[b]4:54 PM, Late February, Nuevo Bolívar, Federal Palace of the Counterrevolution[/b]

Sun sets past its midpoint, minuano blows, fire rises. The city glitters, sparkles, a sea of glass and bleached steel interspersed with green. A bustling center of transit and movement in the middle of the Amazonian jungle. But even now, former Manaus-- rechristened Nuevo Bolívar-- has reached only a fraction of its full potential. Apartment blocks and offices lie empty with the great construction now finished, the shovel-ready work moved on to other projects for the present and the transit of innumerable corporate and industrial headquarters yet incomplete. As much as the new Union and the city's designers aspired for it to be the picture of movement, once the greater part of the work finished, the city seemed stymied somehow, sluggish relative to its ideal. 

Though the streets were wide, the traffic was not a constant stream, but came in unsteady bursts through the shine of window-refracted light. Closed to the world, however prosperous, the young city and federation could only manage so much. Compared to the alternative of an anarchic ruin, still, one could do little to complain. The citizenry was happy and vibrant. The streets were clean, orderly. The industry, however nascent by the standards of the Union, produced in quantity and quality. And the nagging trouble of those last few dissidents, the hystericals and the partisan, was by now entirely pacified, nonextant as a conscious class capable of action.

The only problem on the mind of the Presidente, then, was that matters stayed this way.

In a high tower of the Federal Palace, central to the city, blue as the sky and white as ivory, Ramon was at work, near alone in the spartan office. The furnishings amounted to his own desk, a coffee table, necessary and reserve seating, an optical pane-simulated window. All quite uniformly white, egg-shaped, a sterile early twenty-first century image of the future, adopted for his own office mostly ironically. 'Mostly' as, while he found the aesthetic overly minimalist, Ramon also found that the discomfort caused by the chairs- not his own, which was an old reclining swivel-type with newly matching upholstery- was an asset against certain foreign diplomats, the posture and principle-lacking, inclined to languish backwards in comfort. The comedic value of the resultant squirming was merely a bonus. 

Besides himself and discounting some of the furnishing's dumb AI, there were only two people in the room: one bearing features somewhere between that of the European and Han Chinese ideal, tall, sharp-cheeked and relatively flat-nosed, though curiously pale, of green eyes and slicked-back jet hair, monickered Nineteen. He watched the door, not so much expecting movement as anticipating it. The other was a pardo man, pseudonym Jose Araujo, a hint of dark about him, long brown hair drawn back into a ponytail, eyes a similar shade- albeit hidden behind a visor of light- bemusedly jabbing into the open air. A boxing holo-game, one of many billed fitness-oriented simulators that had regained popularity in the idealist upswing. A characteristically trivial use of a less than trivial technology, and the purpose-minded and purpose-set Presidente was ill amused, more focused on his own use of the technology.

The holographic expanse of civil reports, pre-contract outlines, grassroots policy propositions, surface-level things without particular need of security, was seemingly without end. As for the secure files, though definitely finite, they took the form of file after file, stacks of them each a foot and a half high, save an unbalanced and yet unread and unfiled tower rising to four. His brow twitched slightly with every punch, every weave and chuckle. "Jose, it is not necessary that you do that here. Or now. Or at all. Most certainly not as the world is set to burn. Always Europe, center of advancement, center of ludicrous catastrophes and inane political movements!" he half-snarled. "No, but as you can see, I am doing it anyways, boss," Jose retorted, chuckling derisively as he weaved past a virtual blow. In the moment, it escaped Ramon as to why he had chosen such a mouthy man as his wartime and then peacetime confidant, and he dismissed the thought before it could frustrate him. There was simply no time for it. 

He increased his pace, scanning each report for anything useful, any idea of import. A task for his subordinates, to be sure, but Ramon had made a point of analyzing anything and everything. Nothing could slip by or through, and it was a task that would kill an unaided, ordinary man. He was lucky that he was not so ordinary, but he had begun to strain, slowing. Drawing past one more screen, a bout of shakes set in; another, and the stream of mostly-junk information was finished, wheat finally threshed from the chaff. He grinned, breathed deep; no sigh of relief escaped his lips. The work was a matter of satisfaction, purpose, not pain. This satisfaction was brief, soon interrupted by virtual cheers of adulation, Jose's arms thrown into the air in almost evangelical glee, receiving the word of Himself as given by a novel virtual victory. Sympathetic shame boiling up, he only gave himself a moment before he set back into work, drawing an ULTRASECRETO-stamped black file from the top of the shortest of the stacks, plainly titled PROYECTO LUCIFER. "Nineteen, before I make the address, when after can I expect Senator Langley-"

