exhausted after an overnight shift, reluctantly agreed. Halter, equally exhausted, went to the clipboard. “I’ll write up the request. Mr. Hyber is not going to be happy, but nothing we can do about it. Unless he wants a Kanich crew in here.” Looking down at the form, Halter confirmed at least a few items could be marked completed. The men had left this last knowing it would be the most difficult, wanting to at least get some money for their efforts. Jobs like this could bankrupt and burn you out quickly without watching cash flow. Thankfully, Hyber had several pieces of equipment that needed minor repairs and a few tweaks that would bring in some needed pay.

“That’s all we need. Those blue mechanical geniuses are taking one look and having it done in under an hour. The more that happens, the less work for us.” Scrubbing at an already dirty and sweaty neck, Fergey sipped at a water jug and leaned against the trolley.

Halter, filling out the form, “An hour? More like a few minutes. Hyber would never pay for their services. Would cost him five times what we charge, and then he’d have to pay for the parts. Besides, the Factory would probably put him in the queue for requests and charge him more for moving his name up the list. Kanich monopolies on health care and inventions - what would we do without them?”

Fergey chugged more water from the jug, desperately wishing it was whiskey. “And small guys like us feed off folks who can’t afford Kanich prices and parts to piece these things back together.” Peering up the street, Fergey had a clear view of the Kanich Factory complex in the distance. Barely a puff of smoke emerged. Who knew what mysteries and magic the Kanichs melded that very moment. The Factory maintained patents with cities across Gii, creating an economy of exchange as cities purchased and sold closely guarded technology and goods. Mangor’s superior E-juice wells warranted demand across Gii, even to the Confederate Free Cities, and alleviated the increasing imports over the past few years. Today, high unemployment and a growing government deficit painted a much bleaker picture for Mangor’s citizens.

“That they do, my friend. That they do,” finalizing the form and writing up notes, Halter handed it to Fergey, who confirmed and signed his name beside Halter’s.

“You going to celebrate today?” Fergey, older and with a family, rarely enjoyed free time. The man worked himself to death to pay for food, clothing, and rent. Halter wasn’t sure how he did it all. In fact, he wasn’t sure how any of the men on the work crew accomplished taking care of a family. Being the only single man in the group, Halter barely got by himself.

“Yes, Schuler and I are going together.” Halter put down the clipboard and worked to wipe the grime from his hands. Despite being careful, dirt and oil left finger smudges on the forms. “I’ll get this over to Mr. Hyber on my way, so don’t worry about it. I know it’s in the opposite direction from home.”

The rest of the crew, sixteen other men, packed up tools and lunch boxes. Halter and Fergey made up the lead mechanics, not due to their vast ability and knowledge. Fergey certainly had more years on Halter, that was true; however, neither man would be winning any competitions, especially not against Kanichs. Not that there were mechanical competitions. Halter did have a good knack for figuring out equipment, while Fergey had done this work his entire life. No, the ability to read put both men ahead so that work orders, reports, order forms, and even timecards could be gathered quickly and correctly.

“As always, I owe you,” Fergey finished packing.

“Don’t forget it.” Halter winked and called out, “If anyone is interested, I’ve got time to read the papers.”

A few crew members called out an affirmative as others, too tired or too broken down to care, shrugged it off and approached Halter to punch their timecards. Halter said to Fergey, “I’ll get all this sorted. Give my best to Linzey.”

“I will, my friend. I don’t know how you do all this. You work the night shift. You are going to New Bern Day celebrations. You haven’t slept in six months as you built the Mangor Workers Party, and you got two seats in the lower house. You simply amaze me,” Fergey, certainly impressed, chalked it all up to Halter’s youth and his parent’s example. Still, what Halter did and how he did it took something unique to him.

“I had help - Konrad and Gladys were key to the entire thing. I just got the wheels in motion. I was just as surprised as anyone. I was sure Mr. Hyber would have fired me for sure. He just wanted to know if it would impact my hours.” Halter retrieved the current newspaper. “In any case, this keeps me in touch. Yes, I would love to get more sleep - that much is true. But this means something, and it clearly struck home with some people. Besides,” lightly punching Fergey in the shoulder, “you are the real soldier - family man, multiple jobs - you are the hero.”

“We both have our challenges. Keep at it, Halter. Like you said, this means something. I’m sorry I can’t get more involved. With another on the way…”

“Enough said. You are a member of the MWP. That’s what matters.” Halter meant it. Mangor bred the finest citizens, and Fergey stood as a paragon of the working class.

Fergey, slapping Halter on the back, began the long walk home. Halter turned to the group and put himself in that place. That place in front of the beer halls for the last six months. That place to register the Manger Workers Party at the Hetmun’s office to the grins and stifled laughter of the clerks. That place convinced two seasoned members of the Citizens League, Konrad, and Gladys, to throw their political points and experience into a fledgling party. That place that dismissed one-hundred years of history collapsed political parties into only two. That place fueled the important work despite the exhaustion and incremental wins.

“Ok, my friends.” Halter opened the paper to where he had previously marked comments and highlighted stories.

“No, I wanna hear you say it.” One of the crew coughed up a wad of phlegm and spit it out. He was an old timer and would probably die on the job, exactly why Halter drove himself for the MWP.

Pleased, Halter cleared his throat dramatically, “All right. I’m Aiden Halter, and I’m here to work for you.”

The men clapped. “That’s what I’m saying. You got my vote!”

Now ready to hear news of the world, the audience sat back as Halter scanned the headlines. While he wanted to discuss things more deeply, these men needed rest, so these sessions remained short. None of them could read, and Halter felt obligated to ensure at least these workers would be well informed of New Bern politics. “As we all know, today is New Bern Day. Newly elected Hetmun Babendorf will be sworn in. Former Hetmun Kerkoff is retiring south and will exit politics in the near future. There are rumblings about Jackston and Shermanton - the editorial, believe it or not, says there are three possibilities: Jackston and Shermanton fighting, Jackston attacking us, or both attacking us. Two out of the three scenarios look bad for us, but there are others here that say it isn’t practical for the CFC and that war between Leesburg, Birmington, and Forestshire is really where the focus should be. Those three may be driving the attitudes for the CFC cities to our north.”

“It’ s a cycle. My pappy fought Jackston, and his pappy fought Shemanton. I fought ten years ago. We are due now, beg your pardon, Mr. Halter. The last one was only a few years and didn’t get the fight out of any of us. I know your Pa was a hero,” all the men mumbled in agreement, “but they won’t stop.” Nedler, another old-timer living paycheck to paycheck, had zero zlotties in the bank and no pension to fall back on.

Halter continued, “We will see. There’s an article here that says the new Hetmun pushes for peace and wants all Mangorian citizens to rest assured.”

“What about the elections - how did it all sort out? She may push for peace, but what about the others?”

“Why, Zach - we have two seats, don’t you know?” Halter played it down for most. He didn’t need to hide his excitement here. It was their party, and they applauded for getting at least something in this recent election.

“Oh, yes, sir! I knew we got our two. I voted for sure! I was just wondering about the other parties. How’d they do?”

Halter, intimately familiar with the most recent election, “With the fifty seats in the Lower House, two for the MWP, sixteen for the Progressive Republicans - that is Kersok’s party, and finally thirty-two for the Citizens League. The League’s control of the Lower House gave them the ability to vote for the ten members of the Supreme Citizen Body. Babendorff was selected by the SCB to serve as Hetmun, and she is now assessing the cabinet and court for potential changes.”

“Who do we need to vote for now?”

“Nothing for the moment unless special elections come up. Otherwise, the next Lower House elections are in two years. So we have plenty to work on together.” Always wanting to end these sessions with a lighter mood, Halter read a story he thought applicable, “Dapper Digby’s new feature Roofin’ Doofus just opened. The premiere went very well, and Dapper brought his miniature T-Rex that almost ate a guest,” smiling at the article, “but, settled for several tubs of popcorn, all well buttered.”

The crew doubled over in laughter. All enjoyed Dapper Digby and his antics. Halter wanted to see the most recent release and needed to find the time. Folding the paper, “As always, I appreciate you letting me inform you of the news. Our next MWP meeting is tomorrow night. Foes beer hall. Please try and attend and bring someone else with you. The more we have, the more powerful we are.”

The audience stood to leave, some more slowly than others and some needing assistance. They all shook Halter’s hand in thanks. Halter suspected most would go home. New Bern Day offered plenty to do and see. For folks who just worked a grueling night shift, sleep afforded a better option. For Halter? Perfect weather and New Bern day - best day of the year. For now, the MWP work would wait. He needed and wanted some time to just soak in Mangorian pride.

Halter’s desire to get started placed him outside Mr. Hyber’s office earlier than normal. Sitting at his small desk and looking annoyed, Hyber waved Halter in. Pouring over a report, he barely glanced up and barked, “Just put them there.”

Halter was on his way out when Mr. Hyber called him back. “I appreciate you reading the news to some of those guys. They seem to be a lot happier but don’t think I’m raising your pay. You do that on your own time.”

“Of course! Only after the shift and when the worksheets are completed.” Halter awaited any further comment and exited when Mr. Hyber waived him out.

Forgoing any trolley, Halter soaked in the weather (he couldn’t justify the expense). New Bern Day unofficially signified the last day of warmer weather, a cold snap peaking over the horizon just waiting for a chance to blanket the city in snow. New Bern, dominated by high-rises and skyscrapers, could become frightfully drafty at certain parts with ice slicks hidden amongst the pavement. Picturing the falling snow, Halter thought a new jacket prudent but would bother with that later. Perhaps Schuler had a spare one he could borrow, discretionary funds terribly tight.