The silvery-white office door, to which Nineteen's eyes had been glued, hissed open, in true high future fashion. It exhaled, displacing itself into the wall, and revealed Langley and his staff to the three, Ramon, Nineteen, and Jose. He stood there, as if presenting himself before an audience, a show before he truly got to business. It gave the three a good look at the man they’d only really worked with through electronic and written correspondence before now. He was tall, not freakishly so, but he was perhaps a head above the tallest of the trio, five inches over Nineteen’s six feet, and at the same time he was not at all lanky. He was broad of shoulder, with the bearing and build of a professional athlete, perhaps a football player. He wasn’t some pasty, old politician. He had an intense, focused gaze. One that challenged, and more often than not asserted dominance over, those he even exchanged glances with. Young, vital, powerful, the sort of leader that America would do well to be represented by. He was a change from the typical perception of both Imperial and old democratic officials. And he had the attitude to match, not dissuaded by the four black-suited security officials who had been calling after him his whole ascent through the palace. He gave them barely a glance. He was here to see Ramon, not to be detained, and it didn’t seem as though anyone had the capability to stop him. 

“Now,” the tall Han warrior deadpanned.

Senator Austin Langley, who met the opposition of security and the gaze of one of the most powerful politicians on earth with a wide, almost smug smile. “Ramon!” He raised a hand and inclined his head as he strode inside, one sure, defiant foot ahead of the other. “The man! In the flesh! How about it? I know I’m a little early, but I figured I’d take a moment to, ah, touch base with you before things got underway.” 

Ramon set his gaze on the man, a piercing, pointed thing in contrast to Langley’s. His was not a matter of assertion, but subversion; analyzing and deconstructing, curious. He stood, sliding the black folder aside, and leveled his gaze a moment, silent. One might hear a pin drop to the smooth, composite floor. “You’re taller than the videophone showed,” he stated simply.

Langley gave an affirmative ‘hah’, in response and moved ahead to meet the man, and shake hands over the desk. He received such with an auditory clap and a grip like a vice, Ramon giving as good as he got. Even a head shorter than Langley and an inch below Nineteen, he was built wide and strong, a heavyweight boxer to Langley’s football star. “Hostilities have broken out. Sabres are rattling worldwide. Where am I needed?” he asked simply, with a warm smile and a curt nod. Entirely unflappable.

Langley disengaged from the brisk, but overall genuine handshake, and beckoned over his shoulder to one of his staffers. A man carrying a tablet, which he offered to Langley, who in turn handed it off to Ramon. “We decided to get a little flashy with presentation, but it’s all there. A big, abridged summary of what my boys in the Caribbean are getting up to. Proposed fronts. Projected advances. They plan on leveling Emperor Washington’s palace by July. They’re going all in. Every last man and woman. Brandley and the other Joint Chiefs believe they can sustain the offensive, but I have my concerns.”

The grin dropped, stoic business resumed as Ramon seated himself. “State them. The Army is prepared to deliver the Mexican military in chains and on silver plate. Our vessels are prepared to support. Multirole fighters can fly over where and when needed. Electronic warfare will ensure silence in all things, and as I recall, the satellites will not be a problem, your people having seen to as much.”

The senator gave an incredulous, bitter little chuckle as he moved to take a seat across from Ramon. His staff moved in to huddle around behind him, more like a flock of birds than congressional workers. The door wheezed shut again behind them, and the Senator’s demeanor changed, grew stormy and irritable just as quickly as it sealed. “Washington’s lackeys got wise to the work of our activists. They revamped the software, closed systems, tighter security protocols on sight. Even arrested a few of our inside men. The satellites are still functioning, but Brandley and company decided not to stall. They’ve been spooked. Someone’s lurking out in the northwest, and it isn’t that overglorified Cascadian People’s Biker Gang. Someone big,” he unfolded his arms and threw up a resigned shrug, “He’s risking four carriers and their escorts. If the Empire gets its eyes on them there’ll be kinetic strikes in no time flat.”

Ramon clasped his fingers, brow furrowed. “Then there’s little to be done. We have no deployed aerospace assets that can…”

“Well,” Langley announced, more than loudly enough, “I guess we’re left with only one option.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I’ll make the call, authorize ICBM strikes. Not the cleanest way to get those Imperials to fight fair, but it’ll do the job.” He smiled, despite the fact that he was apparently about to authorize multiple nuclear strikes, in space, and endanger astronauts, world communications, global GPS, and on and on.

Ramon blinked, faltering only momentarily. “The resulting disruption will make a mess of the offensive. The use of strategic nuclear weapons will give the Empire every reason to call you as a radical, a terrorist, despite the use not directly endangering the population by blastwave or fallout. And despite the disproving of M.A.D, no man willing to press the button on anything above a tactical scale and trigger the scenario, the risk is absolutely untenable to take. That is not an option,” he sternly explained. He leaned in, head and shoulders low. “Yeesh, the headgames again, boss. Does it have to be like this every time someone comes in the office? Never a ‘hello,’ no niceties, it’s always ‘thermonuclear war this’ and ‘the continued extance of the hysterical movements’ that.” Jose threw back a loose tress of hair, sighing. Nineteen promptly shushed him.

“Heh,” Langley chuckled, shaking his head, “Don’t give him so much shit. It’s refreshing. He’s a man with his priorities straight, you know? But, well,” he paused, grinning, “The Sons launching missiles would invite retaliation in kind. It’s not an acceptable move. It’s the last resort. Now, if we could destroy the platforms through more conventional means … well, we’d be in business, wouldn’t we? You know, a little bird told me you might have just the thing locked up in the Andes.”

“Just the thing, and not one you are supposed to know about.” He drew the black folder over again, pressing it firmly shut. “It is to my knowledge that, generally, good allies do not engage in espionage of one another’s top-secret projects.” The calm, analytical look was gone now, replaced by an intenseness. Not so base as anger, or even rage; Ramon simply stared through his opposite, a look as to question why he was there, rather than torn up and away in the whirlwind.

He wasn’t dissuaded by the borderline scolding, the Senator who sat across from Ramon, no, instead he reacted peculiarly, with a twinkle in his eye and a twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrayed a suppressed grin. “You wouldn’t have half your damn projects if it wasn’t for my flotilla, if it wasn’t for Brandley’s boys bleeding out on the Canaveral runways. We made you just as much as you’ll make us. That is, if you plan on pulling your weight. Besides,” he chuckled, “good allies don’t keep secrets from each other in the first place.”

Ramon nodded, very slightly. Cast his eyes downwards to the folder. And broke into a laugh. The tension in the room vanished, from the presidente’s confidants and the staffers alike “Well, it wasn’t going to stay secret for very much longer anyways. Needed field testing anyways.” He flipped the folder open, revealing the contents to all. A somewhat humanoid mechanized combat frame: angular, booster-laden, equipped with manipulators rather than linked weaponry, bristling with pop-out missile arrays. A novel-looking power source shown in diagram, looking more the like of free energy conspirational talk than any contemporary device. At this, he grinned proudly, before glancing up to the staffers, intense again. “This is all strictly confidential, you understand. You never saw, nor heard, nor heard of hearing of any of this.”

“I’m not much of an engineer anyways, Ramon. You’ll get your test launch, though. One that’ll really make the grade,” Langley said. He was almost dismissive of the war machine, despite his obvious need of its capabilities. He’d gotten what he wanted after all. The acquiescence of the Presidente. A knockout punch in space to accompany the one on land. “You ready to address the citizens of the world?”

 “In a moment.” The folder was slid aside, still open and now fanning out like a hand of cards. Not an unapt description, though now the hand was shown and the house was set to lose. One of the more curious staffers not-so-nonchalantly peeked over the stack of papers to glance over it, turning his head this way and that to make out the Spanish, but swiftly rectified his mistake after another glare from the Presidente, turning to the now far more intriguing sight of the sim-window and the city streets it showed. A small red phone, wired, secure, popped free from a slideaway panel in the desk’s top. An absolute relic, with rotary dial. He dialed deliberately, not hiding his enjoyment of each rhythmic ‘click-click-click’ as it wheeled back to 0. He spoke only two, rather simple words into the receiver before he hung up. “Activate it.” Then, he cast his gaze downwards, to the papers, rolled neck and shoulders, stretched in place. “Right, right… It’s five PM, is it? Of course it is. Every day.” He breathed deep, allowing himself a moment of retreat into himself, a moment of clarity. “Every day until the dissidents like it.” The door sealed, a hum filling the air. The files were simply erased from sight; replaced by the clean though illusory surface of the desk. The staffers, too, were gone, and quickly shooed aside by Nineteen and Araujo, the latter making no effort to conceal his amusement.