Worker shift changes and celebrants making their way to the People’s Palace packed the streets. Trolley bells, taxi drivers yelling out commands to Raptors, and factories blaring the whistle for shift changes created New Bern’s street symphony. The People’s Palace hosted the new Hetmun and would premier the many politicians and all the speeches. Halter would get there eventually. He needed to stop by his flat to freshen up and check on his roommates.

The crowds fell away as Halter moved deeper into the New Bern ghetto. Here, the differences across Mangor, especially in New Bern, highlighted the differences between those with some means and those with nothing. Residents wallowing in moldy flats infested with vermin fell into vicious cycles of depression. Meager, torn clothing hung on lines to dry like ticker tape, blocking the twin suns’ attempt to deliver fresh light to the streets below. Not even Mount Zolti, a lone, dormant volcano visible from the majority of New Bern, could be seen from this portion of the city as if the mountain, too ashamed of its disrepair, turned its face away. No trolley lines nor any handsome cabs visited. Any errant draft dinos, if not fast enough, landed in questionable stews. Locals mined through trash piles rotting on street corners for any nuggets of value.

Halter glanced briefly through a handful of piles to see if anything of interest lay within. Satisfied the good stuff had long disappeared, he carried on and arrived at his gray building, packed with the lower-class families, couples just starting out, and other bachelors and bachelorettes. Fortunately, some school chums also needed rooms years ago, and combining paychecks for rent and food eased financial burdens. Schuler offered Halter space in his modest and much cleaner apartment. Halter declined and wanted to stay where the working people - his people, lived. Humans dominated these slums, though a gang of Tayfeens and a single Nafqwin sporadically refuged here until something better came along.

A ragged tent city inhabited the middle of the apartment block, surrounded on all four sides by grayish tenement buildings. Citizens, much too poor to even afford low-cost housing, camped out in green spaces, were originally intended for apartment residents. Campfires and barrel fires crammed together as small, pest dinos snatched whatever food they could grab. These same dinos, like their lost draft cousins, could end up with someone’s dinner if not too careful when scavenging from these homeless people. With equal viciousness, dinroaches ravaged where they could and added to the misery by spreading disease. Halter kept a wary eye on the tents and kept his pace closer to the apartment bloc in case he needed to flee.

Crime, rampant in the ghetto, ranged from murders for pocket change and numerous thefts. What was there to steal? Not much, but enough to feed a small family for a day if the thief got lucky. Newspapers long ago abandoned any follow-ups and crime beats in the ghetto. What was the point? No constables roamed this part of the city, so citizen justice ran amok, regardless of justification and severity, a dark mark on New Bern conveniently ignored by the politicians. No one here carried any weight in New Bern and rarely voted. For the primary parties, they didn’t matter. To Halter, they were the spark to the dry tender of political indifference.

Halter took the four flights of stairs two at a time and used his key to enter. Both roommates are currently home. Sammie sat over a hot plate making what smelled like beans while Oscar remained in bed, unmoving even when Halter entered. Sammie looked up and quietly acknowledged Halter while nodding back to Oscar. He quickly turned around to flick a dinroach from entering the stew.

In a whisper, Halter asked, “Is he any better?”

Sammie stirred the beans, “No.” He pointed to the small table. “Rent is due.” In a lower whisper, “He can’t make rent. He got fired yesterday. I didn’t have the heart to tell him.”

Halter walked over, knocked a dinroach off the table, and looked at the “we are sorry to inform you” notice. Oscar remained still, his breathing shallow. In a low whisper to Sammie, “His fever hasn’t broken in three days. I told Mr. Wickel he was sick.” It never seemed to fail. Worker gets sick, the worker gets replaced. Now what?

Halter pulled out his wallet and handed Sammie cash. “I’ll make up his end this month. Next month, I don’t know.”

Sammie took the money and the rent notice. “I’ll hand this to Mrs. Eisher on my way out.” Halter now saw that Sammies’s bags sat packed on his bunk. At Halter’s expression, he added, “I’m getting shipped out again if you can believe it. First, I’m told work would stall for a month, so find something else. Next, I hear I’m getting pulled into a three-month merchant ship assignment - the M.M Zolti’s Shadow. I’ll take it, but I’ll have to let Mrs. Eisher know I’ll have to give her a banknote upfront. I don’t want you stuck with the entire bill,” considering Oscar, “especially if he is still not any better.”

“I know you’re good for it.” Halter removed his work clothes. “Three months? And leaving today? That’s sudden, right?”

“Abnormally! And on New Bern Day!” Sammie stopped himself from getting louder. Conflicted, always good to get work, he hated missing the occasion. Sammie turned back to the beans as two more roaches tried to dive into the meager meal. Sammie crushed both.

“Is Halter back?” Oscar’s voice muffles from the pillow and is distinctly weak.

Halter, putting on a cleaner shirt and pants, sat on Oscar’s bunk. “Yes, my friend. Any better at all?” Oscar’s forehead burned like an overheated furnace. A dinroach crawled out of bed and up the wall. Halter let it be.

“I think so.” Oscar tried to sit up, and Halter helped him get settled. “Those beans smell good.”

“Yes, I’m hoping you can eat some. I’m going to grab a few bites, and then I need to make my ship.” Spooning out a portion, Sammie handed Oscar a cracked bowl. To Halter, “You want any? Plenty here.” There wasn’t.

“No, I’m meeting Schuler later. I’m sure we’ll grab something.” Halter mentally counted the seconds awaiting Sammie’s retort.

“I don’t know why you entertain that fop.”

Schuler had grown up differently and had more options than any of them. True, Halter had lived with Schuler and his family and had extended options himself that would have improved his lot in New Bern. None of it ever felt right to him. Halter didn’t regret his choices. “Oh, he’s harmless. He’s like a brother, you know that. His mother and my father fought together. His family took me in.”

Sammie ate in silence and observed Oscar gobble up his share. Sammie knew the story and Halter’s background. Still, envy and resentment chafed. Oscar, turning to Halter, “I’m sorry I can’t join you. I really need to get back to work. I’ll send Mr. Wickel a note and let him know I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Halter and Sammie exchanged glances. The news could wait. “No matter,” Sammie collected the bowl and spoon. “I’m heading out. You both behave yourselves, and I’ll send a note when I can.”

Halter started cleaning up, killing a roach, as the tap spit out lukewarm water at a slow trickle in the already small, stained sink. Charged for water, he rationed what he could to get the dishes clean enough. Oscar wished Sammie a safe journey, turning back over to get more rest.

Sammie joined Halter at the sink and, in whispered voices, “I’ll see you soon. If he isn’t any better and needs a Kanich, I’m good for it. You know who to talk to at the bank, or maybe Schuler can loan us something?”

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. You just be careful. Can you have Mrs. Eisher check in on him when you leave the rent? I’ll be back tonight for sure.” A little guilty, Halter wanted to see the celebrations.

“Of course,” Sammie grabbed his bags. “See you soon, my friend.”

“You be careful, Sam. Bad weather this time of year.”

Sammie saluted casually and left. Halter tidied up and checked on Oscar. “My friend, I’m heading out as well. Will give you some quiet.” That dampened the guilt a bit. “I doubt there will be much celebration here. I’ll have Mrs. Eisher check in on you, ok?”

“You got it. I’m really on the mend. I know it. I just need another day and then back to normal,” Oscar smiled weakly and settled deeper into the bunk. Halter took a sheet from his own bunk and lay it across Oscar.

Halter poured a glass of water and placed it on the table next to Oscar’s bunk. Hopefully, a roach wouldn’t decide to take a swim. Closing the door, he nearly ran into a Ghishone man and child coming up the stairs. “Oh, my apologies.” The Ghishone, smaller than humans and bearing bright, shimmery marks across their skin, obligingly moved out of Halter’s way. Halter towered over the two figures, especially what Halter assumed was the daughter. They shared similar patterns and the same deep reddish-yellow colors predominantly on their faces.

The little girl, wearing a well-made dress colored similarly to her markings, handed Halter a small pamphlet, large for her and human-sized for Halter. She sported a ring on her right hand, bright green with markings Halter couldn’t make out. “Hello, sir. My name is Minzel. We’d like to discuss Jayben, our God in heaven. Do you attend church regularly, or do you have a moment to learn more about our exciting future as Jayben’s Witnesses?” She seemed so earnest, and Halter had to bend down to see her. His father beamed with pride, wearing a bright suit that was cheaply made yet better than Halter could afford. Why take such risks in this place? Ghishone went door to door talking about some God in heaven watching all over us, or was there another Pilgrim savior in there coming down to help everyone? And who was Jayben again? Halter vaguely recalled some magical plates being found. Well, not in Mangor. Or were they in Mangor?

Taking the pamphlet to be kind, “I, unfortunately, don’t have time today. My friend is resting in that flat, so please let him rest. Perhaps we can discuss another day.” And measuring the father, “You should really be careful here. These are desperate times for everyone. I wouldn’t advise staying here much longer.”

The father protectively put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, “Yes, sir. There are so many people who need hope. We just want to bring a good message.”

The girl, earnest and trained well, “Yes, we want everyone to know Jayben will save us, and all of this will go away for a beautiful paradise. Won’t that be wonderful?”

Looking at the pamphlet and seeing a beautiful garden with many smiling faces, “Yes, that would be very nice. Maybe next time you’re around, I can hear what you have to say. I really need to be on my way.” Halter made his escape down the stairs. He heard them knock at the door across the hall and hoped they left Oscar alone. Idiots. They could get robbed and killed, and no one would care. How could the father subject his daughter to this baffled Halter.