“Nifty,” the American senator commented, “Some real American ingenuity here. No fuss no muss.” He was still used to the traditional format of press events. Teleprompting. Choreography. Major media outlets’ presences. The works. This almost felt, well, informal to him. “South American ingenuity, too, senator. Don’t forget that, while you might have jumpstarted things in the vein of the high technological in my dear Union, we have made more than our share of contribution to the effort of further advancement.”

“Just try to keep your one-upmanship off the air, El Presidente,” he muttered, grinning despite himself. “Let’s get this going. I’ve got a pirate radio station I need to take the piss out of.” Langley smoothed down his suit jacket and tweaked his stars and stripes pin that was affixed prominently to his lapel, a throwback, and a very clear statement of his intended future. This elicited a grin from Ramon, who, in standing, found his clothes simply smoothed themselves out. “I think I know the station you’re referring to… Well, in any case, I’ll save one-upsmanship for the battlefield, don’t worry.” He cleared his throat, chuckled, and smiled. The public face was on.

Across the nation, by radio, by television, by internet streams both pirate and new-net, from the high blocks of the futurist urban expanses to the still-rural native stretches, for those with the most infrastructure and the least, a signal rasped to life. A few bars of ‘Himno de Sudamerica’ rang out, and faded just as quickly. Before a nation considered as impossible, Presidente Federal Ramon M. Leon Albino stood calm and resolute as any before or after him.

[b][5:00 PM, a bunker somewhere in the Andes…][/b]
The forest. Amidst rain and birds, and the trill of native flutes, so was he. Though, who he was was beside both his concern and his interest. Crystal light flowed like honey; all around was syncretic; he, the perceiver, was at once with himself and everything. And then all was black, consumed by a shadow-woman, wreathed in bone to devour the stars.

Pilot-00 lost and gained all in one moment, awakened in a great chemical jolt of lancing heat and painful awareness. Green Lightning, chemical agent and premier combat drug of the frame pilot without plans for the future. “Red alert. You are now active, PIlot-00.” Reality settled in. His vision was locked behind composite visor, and the suit clung as always, an iridescent second skin of temperature and hormone-regulating nanoweave, more familiar to him than his own flesh by now. The cockpit drew him from lying position to seated; there were no separate quarters on duty, and there were not enough spare pilots for a system of leave yet. He minded little. It gave him time for the dreams.

“Citizens of the Union, to you, my words must be short, and in English, which some small number of you may not be so familiar with even in this day and age, and for this, I apologize. Citizens of the United States- and it is still the United States, no matter what pretender may crown himself there- to you, my words must be to the point and little else.” His tone lacked the usual coolness, replaced by urgency. Video fed by hologram within the frame, Ramon had taken on more than an unusual sternness, a passion and anger.

Voices echoed over his comm, many beside the President. “All hands, prepare for immediate full-scale launch! This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill!” Men, small and fragile from 00’s perspective, scattered through the main bay as his interstellar combat frame skidded into place, tremendous blast doors yawning open in sequence, revealing long stretches of track on heavy disks of concrete- rotated aside to not block the doors- spinning to meet and link, form a complete path to the heavens. A novel thought, somewhat foggy, but one he cherished; to walk the stars not in dream or simulation, but a true launch.

“As I speak to you now, in our country, in that of our brothers-in-arms, and to those afar, hostilities have broken out across the North and Central Americas. Across Imperial territory, the Sons of Liberty have launched into major offensives, and the Empire is reeling. But this is not enough. They do not have the manpower; they do not have the munitions; and they will not have the depth or breadth of offensive movement for long, if only because of Imperial aerospace weapons. They will break the back of the Empire and be broken on it, and these hystericals-- persisting in their existence in the west-- will see that the knife is planted firmly in the back of any legitimate democracy in the ruins!” With a wave of his arm, the idyllic view of the holo-window behind vanished, replaced by Washington burning, many-cratered and devoid of life.

The scramble continued beneath 00’s feet. His ‘brothers’ slept in deep recesses in the mountain walls, raised up as olympian Gods in the temple as he took his place in the center-room. Beneath gantry and beside loads of munitions, 00 locked into proverbial saddle. “Sixty seconds to launch, clear the bay!” Limbs, both his and those of the frame, locked into limited traverse. Head-mounted primary optics receded into the chest, and the frame bent, lowering its 

“To them, we cannot offer mere sympathy. Thirty-one years ago, the Empire declared war upon us, not openly, but by subterfuge. This alliance of the corrupt, the decadent, the financial-cultural and the intellectually incestuous, to whom nations are anathema, to whom freedom is neither right, nor privilege, but construct, to whom peoples become equalist quotas and entire cultures become marks of shame and tumors of cancerous, undeserved pride all at once! We do not forget the old Union, we do not forget its puppeteering, we do not forget the Neo-Contras and we do not forget the Regime Wars, where agitators and agents-- either of formal Imperial intelligence, or merely by subscribing to the Empire’s political refuse-- put our continent to the torch. On white horse, the Empire went to conquer. Wreathed in red, it set us against one another, to kill and be killed. On black, it raped our economies, starved us, saw only to more death, and the hystericals on ashen horse rode. The Empire followed them.”

The bay was clear, no mortal men below, nor the missiles given as bolts unto 00, safely locked away into armored side bays. The heat and pain of the drugs lingered, but clarity only increased. “Thirty seconds to launch.” 00 shuddered as an ear-splitting crack rang through the entire craft, followed by a great whirring as the counterrotating fissile rings set into their paces. A thermoelectric sun burned brightly in its chest, and even past its containment, through layers of carbon nanotube and iridium alloying, he could see the light, not as men see, but by divinity. By this he would ascend. Maybe the delirium wasn’t fully gone. He didn’t mind.

“We fought, and we died. I fought, and died, more than once. Saved from stopped heart by bullet, gas and microwave suppressive-torture by the novelties of advance in field medicine. Others were not so well-equipped, others were not so lucky, and perished but once for the cause. This we did for our homes, for our families, for a faint hope of a better tomorrow. This we had and have in kind with the Sons. By our blood and sweat, we succeeded, survived, persevered through the interwar and forged a new state, a better state, one serving our own interests, by our own interests, and for our interests. But America, despite similar social cataclysm, has devolved further into this dreck, replacing party line with god-king strongman.”

“Ten seconds to launch!”

“Despite this, America has not rallied behind its own interests, behind its native ones, behind democracy, behind republic, as America was always intended to be. Despite the winning of so many hearts and minds, so many more have ignored the call to arms. But, then, perhaps they have not the arms, nor the hands to wield them.”

“Three, two, one. Ignition.”

Plasma boosters scream to life, more efficient and more powerful than barely above millinewton-scale VASIMR and its contemporaries. More importantly, far better powered, not by primitive steam-fission or by the contemporary fusion, but a confusing thermonuclear-magnetic-electric array. 00 considered a moment that this was the most extreme stress-test the design had had in its lifetime, that he was essentially riding a supernova. The sudden boost to hundreds of kilometers per hour put those thoughts out promptly.

Seconds later, 00 was beneath the sun again, setting to a violet sky. A purple haze. The track extended through the Andes, for miles, but breaking into the hypersonic, he was clearing ground rapidly. A brief moment of ascent, inertia and vertigo; a sense of slope; and then, into the open sky, the mountainside ramp cleared. A final moment of this, a hang in the air. And then he burst forth in a spiral of sky-blue light, far off and into the Imperial low orbit.

“We have considered this problem, and we are more than capable of remedying it. So we will. If they seek to strike from the stars, then we will tear down the heavens, and bring the mountains down about their heads!”

00 strode the celestial without a care in the world. Limbs freed, he stretched as much as he could in the premium that was cabin space. The shadow-woman was there again on monitor, a tzitzimitl, watching after, not over him. A matter of curiosity, not protection. The forest grew up in the cracks between the infinite light, drawing them together in vine and branch.A display, half in head and half on screen, flashed,

[b]*TARGET APPROACH, BEGIN LAUNCH SEQUENCE FOR OPTIMAL FIRING SOLUTION*[/b]

The actions of his body were beyond him in sensation, but comprehended all too well. A combination of manual input and nerve-stapled control by synthesis, the difference between the two components were unapparent as he primed shoulder, chest, and outer thighboard missile launchers, opening silent in the expanding void.

[b]*TARGET APPROACH ONE. FIRING SOLUTION ACQUIRED. FIRE.*[/b]

At escape velocity and then some, there was little chance for AI-based interdiction by laser, railgun or autocannon. Thighboard launcher right jettisoned payload sideways, screaming by enough to leave nothing but a blur and an alarm. A dozen missiles lagged behind, but not for long.

Some seconds later, each missile shattered apart into manifold thirty-six more, casings falling away to reveal long, thin spikes, each with their own thrusters, each with their own targeting capabilities. Each with a secondary propellant booster. Self-fired kinetic penetrators, swiftly boosting ahead of the main warhead. Point defense lasers lit up in defense, but were of no use against solid spears of heavy element alloys. Railguns had more luck, managing to shatter some or set others off their course. There was not enough time.