Flipping the pamphlet over, it read, “Our Savior is Coming - Are you Ready?” Ready for what, exactly? Halter understood the broad strokes of religion. The Church of the Burned, certainly no allies of Jayben’s Witnesses, also warned of a savior supposedly arriving in the future. If the saviors had similar conditions and timing, Halter had no idea. The original Pilgrim lived in Bin Cantor, the Ghishone homeland, some thousands of years ago. For some reason, the Ghishone burned the original Pilgrim and his followers alive on stakes. Must have been something he did wrong. The Ghishone homeland underwent a cataclysmic event afterward that caused a diaspora over the ensuing years. Coincidence? Probably. Regardless, the Ghishone soon appeared as refugees across all of Gii and embedded themselves into the local culture.

Tayrel, a prominent and historical Ghishone, stood out as an important figure in Mangor’s history. Caliph Antonine Mangor’s revolution destroyed the Purpla, whose tyranny could be tolerated no further, and established the Church of the Burned as the official faith. Tayrel brought his army of Ghishone followers to help Mangor win the decisive battle at Merovin Bridge. Mangor and his people could then follow the Pilgrim without fear of Purpla reprisals. That had been a long time ago and an essential element in creating the country of Mangor, named after its flesh and blood savior. Thankfully today, church and state remained separate. How Jayben figured into all of this mystified Halter. Jayben, the Pilgrim, saviors, paradise, who knew if some other mystery player lurked around somewhere, taking their sweet ass time to get here.

Not worth it. Halter folded the pamphlet into his back pocket, religion not a concern. The worker, now that was an issue, and it was New Bern Day!

****Church of the Burned, New Bern, Same Day****

Bishop Mueller, her blond hair free, some would say frazzled, wore the traditional smock of grayish-red. Beautiful, strong, and cheekbones that could cut stone, Mueller’s natural approach to the faith increased parishioners and attendees. Though the youngest bishop in Mangor’s history, she overtook past Bishops with her charities, eloquence, and deep knowledge of the scriptures.

Mueller marked the last supplicant with a line of ash on his forehead. The man knelt at the altar and shot his arms into the air in devotion, eyes staring heavenward. His prayer beads wrapped around one arm came free as soon as he took his seat to begin a silent mantra, joining others in counting off prayers. Mueller turned to the audience, the Ash Scriptures laid out on the podium, “I want to share a short scripture today. Letters of Fire, Chapter 25, Verse 8: ‘To our countries we give thanks. To our congregates, we give love. To our neighbors, we give ourselves. And to the Pilgrim, we give our souls.’”

“On New Bern Day, we want to remember our country. Over a thousand years ago, Caliph Antonine Mangor fought against the decadent and decaying Purpla. Rallying all peoples to his banner, the five-year conflict culminated at the Battle of Merovin Bridge. Antonine witnessed the Great Flame appear in the sky and cleanse his army prior to the conflict. Recognizing the Pilgrim’s blessing, he ordered all to take the Ash and read from its Scriptures. And by his side was Tayrel. Before being captured by the Purpla, Tayrel ministered to Antonine and to the troops, having them abandon the 49 Equations and take the Ash.”

“We honor the Pilgrim as Tayrel honored the Pilgrim.” She then spread her arms to the roof and stared up, the audience following her lead, “As the flames later melted Tayrel’s flesh just as our original savior and his disciples died in Bin Cantor, Tayrel uttered not a word in pain nor revenge. He prayed to the Pilgrim, ‘My savior, forgive them. They know not what they do.’” Bringing her arms down and letting the silence draw them in, “Tayrel joined the Pilgrim’s side in the Great Flame of everlasting life.”

Stepping away from the podium, one of her trademarks to engage the audience, “No, of course, Tayrel didn’t plan on being burned alive, yet through his sacrifice Caliph Antonine embraced the Pilgrim. Caliph Antonin, immortalized in New Bern Harbor as ‘Our Soldier,’ sanctioned the Church of the Burned as the official state religion. Our faith, once cursed to hide in the shadows, is now a nation’s faith. We all know this story. Today is New Bern Day. A day to thank the capital city of a country where the new dawn of the Pilgrim illuminated Gii with his blessings.”

While thankful to Mangor (the country and the person), the government removed any official religion from the constitution over two-hundred years ago, permitting all faiths to practice without any prohibitions. Mueller never wanted anyone to feel obligated to attend services, and politics created enough divisions among the worshipers.

Smiling at the audience and thankful for the larger-than-normal attendees, “Please, turn to your fellow parishioner and share the love of understanding and brotherly and sisterly connection we all have. As congregates, let us share our love on this wondrous day.”

Waiting a few moments as pleasantries ended, “And to those not with us? To those who don’t share the Ash? To those who don’t study the true scripture of the Pilgrim and deride his saints, the Embers, and their blessings? Let us never show malice. Let us continue to be good neighbors in our community and help each other despite our backgrounds. Many dislike non-humans, especially the Ghishone,” some grumbles in the audience. “Some of our spiritual cousins are misguided and look to Jayben. Regardless of who we interact with, let us be respectful and giving to all.”

“The Confederate Free Cities to our north that share our continent and those across the sea to the west,” the audience grumbled dislike, “no, we are not friends. Be mindful that we have worshipers there as well who take the Ash and read the scriptures. Let us continue to pray for one another and understand that our countries may be at war again. We thank our country and need to choose carefully how we determine to repay that thanks.” Mueller abandoned any talking points on Burned members serving in the army. Worshipers enlisting to kill other worshipers made their logical conclusions. Mueller couldn’t burn away the sins of everyone and couldn’t be the light of conscience for all believers.

“We pray especially for the unfortunate Tagrems. These unfortunate souls, manufactured by the Kanichs for the CFC and used as slave labor. Anyone who continues this act must consider their souls to the Pilgrim. Would he want his believers to enact such barbarity onto others?” Attendees shifted uncomfortably in their seats. A few nodded and shot glances to the sky in supporting prayers.

Tagrems offered no end to Church debate. Did they have souls? Would the Pilgrim bless them? No one knew if any Embers, saints of the Church, had appeared to any Tagrems. Mueller’s radical nature aligned with the hypothesis that these creatures warranted saving. She would keep the debate churning for now and had other plans later today.

“As you celebrate, always remember the Pilgrim is watching us. His Embers continue to guide us. Pray to him often. Speak to your chosen Ember. In all that we do, keep the Pilgrim’s words in your heart and remember the Pilgrim’s most important command.” Stretching her arms up to the roof and slowly drawing her head back, “Abide.” She breathed out slowly, bringing her arms back down.

The final utterance (‘Love and abide’ the closing of all sermons) completed, “Quick announcement. Any who wants to join our small parade today, please see Abbot Edwin. Thank you again for your attendance, and Pilgrim bless you all.”

Handing the Ash Scriptures to a support priest, Mueller stepped down to engage with influential members and facilitate any doctrinal questions. Not surprised, most hurried to begin celebrations. Paying it no mind and grateful for additional time to prepare for her demonstration, Mueller retreated to her quarters.

Devotees rejoined at the altar and knelt to whisper the Pilgrim’s mantra, counting off to fifty-five prayers: “Pilgrim’s light guide us. Pilgrim. Pilgrim. Light be with us. Embers burn us. Ash. Ash. We all come to light. Pilgrim’s light guide us. Pilgrim. Pilgrim. Light be with us…”

****New Bern, New Bern Day Celebrations****

“What a beautiful day!” Schuler smiled in agreement and doffed his hat to the lady who commented out loud. Her husband or boyfriend or whatever gave Schuler a nasty look. The pretzel the couple shared caused Schuler to salivate. He would buy one later, perhaps with a cold lager. For now, the day was grand. Celebrants cheered from above the street out of building windows, waiving Mangorian flags and sending confetti to rain below. Tenets on either side of the wide paved streets stretched large banners above from building to building, snapping in the refreshing breeze.

Stopping to admire street pedestrians dressed in their best, Schuler peered in a store window and admired his outfit in the reflection. Always one for the latest fashions despite being penniless (Well, almost penniless), his meager inheritance, and the failed rail venture aside, he adjusted his new top hat and dusted off his jacket. After all, the newspaper paid steadily and kept him busy. Why not indulge from time to time?

“Have you enlisted?” In the same tired three-piece suit and ragged newsboy hat, Halter joined Schuler at the window. Halter, even poorer than Schuler, never prioritized fashion. “What do you think? Future Mangorian diplomats? Maybe to meet with the Droods in Ustes or even, dare I say, the CFC?” Schuler recognized Halter’s teasing.

Shaking his head at his dear friend. “No, I am merely displaying my love of Mangor and wearing our colors.” The drab olive jacket with a rust-colored top hat and matching vest certainly made Schuler look like a newly minted officer.

“Aren’t our colors,” pointing to one of the many flags hanging from above, “black, white, and red?” More flags than usual snapped in the cool wind, most prominently amongst upper story windows and in the hands of passersby’s waving enthusiastically. Halter pried Schuler away from the storefront window and fell in with the crowd moving to the palace rally. Mini-Ptero messengers, small enough to hold in your hand, carried important packages and urgent mail, diving to catch air currents, whipping over the heads of those below. The dinos wore small helmets to navigate to and from their destination, Kanich ingenuity at its best. Using the dinos costs exorbitant amounts compared to regular postage, out of reach of the average citizen. Enterprising thieves, probably Apostle gangsters, conducted no end of air piracy to obtain valuable goods and information. The Kanichs engineered safety protocols that confounded the piracy attacks, including those helmets. Again, the Kanichs certainly crafted wonders.