Moments from penetration, secondary boosters activated, firing forward at speeds suiting to a gun-fired kinetic penetrator. Impact was catastrophic; neither heat & debris shielding nor composite plating proper could hope to withstand the forces involved. A ruin of twisted metal and sparking electronics & arcjets, miserably limping through space. Time before primary impact was sufficient for automated emergency communiques to be sent to the other satellites, and no more. Dual-purpose HEAT-HE rendered the remainder as dust, shaped-charge superplastic metal shattering the computer core and secondary radial explosion scattering the rest. Kinetic strike payloads broken up in impact and explosion; burned up in atmosphere or falling into midwestern fields. Nuclear warheads left to drift, separated from their boosters.

“We will be as the wrath of God.”

To most any other platform, the spacing of the remaining orbital platforms- now receiving, decoding and responding to the destruction of the first- would be impossible to surmount. Imperial launch sequences would be well on their way. 00 was not so limited. The next satellite winked out in similar fashion to the first, left thighboard payload discharged. The shadow-woman cocked her head, and the wind picked up ‘mongst the star-vines. Kinetic payload broken up; warheads broken from containment. Subcritical materials fizzle, nuclear predetonation and massive release of radiation kills computers and optics.

“So I will give America its free hand.”

Third platform begins kinetic launch sequence. Left shoulder discharges. Self-fired penetrators set satellite off-kilter; tungsten rods set onto modified, curved trajectory, crashing spectacularly into the Chesapeake bay, flash-flooding the area around. Property damage moderate, casualties unknown; projection minimal or N/A. Primary computers and missile backup computers melted or fragmented by HEAT-HE. The shadow-woman smiles. Vines overtake the remains. 00 smiles.

“And I wonder, if I give you this and your arms to uptake, your flame-spitting steel and a voice unbowed, what will you do?”

Fourth platform kinetic strike failed; clamps jammed. Right shoulder discharges, missile bay jams follow. Main computer damaged, missiles blind. Robustness of emergency program does not allow for ending of detonation sequence. Thermonuclear self-destruction imminent.

“Will you fall away, and cower before our would-be oppressors? Or, with fury in heart and justice in mind, will you do what is right, not for petty ideology or economic quibblings, but your own right to freedom? To your own ideal?”

Fifth launch sequence proceeds. No time to stop; tungsten rods and warheads alike fan out, slowly gaining velocity. Chestboard launchers discharge. Primary warheads stay course; platform downed promptly. Kinetic penetrators divert course. Effectual destruction of targets on several-penetrator-per-target basis not assured; dynamic modification of reentry trajectory required. Kinetic kill devices sent off-course by penetrators; warheads severed and sent off their course by penetrators. Previous trajectory of various targets in the West Coast, new trajectory Mount Everest. Nondetonative impact. The shadow-woman beckons, but 00 cannot follow.

“I have fought for my America. So why do you not fight for yours?”

Platform four suffers multiple fission detonations in microsequence. The light is blinding, and the shadow-woman retreats. The serpent in feathered regalia follows after, tracing atomic radiance after 00. The forest closes in again, not just around the stars, but everything. Yet as soon as the radiance meets him, it all falls away. Strong radio traces after him, even through the nuclear disruption. “Mission success. Return home and prepare for de-activation,” his handler crackles. Orders are orders. Dream awaits. Reentry trajectory plotted.

“I thank you, sincerely, for your time. A moment more, then, that you might hear the words of a dear friend and compatriot in this battle for the ideal and emergency leader of the legitimate American government, Senator Austin Langley.” Ramon stepped aside, proffering a hand to shake.

Langley took the hand and shook it, glancing to Ramon with a thankful smile, and then to the camera with a more reassuring one. The handshake was just as much for El Presidente as it was a demonstration to their viewers, those who were fortunate enough, north of the border, to be able to receive the broadcast by television rather than just radio. What he intended to demonstrate was obvious enough. Solidarity. Cooperation. Genuine friendship in defiance of a world whose leaders and diplomats had seemed to have forgotten that there’s more to the world than schemes and plots and warmongering. He wanted to demonstrate a change of direction. A new beginning.

He gave one more, final, firm shake, released Ramon’s hand, and then turned to fully present himself to the camera as Ramone fell aside and behind. He breathed in, exhaled, and renewed his smile. For a brief moment he was at a loss of what to say. The camera could not be read like a live audience could. It was almost intimidating. Almost. He cleared his throat, maybe more than once. To be truthful, he couldn’t quite tell. It was like being out in front of the class in elementary school. But he had to banish that thought. He’d be damned if a camera would have him choking and botching a live speech to almost the entire world, though. Fuck that, he thought, more than a little frankly.

“Good evening, my countrymen, those of you fighting the good fight, those of you cheering them on, and even those of you doing neither. My friends in America. I’m Senator Langley, to those who do not know. Senator Austin Langley, but for the purposes of this conversation I’d like to have with you I am not a Senator. I’m Austin Langley. I’m a former Imperial citizen, my citizenship having been revoked when I ended my political career and moved south with my family to pursue a less lucrative, financially speaking, at least, job as an advocate for the revival of the United States of America. I’m a Senator in the eyes of the Sons of Liberty. They, being of the belief that they are still citizens of that fair nation, elected me. What does this mean, in reality? Not much. It’s sentimental. I’m a senator of the United States of America to only a few people. I represent them and their rebellion, but I’d much rather represent you, because I am of the belief that you deserve, and desire, more than what the Empire or the Southpaws can offer you.”

“But, there’s an issue with that. I can’t give you that brighter future by myself. I’m one man. A single individual amongst billions. What difference can I make against the monolithic political and military machine of the Empire of America? What difference can the million plus men and women who have formally sworn themselves to the Sons of Liberty cause do against one of the world’s great, modern superpowers? These questions keep me up nearly every night because of just how true, and also how intolerable, the answer is. I can’t physically do anything, I’m not a one man army. The Sons can fight, but they’ve chosen a fight far, far above their own weight class. To this end, and on their behalf, I have not given up simply because of how monumental this fight is. No, I fight the best way I can, I’m doing it today, right now, and I do it every time I speak with another human being, American or not. I fight with my words, because the greatest hope for America’s survival, as both a nation and an ideal, is you, the American public. The elderly, the youth, all of you. I would say ‘I need you’, or ‘the Sons of Liberty’ need you, but that line of thinking is wrong. I would say ‘rise up, you oppressed workers, you poor, blue collared souls and take what’s yours by force’, but that line of thinking is also wrong. This is not a great reckoning of class politics. This isn’t me standing on the stump trying to get dumb kids to enlist with the Sons of Liberty and their cells. There’s more at stake than geopolitics or economics or governance.”

“That’s why I’m dispensing with the gaudy appearance of a senator, with the great big joke that I represent the interests of the American people, because I don’t. I was elected as a magistrate in the Kingdom of Louisiana. I rubbed elbows and shoulders both with so-called royalty and their cronies. Does that make me better than you, those of you who listen now? Hell no. I do not have your consent to represent you. None of you voted for me. I’m speaking to you as one individual to another. One man who’s full of ideas, whose very being has been possessed by this idea of a new, better America free from kings, free from political corruption, free from fearmongering, free from the modern yellow journalism, and so, so much more. And, let me just leave you with this little bit of food for thought. You may be laughing at this speech, at this moron who left a promising career to support a bunch of gun-crazy, corporate-funded terrorists, who styles himself a senator, a self-declared senator, despite zero political recognition. Well, the good King Washington has done away with popular sovereignty, my friends. He’s committed crimes against humanity, against the American people, all through his reign, and so has his father, and his father, and the first King who led the coup that ended the United States. He thinks he’s some sort of rock-star, a man of the people, a real patriot. The best damn thing to ever happen to America since his namesake’s revolution back in the Enlightenment. And so, while you can switch off your radio or TV and ignore the lunatic babbling at you right now, you just can’t do the same to the Emperor and his secret police and his propaganda machine.”