“You are going to be quite the challenge today, I see.” Using his cane to punctuate the point, “And I am not going to fall into your semantic trap, my friend. We all know the flag is very ancient, and wearing such colors would not be advisable on a battlefield.”

“Well, listen to you! I think you may have indeed enlisted. Officer Schuler…no Captain Schuler.” Stepping around an apple cart, Halter tipped his hat to a lovely lady who smiled but offered no further encouragement, “Yes, I tease you, my dapper friend. Someone will think I’m your servant. Shall I carry something for you?” Halter admired the young woman as she departed. Never one to be called handsome, Halter could still talk the dress off many a maiden.

Schuler glanced over at a wealthy carriage covered in Mangorian decorations with two stellar Raptors in the lead, neither needing any harness as they obeyed the driver’s commands. As if smelling Schuler’s admiration, the Raptors let out shrieks of pride. What fine dinos! “If I had something for you to carry, perhaps.” The streets shone this morning with extra cleaning. Schuler took a good look now as the celebrations today would revert the streets to their normal state of disrepair. Constables blew whistles to manage various traffic flows, with handsome cabs and taxis creating a whirlwind of dinos dodging one another.

As the two men stopped awaiting their turn to cross, Schuler said more seriously, “I’m thinking you can’t be terribly disappointed even though Babendorf was not your primary choice.” Everyone seemed to be out today. And why not! Glorious weather with both suns brightening an azure sky and a slightly cool breeze down from Mount Zolti hovering in the distance. Schuler spotted a Ptero-spitfire coming in for a landing at the mountain military base, from this distance, appearing like a Ptero-messenger though Schuler knew the spitfires could carry three to four soldiers.

“Yes, and,” Halter and Schuler crossed with the rest of the crowd, “we do have two seats. That is quite the effort.”

“Two seats, my friend, your optimism is endearing. And you spent how many days, weeks, and hours speaking to the beer halls and drumming up support?”

A newsboy they passed by called out, “Hetmun Babs Sworn In on New Bern Day! Promises peace! Read all about it!” Pedestrians grabbed papers and filled the boy’s basket full of coins. Schuler had already read the morning paper, confident Halter had done the same. Peace? Perhaps. Hetmun Kersok’s spectacular failure paved the way for Babs and her party to call out the failed border skirmishes plaguing Mangor for the last few years. No, nothing had escalated like ten years ago or fifty years ago, for that matter. Current events placed war pivoting on an edge with Jackston and Shermanton, two CFC entities in northern Mangor. War between Mangor and the two city-states could boil over at any time. Schuler grudgingly supported Babs to simply press for peace in the interim. Halter, on the other hand, certainly wanted peace and demanded more social welfare reforms, reforms that would cost the rich more in taxes and which lost out for more pressing concerns of peace. Still, a minority agreed with Halter.

Shrugging away his efforts, Halter replied, “Again, two seats for a new party! You must at least give me that. The Mangor Workers’ Party is alive!” Snatching Schuler’s cane and swatting him on the butt. “Not even you can spoil this.” The newsboy turned and laughed at Halter.

Schuler snatched back his cane. “Perhaps.” Throwing an errant coin into the newsboy’s basket and receiving a bow in thanks, he could not help but smile at Halter’s efforts. Only two parties dominated Mangor politics for over one hundred years, so Halter had achieved something remarkable.

Up ahead, a crowd gathered outside a storefront. “New Talkey’s here, folks. You and your family, the talk of your neighborhood.” The salesman, standing on a small platform in front of the store, pointed to a large radio on display. “Can you imagine? The news in your home, knowing the latest and greatest? Need some music in your life? Well, look no further!” His assistant turned the knob and the radio whined and crackled. A favorite played in nightclubs, May I have this Dance? by the Whit Sizeman Ensemble, converted the sidewalk into a dance floor with several couples swinging around each other, all to the enthusiastic applause of the salesman. “Look at ‘em now, folks? Hot off the Kanich press and ready for your homes. No need to pay in full. Pay some now, pay some later, and we’ll deliver for free.” He clapped along with the chorus and cheered the couples dancing.

Halter and Schuler stopped for free entertainment. “I’m not sure I agree with that credit stuff. You?” Schuler’s paper ran more and more ads that encouraged getting now and paying later. For some reason, this didn’t sit right with Schuler.

“No, I don’t either. I’m used to saving up and then paying for it. I’m not sure how all that works. What happens if you don’t pay?” Halter would prefer hearing news updates regularly rather than waiting for two newspaper runs. He could always park outside the news offices where newsies scrabbled breaking headlines on large chalkboards.

Schuler and Halter left the dancing couples. “Or what if everyone uses credit? And then people lose jobs? What then? Where does it end?” Schuler never followed financial pieces that closely.

Halter added, “I’ll have to think on that more. You’re right. Maybe a warning on taking credit when employment is so fickle. Just brings the worker down even further and adds a new pressure.” That’s all the workers really needed. Promise them a better life today and pay tomorrow. How many would fall into the trap? This added great talking points for Gladys and Konrad.

Schuler put an arm around Halter’s shoulders, “Now I’ve done it. No more thinking for the moment.” Stopped at another cross street, Schuler pointed to a beer hall. “I believe they know us here. Shall we?” The sign read Friend & Enemies Drink Alike. Regulars simply called it Foes.

While waiting for the constable to allow their side to move, Schuler asked, “How is Oscar?”

“Fever hasn’t broken. At least he ate something today.” Sighing, “He got fired. I know, I know. Sammie and I chose not to say anything.” And before Schuler could comment, “No, Sammie got shipped off. He’s pissed but happy for the work.”

“We shall drink for both Oscar and Sammie.” Halter readily agreed.

A warm welcome from regulars washed over Halter and Schuler, folks enjoying a pint before the speeches. Many politicians would speak many words, and a nice buzz made speeches more palatable. After securing two hefty mugs of pure Mangorian lager, Schuler joined Halter at the end of the table. Clinking their glasses together, they settled in their chairs and enjoyed the good company as all exchanged pleasantries. Schuler noted a few gentlemen of no meager means made their way to Halter for a greeting and to obtain his opinion on recent news.

The barkeep, Mr. Berringer, waived Halter over. Schuler, who typically paid, wondered what this was all about. He loved Halter dearly and knew his friend sometimes chafed for any charity. Beer was another story and immune from freeloading.

Halter, in a fabulous mood, “Mr. Berringer, good to see you, my friend. Happy New Bern Day!”

With a wide smile, “Yes, happy New Bern Day!” Business is great.” Drying a newly washed glass, the portly man leaned over and put two beers in front of Halter. “Your money isn’t any good here.”

Halter, confused. “I’m sorry?”

Again, with a wide smile. “You work with my uncle, Nedler, old timer. Part of your work crew.”

“He’s your uncle? I really enjoy working with him. There is no one, other than a Kanich, who knows more about belt systems. Taught me all I know about junction shifts. But why the largess, if you don’t mind me asking? Not that I’m turning it away.”

“He goes on and on about your news discussions. He can’t read, as you know, and he won’t take any aid from family. Stubborn Bronto.” Pulling more beers as others arrived, “It makes him happy to understand more, and he says you are really making a difference. Begging your pardon, Mr. Halter. I voted for the Citizens League. Next time, your party gets my vote, and your drinks are on the house as long as you help him.”

Halter, overwhelmed, “I was hoping those news sessions made some kind of difference. I’m so glad to hear that. And your vote and your kindness are very much appreciated.” Halter shook Berringer’s hand and rejoined Schuler.

“What was that all about? Finally calling your tab?” Schuler took a large sip of the beer especially delicious today. Shockingly, Halter put a beer in front of him.

“You know those new sessions I’ve started? Berringer’s uncle works on the crew, and the old guy really enjoys the reviews.” Clinking his glass to Schuler’s, “Apparently, my money is no good here. I told you those would pay off.”

“If he knew how much you could drink, he may re-think that decision.”

“Majestic Mangor, land of plenty, land of strength. Maiden Mangor… my love… let Mount Zolti bless us all.” At the back of the beer hall, a man stood up with a violin and started singing a popular folk song that catered more to farmers though city folk appreciated its message. Deep in his cups, his voice still carried strong and pure. All soon joined in, and Halter, never one to pass up a performance, stood on his chair and swung his mug to sing the loudest and certainly the poorest. Schuler had to laugh, sure that the beer had already gone to Halter’s head, and joined in, standing at the table and looking up at Halter, who gulped and sang. Halter, not a farmer, came from farmer stock, so any references to a pastoral past sparked a fire in his gut. He incessantly poured over Mangorian history and documented his descendants, despite their mundane backgrounds.

The song finished, and everyone cheered and clapped. Encouraged, the violinist continued and played a simple sea ballad closer to home near the coast yet welcomed here as another piece of Mangorian culture. After a third mug, “I do believe, my officer friend,” Halter’s eyes spoke of the beer’s power, “we should excuse ourselves and make our way to our most glorious rally.” Before Schuler could respond, “Though, I will need a private meeting first.” Halter shakily stood and made his way to the back privy.

A glass clunked down near Schuler. “He has his two. Is he happy?” The deep, gruff voice, ominous to some, brought much familiarity to Schuler.

“Afternoon, Heydrich.” Schuler did not get up and simply cocked his head to consider the gangbuster. “I’m surprised you are here. Isn’t this place too…clean for you?”

Heydrich sat down. “I don’t believe they have enough alcohol here to really keep me going. Beer makes me piss something awful.”

Schuler looked for Halter, who must still be in the privy. “Yes, for your information, he is very satisfied with two. After all, we’ve had two parties for years. Now a third party gets two seats! That’s not nothing.” Ironic, thought Schuler, that he now defended Halter.

Slamming the remaining contents of his glass and wiping the foam from his mouth, “No, that isn’t nothing.” Heydrich looks around to consider any prying eyes, not lost on Schuler, who knows Heydrich neither wastes words nor really takes any interest in politics. “I may have a third seat that could be a potential.”

A third seat? Intriguing. Had Halter really set up the Mangor Workers’ Party to garner such support? “Please don’t tell me you have gained an appreciation for politics and see your name on a ballot sheet.”

“Yes, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it? No, I’m not talking about myself. Though he may be there one day.” Heydrich pointed backward as Halter sat back down.

“Heydrich!” Halter set three full mugs on the table. “Cheers, my friends! To Mangor!” This last part shouted, and all the beer hall echoed back, “To Mangor!”

“Now, what is this about a third seat?” Halter winked at Schuler and considered Heydrich.

Heydrich, slightly disappointed, “You don’t miss much, do you? Recall Miyam Smithwocki?”

Schuler wracked his brain but could not place the name. Not surprisingly, Halter spoke up, “Owns the shipping firm near Stock Street. Does business mostly with Ustes. Yes, he’s been with the Citizens League forever. I believe,” this last part said in a whisper, “his mistress has been caught stealing secrets and passing them to the Progressive Republicans.”

“Oh, yes, but there is more. Proof that Miyam was directing her all along.”

News to Halter. Schuler could tell from his reaction however guarded Halter usually remained in these situations. “That’s certainly a promising development. Who all know?”

“Both party heads. He’s being removed quietly. They are saying retiring or sick. Who knows or cares? Same thing happening with seats from the PR who worked with his mistress.”

“Ah, and the PR seats revert to the head of the PR party to establish replacements without an election.” Halter smiled conspiratorially, “While the CL has to have an open election per their charter.” Schuler swore he saw gears in Halter’s head churning.

Gulping down half of his mug. “Yes. And he represents Fair Market. Meaning….”

“Meaning we need to get you a new suit.” Schuler connected the dots. Looking back at Heydrich, “And I thought you were not political.”

Heydrich shrugged, adding, “I told both your parents I’d help when I could. Consider this one of those favors. Besides,” slamming a new beer, “it’s more entertaining watching him,” tipping his glass to Halter, “navigate these political Raptors. I’m sick of shopkeepers’ wives.”

Before Schuler could respond, “Dinroaches.” Both Heydrich and Schuler snapped their heads back to Halter. “I like the term ‘dinroaches.’” Chasing down the fourth beer, “Fair Market is where my people congregate. Yes, I will need a new suit.” Schuler was glad to hear that but shook his head as Halter added, “As long as I can get a cane and a new hat.”

Heydrich and Halter laughed at Schuler’s expense, who could only sip his beer and study outside. His eye caught a larger-than-usual crowd across the street, with several men shaking their fists. Continuing to watch, a Ghishone man stepped out of a storefront door and spoke loudly. His shorter stature hid him amongst the average size crowd, making him harder to see. As the men stopped waving fists and hemmed in closer, the Ghishone disappeared. Schuler instinctively knew this was not going to go well. Relations with the Ghishone and Human Mangorians, had been at an all-time low since the most recent war. Ghishone thrived in many countries across Gii, no less in Mangor than anywhere else. Of course, servant and regular worker Ghishone existed like any other race. In contrast, most successful businesses and Stock Street maintained Ghishone managers and presidents who expertly navigated commerce. Regardless of the lower and middle-class Ghishone population, the wealthy members created an aura of overall racial wealth. All things considered, didn’t Ghishone all stick together? Ghishones could turn dino turds into gold. After many generations of exile from their homeland and adapting to many different cultures, humans considered the Ghishone crafty and suspicious. Their smaller size and bright markings certainly didn’t help endear them to the majority of Mangorians.

Seeing the exchange outside, the violinist quickly changed songs and either felt this would exacerbate or deflate the situation; Schuler could not be sure.

“A Ghishone man walked the land, seeking his fame and gold.

He ran into a widow poor and knew that she was old.

His Ghishone face, splotched with mighty flecks of blue,

The widow, hungering for a man, said finally, my do.

She took him in and fed him food,

“Sleep in my bed and rest your head!”

The Ghishone man thought all was good.

The Chorus, “All was good! All was good!”

So restful he slept the widow thought him dead.

She bundled his corpse, hauling him to a tomb,

But lo and behold he bounded free and gave the widow a fright,

The Ghishone man, his face all blue, “I knew you’d be my doom!”

“How dare you truss me overnight, your true colors I now, kin!”

The Chorus, “I now kin, I now kin!”

The window cried, “Woe is me! How can I wash my sin?”

The Ghishone man licked his lips and said with a grin,

“Unburden yourself and pay me on my way!”

The widow cried and pulled her gold from her garden bin,

“Off you go, you splotchy soul, you have won the day!”

The Ghishone man took the gold, certainly hard-earned pay.

He bounded off and searched the land for the next widow grim,

By the Pilgrim, he thought, ugly and old certainly equals dim.

The Chorus, “Ugly and old, Ugly and old!”

Jumping up on a table, the violinist, now thoroughly fueled by free drinks and most definitely drunk, reveled in the calls for an encore. Celebrating the musician’s skill, mugs quickly surrounded the table. Everyone was caught up in the moment, and the atmosphere was absolutely the last thing this man needed. Thoroughly enjoying the song despite the overflowing of beer, Schuler joined in the chorus with Halter and, surprisingly, Heydrich as well.

A handful of drunks decided, midway through the second pass of the song, the escalating exchange across the street mandated their presence. Dodging carriages and the increasing crowds making their way to the rally, the men joined and pushed their way to the front. Schuler saw two constables monitoring the situation and keeping to themselves. Putting down his mug, Schuler made to stand and felt Halter’s hand on his shoulder. “Stay here. Let me see what’s going on.” Halter sobered up quickly.

“And there goes a man wanting that third seat. I feel,” gulping down a full glass and belching, “this may be the beginning of something.”

Schuler scrunched his nose at Heydrich’s manners. “Beginning of what?”

Heydrich was not a serious man, at least, he had not been overly serious up to this point. Even in the heat of war, Schuler’s mom often recounted Heydrich screaming obscenities at the enemy during a bombardment, walking the trenches naked while spitting out wads of bacco, and enjoying how a dead CFC soldier, a Tagger if memory served, fell after a kill shot. In the evening, Heydrich regaled his comrades with his many sexual escapades, being chased by jealous husbands and, in a few instances, jealous wives finding their husbands in precarious positions.

The look he gave Schuler signaled a man sure of something, “Everything.”

Heydrich placed a few coins on the table and made his way out. One waitress near the entrance squealed as Heydrich pinched her bottom, and the wink he gave her endeared him to her instantly. She playfully swatted him away and returned to gathering empty glasses, a lusty smile on her pretty face.

Halter remained outside the crowd, unsure how this had gone on for so long. He pushed in a little closer and tried to pick up the argument. “And I paid you fair and square, Donnelly. You never show up for work on time, and you consistently drink at that damn beer hall! You accuse me of stealing your wages? Best look in an empty cup, you sot!” The Ghishone shop owner’s face and neck, bejeweled in yellows and blues with swirls covering his forehead, stood out as the stereotypical Ghishone: more successful than the common person, far shorter than humans, and sporting shimmering marks one could see from miles away.

Schuler could now clearly see the shopkeeper, a haberdashery and quite a good one. The birthmarks came in all types of colors and patterns. Schuler never understood how genetics worked and really did not care much about it. He had to admit he found some of the true blood Ghishone women intriguing, almost taboo. Where could all those markings go, and would he be able to hunt them all out? Schuler dismissed images that would lead to his own embarrassment, especially in these new, snug pants. Humans and Ghishone could have children, known as Ghistain, that produced some intoxicating women. Schuler knew firsthand as he carried on a secret, torrid affair with a Ghistain named Alessandra. Affair? Schuler did not know much about her. Their relationship was purely physical. Yes, Alessandra needed visiting, and their “affair” explored much more.

“My friends,” Halter’s voice echoed out.

Oh, no. Schuler drained his glass and dropped coins on the table to cover tips. Nodding to a few familiar faces on his way out, Schuler straightened his hat and marched over to the crowd. Waiting for a trolley to pass and again amazed at the Ptero-messenger air traffic today, he found a spot to hear Halter and still remain outside the group.

“My friends,” this time louder and gaining the crowd’s attention. Curious pedestrians stopped on their way to also consider this interesting development. Speeches prior to the rally? “What has this shop done – what has this owner done?” Halter walked over and held his hand out, “I’m Aiden Halter.” The Ghishone man, dumbstruck, glanced at the crowd who hung on every word and realized his next action sealed his fate.

Grasping Halter’s hand, “Azienel Kanradel – pleasure to meet you.” The crowd settled. Halter, at a solid six-foot tall, forced the Ghishone man to peer up at him.

“Azienel, a pleasure.” Looking everyone over. “This man is a Mangorian like any of us here.” Schuler stepped in closer. “This is New Bern Day. A new government, a new peace, a new way for us all. Shall we start with fisticuffs…or,” pausing for effect, “…shall we begin with handshakes?”

The crowd hung on every word. “Donnelly,” walking over to the man, Halter grabbed him by the shoulders. “I know you. You know me. We have spent some time singing and drinking, yes?” Donnelly hesitantly agreed. “Now, I know you no longer have this job,” holding his hands up to forestall any debate, “I may have something coming up that we can discuss. You have, what? Two daughters?”

“Yes,” he nodded wearily and abashedly. “Two beautiful, Mangorian girls!” This last with pride. “Are they to go hungry now?”

Halter could think quickly on his feet. Schuler, again, saw those gears grinding away. Halter motioned to his new Ghishone friend, “Well, I’m sure Azienel will let you take,” looking over the storefront, “that beautiful hat. Surely, with that hat, any employer would welcome you.” Azienel looked back at the window and noticed the price tag. Looking a little perturbed directly at Halter, he understood this as the price of getting this crowd gone and back to business.

Donnelly studied the hat and looked back at Halter. “I suppose they would.”

Azienel wiped his hands on his jacket and entered the store. The crowd started to fall apart as the situation deflated and moved on to the next entertainment. Schuler heard one man mutter to his female companion, “Fucking, shimmers.” Another told a friend, “Shimmers never say the same thing twice. Did you know that?”

When handed the hat, Donnelly proudly donned his new acquisition, much surer of himself now. Halter said a few words to him directly, and Donnelly marched up to Azienel with his hand out. Both men shook, and Donnelly stumbled back down the street, probably to the next bar, to celebrate his new hat and what he thought was a major win. His companions fell amongst him and pounded him on the back for encouragement and to cement his perception of what just happened.

“I appreciate the help, Mr. Halter. I’m not happy to hand out free goods, yet that could have gone a lot differently. A few Ghishone stores have already seen no shortage of rocks through windows and other damage. I’m in your debt.” Picking up a broom, he began tidying up the area.

Schuler, thinking them somehow dismissed, recognized Halter not budging. “I wonder, Mr. Kanradel,” who stopped sweeping and gave Halter a measured look, “if I could perhaps see you tomorrow on that debt. You see,” thumbing at his already tired suit, “I’m also in need of something more respectable,” sensing some kind of protest, “and I assure you that something on your discount rack or perhaps last generation will be all that I ask.”

Schuler thought this might lead to another crowded confrontation, this time with Halter and one that would most assuredly result in damage to this haberdashery. “You’ll have it. I don’t want anyone to think I’m not appreciative.” This is said with some grudging respect. Halter and Kanradel shook on it, and Halter left him to his sweeping.

“So,” Halter glanced over, “you don’t happen to have that money you were going to use for my new suit, do you? Could I take that instead?”

Laughing out loud and away from Mr. Kanradel, “You my friend, are a dangerous adversary. You walk into a mess and come out with a suit.” The two quickly crossed the street as a trolley dinged loudly in protest, allowing a few to jump on and off. Deciding to spare coins for other endeavors, they waved off the trolley. Again, what a gorgeous day for walking and absorbing New Bern.

“Belatedly, I thank you for the beer.” Halter patted himself down. “I must say either I’ve been robbed, or this suit really has more holes than pockets.” Above them, more confetti rained in handfuls from tenants high above the street.

“Holes, yes, but those pockets would be empty regardless.” Schuler wiped away confetti and waved to those above.

“Harsh!” Winking at Schuler. “MWP membership fees are starting to help, so I don’t have to fund the party as much. Flyers, notebooks, paper – it adds up. Thankfully my repair work is very steady. Machinery breaks down quite frequently. I’ve always had a knack for figuring them out. We’ll see how it all goes.”

“What is this referral for Donnelly? I’m sure he will drink himself off of whatever opportunity that should be, new or old hat. And yes, I agree. You are part Kanich.”

Shrugging it away, “Donnelly’s lead is a stevedore position. I think he’s better qualified for that.”

“That’s good, my friend. You know, at any time…”

“Yes, I do. And it is much appreciated.” Stepping around a cart selling cheap Rex fillets. The Pilgrim only knew what that meat contained. “My father told me when I was very young that ability is distributed equally. That’s not the problem. Opportunity, now that’s a rare commodity. I need to keep searching for opportunity.”

Halter’s father died a hero, haunting and elevating Halter’s family, whatever good it did him. The fame failed to save Halter’s mother, who died of splotch fever a few months after losing her husband, a disease brought back with returning soldiers. His mother turned away charity to bear the burden of working-class pride, leaving Halter penniless. Orphaned, Schuler’s parents took Halter into their home. Their parents traveled in different circles and originated from vastly different places. War fostered bonds in unique ways, and the sons of soldiers, Schuler and Halter, grew up together like brothers.

“And don’t think, my brooding friend, that I am not thankful for all that your family has done for me. You have your name, and I have mine.”

“The Jayson name isn’t what it once was. Besides, your father.”

“Yes, he single-handedly took out a Stonenaut with a masher grenade, saving the unit, only to die in the explosion.” Halter had listened to and shared various iterations of this final stand. By no means annoying, just more exhausting to live in the shadow and carry the burden of expectations from others. What would a hero’s son become? “I’m proud. That is not the issue. What he gave me was something to live up to, and I intend to make the most of that.”

Leaving the more human segments of the city, things certainly became livelier and more interesting. At Four Corners, New Bern Day and a new Hetmun exponentially energized the typical carnival-like atmosphere one came to expect. Halter pointed to a troop of Nafqwin hovering mid-air and levitating empty milk bottles. The Nafqwin’s flowing robes enhanced the element of flight as their cloaks billowed around them. Ariel acrobatics sent the troop circling one another to the awe and delight of the crowd, and the milk bottles mimicked the same movement.

The Nafqwins, matching height variation with humans, sported thin frames and hairless bodies with as many colors as Ghishone, except that Nafqwin only maintained one color shade. Lacking any mouths and ears, their slick heads and faces sprouted a batch of tentacles that either hung in long, tight clumps in place of chins or sprung out of their heads, cascading down their bodies. Apparently, tentacles served prominently as status symbols to their kind. What that status granted eluded Schuler, who had not studied Nafqwin society in any detail to offer answers. These tentacles pulsed with light when Nafqwin communicated. Rather than a voice, the tentacles hummed words and phrases that mimicked speech. Schuler had even witnessed fellow Nafqwin joining their tentacles together for deeper conversation. What must sex be like? Schuler shuddered and banished the image from his mind.

All Nafqwin possessed latent talents with telepathy and telekinesis, unlike Apostles who required Phasm to empower themselves for similar feats. How did one take on a Nafqwin Apostle? Were Phasm-inclined Nafqwin born differently without innate powers? Did they lose these powers once in Phasm? Phasm, a closely guarded secret and dangerous to investigate, remained the sole realm of the Apostles. A news article covering the Nafqwin in a column may pose an interesting challenge. My editor may bite on this one. Wouldn’t an expose on all the races in the city be a grand topic? Perhaps the non-human races’ opinions on the new Hetmun? Schuler’s mind buzzed with ideas.

One of the Nafqwin dropped to the crowd, children ‘oohing and ahhing’ at the ability. Tentacles pulsing in a booming voice, “Now, my wonderful lads and ladies of Mangor. Look!” His greenish tentacles on his head whipped over the children. Pointing in the distance where the city scape cleared a gap, one could barely see the Obsidiem black Pyramid sitting by its lonesome. Not nearly as large as Mt. Zolti, the pyramid dominated that section of the sky.

“The mysteries of the Pyramid. Is it treasure? Unholy knowledge?” A few parents turned their faces at this and snatched their children away. Others chuckled to see their children blanch with fear. Continuing the theatrics, “Let me take you amongst the ruins and walk you through the past of the great and powerful Obsidiem. Before it’s fall to the Purpla. Before Mangor’s beginnings. The power of the 49 Equations. All will be revealed to you on this tour of the past and exploring the mysteries of the present.” His tentacles hummed with light.

The Nafqwin tour guide then levitated a model pyramid, to the crowd’s delight. “The next adventure awaits…will you be there?”

“Oh, mummy, I want to go!”

“Dad, can we please go?”

Disappointed children dispersed as their luckier colleagues handed over coins for tickets. Leaving the Nafqwin and the tour group, Halter pointed to another corner where spectators surrounded a small boxing ring. Schuler thought to himself, So much energy! As if the non-humans wanted to desperately ensure all knew their importance and how fun they were! And not that we were under their yoke at some point. Glancing back at the Nafqwin, Schuler could imagine being enslaved to the tour guide as some Obsidiem lord. Yes, that newspaper piece needed to be written.

Humans and non-humans shouted bets and encouragement to their chosen fighter as two Tayfeens jabbed and dodged in the ring, their wings strapped back to ensure no one cheated by swooping around. Slightly larger than Ptero-messengers, Schuler wearily peaked up to see a few dipping and diving at that moment; the Tayfeens wore small boxing shorts, shoes, and gloves. Human-like in appearance, Tayfeens used four wings to speed around with long, saggy ears pointed at the tips. The females could be gorgeous and often sang beautifully, such as Maud and the Three Gentlemen, who starred as the main attraction at posher night clubs. Schuler attended a performance with a girlfriend a few years ago and never forgot Maud’s voice. Purchasing a record or listening to the Talkey Box is adequate, but nothing beats live performances.

The bell rang, and the fighters retired to their corners for a brief rest. Additional Tayfeens floated around to watch, perhaps family members and friends rooting on their loved ones. These others wore what one expected of Tayfeens, like home-spun outfits in very bright colors, often decorated with bits and bobs such as feathers, bright buttons, and other random objects considered gaudy by most Mangorians. As a child, Schuler desired a Tayfeen for a pet. Unfortunately for him, Tayfeens would not take kindly to this enslavement, so he settled for reading about them and collecting whatever photographs he could find. From what he recalled and what academics could gather, Tayfeens built homes, grew families, organized in small tribes, and could war against each other. Any efforts to census Tayfeens and survey how many tribes existed faced vague Tayfeen responses such as “How can one count the grass in the wind?” or “When the waves recede, can we count the shells?” and other nonsensical answers.

For many years, Tayfeens faced down hunters trying to locate the source of their ensorcellment powders, still, a mystery to the College of Cardinals desperately searching for this secret. If asked, Tayfeens offered no information other than commenting on the dual suns’ patterns on that day or why crystals formed in the morning dew. These powders could befuddle, knock out, and charm, amongst the known properties, apparently at the will of the Tayfeen caster. Kanichs pursued a deal with the Tayfeens, fascinated with a powder offering numerous applications, and enhanced medicines with this ingredient. The original recipe and scope of these powders remained largely unknown, but operas and movies often deployed a Ghishone schemer who somehow got their hands on Tayfeen powder and used it for nefarious reasons. Our Ghishone Cousins, a tragedy during the reign of Caliph Konstance, featured the powder as the penultimate poison that killed Justice Enovalon and sparked a civil war. This five-part opera lasted over seven hours. Now opera out of reach for most Mangorians, the average citizen would recognize Dapper Digby’s movie Where is my bed, sir? and the multiple antics of getting Tayfeen powder confused with sugar. Laughing to himself, That was a very funny picture. Schuler caught Halter turning away from the fight and glancing up the street.

Knowing Four Corners would provide entertainment, those with any social messaging would appear for maximum effect. Eyes turned from the performances as a small band marched down the street surrounding a large Dimetrodon. Members of the Church of the Burned carried banners with “Freedom!” and “Slavery Makes us All Slaves!” Playing a traditional military march, the Dimetrodon’s spine sail broadcast messages on both sides, “Free CFC Tagrems!” said one side and the other, “Mangorian Society for Free Peoples.” The Church juggled many different causes, and slavery in the CFC especially drove much zeal from the devout. Why? Perhaps a slave meant someone who could not willingly attend church service? The CFC had many slaves, and the many independent city-states made their own rules, slavery in some and freedom in others. The problem became even murkier when trying to define ‘slave.’ Indentured servants could conceivably pay off debt for their freedom. Those truly born into a life of servitude rarely climbed out of their lot. Some CFC locations even created their slave workers, the Tagrems, using Kanich manufacturing to produce automatons to work menial and dangerous jobs.

Slaves from Jackston, remarkably close to the northern Mangor border, often escaped to Mangor, where the Church provided sanctuary and helped them adapt to Mangor’s free society. Tagrems fed a patented and secret formula, who found themselves across the border slipped into unconsciousness and died without prescribed nutrients. For non-Tagrems, branding marked an enslaved person for life, so no matter your original race, you were always labeled a slave despite any future success. These former slaves fell on Mangorian charity to survive. Halter often derided Mangor social welfare programs that supported foreigners. His editorials and speeches called out workers who needed improved health care and required unemployment benefits only to watch as Mangor taxes funded foreigner charity cases. Lately, rumors of war created more incremental waves of refugees fleeing south to Mangor.

The Church of the Burned band played loud and played well. Easily garnering attention, the Dimetrodon bellowed on queue as those surrounding the dino flipped their banners with similar messages against slavery and support for the Church. Why was Halter paying attention to this demonstration, a man who did not favor the Church and its practices? Bishop Mueller, the youngest Bishop in Mangor’s history, walked in front, arm in arm with her parishioners, her golden hair tied back and wearing a simple red robe striped with white and sporting a large, black sash, Mangorian flag colors, to show solidarity with the Church. Halter and Schuler most definitely opposed collaboration between the Church and the state. Schuler watched as the procession neared and Halter within the gaze of Bishop Mueller.

Their eyes met, and the Bishop missed a step in recognition of Halter. Schuler could swear a small smile crept on her face, thought she whipped back to her stage persona and shouted, “Free Mangor, Free CFC! No more slaves!” This brought some applause and a few “Freedom!” shouts. Mangorians wanted peace now and largely dismissed any causes that would spark further outrage with the CFC, thus the lackluster support. Still, other arguments reasonably outlined that freeing the CFC would reduce refugees to Mangor and stabilize their northern neighbor. Perhaps. Schuler needed to understand this more and knew Halter would have a position already well thought out.

Trailing the Bishop’s retinue, devotees danced and jumped into the air. All in unison, “Pilgrim’s light guide us. Pilgrim. Pilgrim. Light be with us. Embers burn us. Ash. Ash. We all come to light. Pilgrim’s light guide us. Pilgrim. Pilgrim...” The entourage continued down the street, and the Four Corners performers restarted, hoping for more coins.

Walking up behind Halter, “That was unexpected.”

Halter smiled. “Yes.” Down the street, the small parade gathered a few citizens to join the march and turned a corner out of view. Schuler waited a moment until Halter turned back to him. “She looked good, didn’t she?”

“The robe certainly hid most features that I would use to qualify that statement, and yet I feel I must be a gentleman and not think about such things, especially in discussing with who I believe is her…what? lover?”

Half the crowd at the boxing match cheered as the other half tore up betting slips in frustration. One of the Tayfeen fighters lays flat on his back as the show owner fanned him with a betting slip and starts dealing out coins to winners. Not having bet anything, both made their way back to the main street and continued to the rally. “Lover?” Halter seemed to think that over. “I’m not sure what we are. We enjoy each other’s company, that is true. Are we dating? I’m not sure that’s even allowed, right?”

“Oh, let me regale you on the rules of the Church. After all, don’t you see me reading the Ash Scriptures daily and attending services?”

Laughing, “And which of us went to New Bern College?” Halter had him there.

“I must have missed that lesson. I would hope a Bishop would play by some of the rules. And besides,” stopping as children ran out of a candy store with goodies bundled in their arms, “my journalism and writing degree didn’t really focus attention on religious beliefs.”

Ahead, one of New Bern’s news agencies deployed a large chalk board outlining immediate headlines. Too large to be directly on the street, pedestrians stepped into the cul-de-sac and scanned for anything interesting. Above the street for better viewing, newsies straddled catwalks to erase and then write out new information. On one of several satellite news boards across the city, one woman held a telephone and spoke to others who recorded large, bulleted statements. The main board, much larger with a grand space, resided several blocks away and reported via phone to the other locations.

“You gotta be joking!” one main pointed to a headline. “The New Bern Marauders stink!” looking back at the man beside him, “Can you believe it? That’s 5-0 so far.” The other man laughed, kissed what Schuler assumed was a husband, and pulled the sports fan away, still complaining.

Schuler peered up with Halter. “That really is quite bad. The fullback, Tanner, still can’t recover from his injury. I heard they even deployed Kanich medicine to try and fix his leg.”

Halter, distracted, scanning through the ever-changing language, “What’s that?”

“The score. Beaten by the Dunkirk Hooligans. We need to see a Marauders home game when they return. Just hoping Tanner will be better by then. He really is a delight to watch.”

“Seats are cheap. That’s for sure. And you can now bring your own beer and food.” Leaving the news board behind, “Oscar likes them a lot. It would be good to take him out as soon as he’s better. The season will be over soon, so hopefully, we can catch a game.”

Halter and Schuler crossed the street, awaiting the trolley to pass and one larger carriage pulled by an overly muscular Raptor. Picking up their prior conversation, Schuler noted, “You could have gone to college as well, and you opted not to. I’m not berating you, just reminding.”

“I know. I felt I was of more value in earning my keep with a job directly out of primary school and learning a trade. Your father was always kind and understanding. I could steal all your books and read what I needed to get the basics. Oratory is not something you learn. It’s something you live and something, I dare say, you are born with. I realize some techniques and forms are certainly teachable. That spark, though, the intimacy of meeting someone’s eyes and drawing them in. That flutter to the stomach as you look over the audience. That’s not in a book or lecture notes.”

“You excel there. I do have the basics down.” While no competition to Halter, Schuler could hold his own in a debate and had spoken to audiences in the past. Schuler recalled his mother saying Halter’s father displayed the same oratory strength, a man who could talk you out of a fight and lighten the mood in the room with a simple quip.

“Most definitely. You do very well. Your writing ability certainly comes in handy there. I always enjoy your presentations.”

Halter stopped where a Kanich stood behind a wooden kiosk displaying tinker toys. Not just any tinker toys, Kanichs relished engineering challenges and wanted their exclusive inventions and crafts to stand out beyond any other. Human tinker toys that spun around and usually flipped over, more cheaply built and much more cheaply priced, could never compare. These Kanich fashioned toys of supreme quality, and children, already enthused with the celebrations, begged parents for zloties to buy one of the well-crafted innovations. Halter watched as the Kanich cranked a miniature Ptero-spitfire that sailed into the air, buzzed very happily, and settled in the same spot as softly as landing on a pillow.

Impressed, Halter picked up one of the toys. “This is fine work, sir.” Halter raised his eyebrows at the price. “Selling many?”

“Not as many as I would like,” the raspy voice softly responded. Nearly eight feet tall, the Kanich bent to be more eye level with a potential customer. Wearing simple workers’ garb, Halter now recognized the tattoos covering the Kanich’s entire hands. “I’m sorry. I have no child to spoil here and not enough zlotties even if I did. Probably less so in that case.”

The Kanich, used to this response, “Understood. I wish I could price these more reasonably. The materials and cost to fashion,” shrugging his wide but thin shoulders in a very human-like gesture, “place my ROI within already tight margins.” The hairless blue face, haggard, presented a familiar sight to Halter, who spoke to many unemployed who wore the same worrisome expression. No matter whether humans, Nafqwin, Tayfeen, or Ghishone, out of work meant the same to all.

“Best of luck to you.” Halter stepped away as the Kanich nodded his thanks and kept spinning the toys high into the air to the delight of the children.

“Bankrupt, yes?” Schuler stayed back and overheard the conversation.

“Yes, the tattoos on his hands. These supposedly detail his Kanich crimes and infringements against the Factory that caused his banishment. Who knows what they mean? He’s making out as best he can.” Halter stopped to let a large crowd of well-dressed men and women, obviously all together, walk past him on the sidewalk. “You have to give him that.”

“Or her.” Schuler knew even less about Kanichs than he did Nafqwin, only that Kanich goods cost plenty.

“True. I don’t know the distinguishing factors. I hear some get their fingers broken, and in some cases, their hands completely removed.”

“Barbaric.” Stepping into the moving crowd, “Like the CFC and how they treat prisoners.” Schuler may be ignorant of the Church and the many races (That piece sounds more and more like a grand idea!), though he knew the Border War histories well. The CFC enjoyed their prisoners and made torture part of the experience. Interviews of Mangorian POWs outlined spectator fights for food and having to dismember fellow soldiers to ensure the safety of all the prisoners.

Halter let that sit. Stopping at a pretzel cart, “That beer is fading, and I’m hungry. Want one?” At Schuler’s expression. “What? War talk makes me hungry.”

Schuler and Halter dressed their pretzels in spicy mustard and onions, “So we both agree you are the better speaker.” Halter waited for Schuler’s point, nearly inhaling the fresh pretzel. “No matter our oratory skills, if we keep eating like this, no woman will want our company for very long, and I doubt even you could get any additional seats for the party, my friend.” Halter nearly dropped his pretzel from laughing.

****Palace Grounds, New Bern Day****

Halter raced through the entrance and stood to simply absorb the energy. The palace grounds echoed with cheers as Mangor flags of all sizes dotted the fields. Groups congregated and shared refreshments, some pouring out great pints from casks, as children ran through the crowds with Mangorian flag streamers flapping in the air behind them. A band closer to the palace played several folk tunes, all praising Mangor and some lamenting heroes lost long ago in the numerous conflicts with the CFC, most notably Jackston. Random groups would take up a song as a few members capered around, spilling beer and leaving their friends laughing on the grass. Pilgrim’s smoke! What would I do if I wasn’t Mangorian? Halter felt chills overcome him and thought perhaps the beer had not worn off as he thought.

“I see them over there,” Schuler pointed to a corner where a few acolytes of the Mangor Workers Party and the newly appointed two members of the Lower House enjoyed a picnic.

Halter and Schuler made their way over and were soon embraced by the group, especially Halter, their party leader. “My oh my!” Gladys waved a hand in her face. “Several beers and a rather pungently adorned pretzel, yes?”

“Schuler predicted it! You foretold well, my friend. No speeches for me unless I want a catatonic audience.”

“They will be catatonic regardless.” Konrad slammed down a beer and gobbled at some cheese and crackers. “Do you think these folks care a wit about the state of affairs?” All looked at each other and rolled their eyes. In his cups, Konrad seemed to forget this was New Bern Day and lamented his ever-growing disappointment with the citizens at large. Halter originally defended against several complaints for Konrad at the beginning of the party, specifically Schuler, who doubted Konrad’s sobriety to cast a vote.

Halter poured himself a pint and snatched a pastry. “Oh, Konrad. Let’s leave off the discussions for today and simply revel in the greatness of our country.” Taking a seat, “Cheers, my friend. We have much work to do, but our mighty two seats will continue to fight the good fight. And you,” gobbling up the pastry, “are essential to making this happen.”

Konrad drained the last of his cup and nodded to Halter. “That is true, very true. I am, after all, well connected and abhor,” this last part getting louder and louder, “the detestable practices that diminish our great citizen workforce and make them all virtual Taggers!”

Halter winced. Heads turned, and a few children put their hands to mouths in surprise. ‘Tagger,’ a dirty word in even the most uncouth audiences, referenced the unending manufactured slaves languishing in the CFC and served as a powerful slur. “My friend,” Halter took on a tone and wore a facial expression of absolute controlled anger. He hated this side of himself and recognized the shocked expression from Schuler. Rarely did Halter direct rage this way. “I think now,” taking Konrad’s cup and setting it on the blanket, “is a good time for you to excuse yourself. You can read about the speeches in the papers tomorrow as you and I go through and prepare responses. Otherwise,” Halter kept his voice level, “things may get out of hand and diminish our labors to date. Yes?”

The statement and tone smacked Konrad nearly sober. Konrad nodded weakly, stood up, almost toppling over, and steadied himself against Schuler. Halter waived over Marich, an aide hired to assist the MWP with scheduling and other clerk duties. Handing Konrad to Marich’s care, “See him home and let his sister know he needs to stay in. You’ll miss the boring stuff, trust me.” Originally disappointed, Marich now perked up that he wouldn’t miss the good parts and assisted Konrad on his way home. Schuler furthered Marich’s enthusiasm and ease of transport with some coins to hire a carriage.

“Why you let that sot…” Schuler could say much more.

“Konrad has essential management contacts in many of the companies where our members are employed, right?” Halter poured several pints and handed them out to the group, no one as drunk as Konrad. To Gladys, “And you have so many constituents that believe in you that we are here largely because of your influence. Your five years in the Citizens Party only adds to our esteem.”

Gladys picked at a few items, the T-Rex giblets particularly delightful and paired well with the bitter lager. “That and a few more slices of bread win me what?”

“Why a seat on the Lower House, of course!” Everyone laughed. Halter turned to review the grounds again, the fine outfits, fine weather, and most importantly fine company. “Does anyone have a pamphlet?” Halter scanned through the program: a few upfront speakers, the former Hetmun, the swearing-in of Hetmun Babendorf, and finally, her speech.

“I can’t wait to hear Hetmun Kersok and watch him slink off the stage,” Schuler vocalized what all silently thought.

“And hopefully eaten by a Raptor.” Gladys threw a cheese wedge mid-air and caught it in her mouth, polishing this off with a cracker and two apple wedges.

Wendy, her wife, an incredibly beautiful redhead in very excellent shape, wrapped an arm around Gladys. “Soon, it will take both my arms to wrap you in a hug.”

“Wretched woman!” Gladys forced a cracker and cheese into Wendy’s pouty mouth. “And fair point. I can’t be known as the largest of the MWP.”

“Well, we may have bakers and brewers soon. If you visit your constituents enough, you may indeed be the widest of us.” Halter took that occasion to eat some apples and cheese.

“Speeches, meetings, and many editorial letters,” Gladys nodded to Halter. “If we can eat, we’ll be lucky. Drinking, well, beer halls do make excellent places to speak. We will all be speaking publicly in the next few days to keep the momentum. We need to build on this excitement. Look around!”

Schuler picked at a few morsels. Speaking directly to Halter, “Beer halls! You put Konrad there, and you will be looking around. Looking around for him.” Schuler chuckled to himself.

“My fellow Mangorians!” The microphones boomed across the grounds and sent the crowds cheering and applause. “To get our glorious day started and our new Hetmun,” this last with plenty of applause, “let’s begin with more music!” Applause and cheers continued.

“Poor, poor Kersok,” Gladys swatted away Wendy’s light and playful slap.

“I would like to get our orchestra…aren’t they playing wonderfully?” More applause and cheers. “Let’s all stand and salute our flag. Please, look forward to our Mangorian flag featured on our stage.” The flag snapped high on the flagpole so that all could see, even those some distance from the palace grounds. The clear sky and both suns illuminated the black, red, and white colors wonderfully. Mt. Zolti hovered in the sky like a proud father watching his children. In the harbor, the massive statue, Our Soldier, the founding Mangorian father Antonine Mangor, proudly considered the capital city and his distant ancestors.

All in unison stood. Halter would remember that moment for a long time, as if the entire crowd fell into a Phasm-like trance, the flag serving as their Totem of Mangorian grandeur, and collectively inhaled the spirit of the moment. From this day forward, things were going to change. Lungs full of Mangorian righteousness and purity, Halter saw that non-humans remained noticeably absent at this event. This made this moment even more remarkable. It felt right, and it felt proper. As the band started Triumph of Uxa, Tux as Mangorians referred to the anthem, the crowd collectively began to sing, as did all members of the MWP.

Halter let the words roll through him and fixated on the term ‘Uxa,’ based on the Phasm Orquon that highlighted the five pillars: Uxa, Enhancement, Elements, Mind, and Phasm. Uxa focused on the essence of spirit and souls, sometimes used nefariously for necromancy, producing demonic rogue souls clawing their way back to the living. Halter appreciated that Mangor chose a theme offering two sides to a coin where death and destruction resided opposite life and creation. He would have to remember that – a new editorial piece?

The anthem concluded:

“The land our parents died,

our homes, our families’ pride,

our enemies will always fall…”

This last note hung heavy, and the orchestra extended the crescendo for full effect. Heavy applause and cheers drowned out the orchestra. Some openly wept. Veterans snapped salutes, and couples hugged each other closer. Very few here experienced the Border Wars unscathed, and undoubtedly, memories of loved ones and horrors in battle bubbled up. A final cathartic line summed up the crowd’s emotions, who all collectively sang, “Mangor…the…brave…”

The band extended again and kept the notes hanging until a final crash of symbols, horns, and drums concluded the anthem. To everyone’s surprise and delight, five cannons fired a final crescendo.

The cheers and applause sent vibrations through Halter. Closing his eyes, he soaked in the voices and the shouts, the energy pulsing in his chest, this same energy that had him stand up in the beer hall a year ago and pronounce a new party was needed. A party for the worker, a party for the Mangorian citizen. The Mangor Workers Party. Things were never going to be the same.