“You can’t just simply tune him out. Well, I can’t at least. He and his family have defined my life, though maybe not in the way they intended. And, at this point, with all my self-deprecation and my continued extolling on the sheer raw power the Emperor has at his disposal, you might think I’m describing, and just now realizing, the fact that my life is some sort of exercise in futility. Screaming while no one will listen. And if you thought that, I’d smile knowingly, just like this,” and he did, “and say that this was the part where I made my point. One person screaming, one hundred people screaming, a thousand people screaming? It’s insufficient. A vocal few agitators will do nothing, but if all of you who watched this all screamed at once, all stamped your feet, all let the Emperor know your true feelings regarding his regime, then change could be enacted faster than ever before. Remember the struggles of those who came before you, those who opposed the Empire, from the Central Americans, whose newfound economic prosperity was pulled out from under them by armed invasion, to the Mexicans, who despite seeking every recourse and alternative, who fought for their sovereignty, for the homeland above all else, were forced into the fold, and the Canadians, who were, by all accounts, deceived into believing they’d found a new beginning when instead they woke up in chains. Would your father or your mother look upon you now, sitting or standing where you are, with pride? Would they see you continuing the fight as the Sons do? Or would they see a defeatist, drowning in apathy, force-fed propaganda, living in fear that the Orpo of the west will break their door in and whisk them away? Which would you rather be remembered as? A revolutionary, majestic and proud, jumpstarting a new era for the world? Or a bystander? Do you consent to the use of chemical weapons on the people of the Caribbean? Do you consent to the gassing and mass-arrests in California? Is this the world you want to live in?”

“I know my answer to those questions, but I urge you to seek your own, but I ask, as one human being to another, that you do not fight out of spite if you choose to take up the cause of freedom. Do not revel in the violence of the coming days. War, in all its forms, is never more than a necessary evil. War is being made against the Empire because they have left the international community, the Sons of Liberty, you, and me with no other option. And, if I may make another request, do not fight for a flag of red and black, or of red and yellow, or of black and white. Leave your ideologies, your factionalism, behind today if you take up this fight. The American people must, I believe, fight for a democracy. A framework around which we may decide as a group, through the peaceful transfer of power and the wonder of free public debate, in what direction we’re to sail our ship of state. Let the ballot boxes be the battlefield of ideology. Bullets have no place in that struggle. Cooperate, right in hand with left, in the interest of restoring sanity, in the interest of restoring an actual dialogue.”

“In the end, when we lay ourselves down to sleep, we yearn to wake up to a better tomorrow. All of us: socialist, capitalist, fascist, liberal, conservative, hawk, or dove. So help yourself, help your neighbor, and help your community realize that better tomorrow.”

“Thank you, and good night.”

Langley’s early bluster was gone, and instead replaced with a look of pensive sentimentality. He felt the words he spoke. It was clear as day in his typically stormy eyes.

The transmission ended, swapping to a still of the Great Seal of the United States and instrumental Star Spangled Banner. Ramon waved away the holo-field, and the thin coating of light that had bent around and beheld them fell away. “Finally. Very sentimental, Langley, but I almost went ahead with the Battle Hymn of the Republic for the outro. Really, I only half-expected you to steal that particular fireside-chat thunder from my style. If I hadn’t given the crew a certain deal of autonomy in picking the exiting theme, we might have had a little crises around the final tone.” He returned to his desk without further ceremony, shuffling through the black folder and its papers again. The fabled Unificador, always either fiery, passionate, or as a warm and grandfatherly face to the public, was uncharacteristically smug. Far more than even any satisfaction he might derive from his speech or geopolitical maneuverings would manifest.

“That’s the wonder of delegating instead of micromanaging, Ramon, you should try it sometime. There are capable people out there, I like to think,” Langley replied, crossing his arms, “Now. What’s the ETA on those launches? I need to get word to the brass so they can plan accordingly. … And what’s got you so pleased with yourself, huh? You’re looking mighty smug.”

Ramon let out a short, somewhat unflattering ‘snrrrk,’ entirely too amused. “Well, the ETA on launch would be, say, when I set the phone down. Downing of the satellites, let’s say… Now, I would say with some authority. As for why I am so smug, and, aha, a rather more authoritative answer than that,” he waved, the phone popping back upwards. This was most certainly Ramon’s favorite part; to let those who thought they had him clinched know that, in fact, they had been all along. “We will have to consult the phone once more.” Click, rick-tick-tick-tick. Click, rick-tick-tick-tick. Click, rick-tick-tick-tick. He almost seemed on the verge of laughter with each dial. A short and out-of-date ‘busy’ tone. “You see, as many little birds as you might have,” he stated proudly and with smile wide, “I can safely say that I have far more and far bigger ones.”

And then, when the number was dialled, the tone was immediately replaced with a cacophony that took Langley a few moments to mentally sort out. Static. The white noise of some room’s ventilation, and a garbled, frantic voice that gradually grew clearer. He caught it mid-sentence, but he could very easily fill in the blanks: “ … and confirmation that the Chesapeake impact won’t majorly affect any population centers. Put it through to the Seabases. Five targets confirmed destroyed, utter disaster averted. Looks like Langley and his friends pulled through. For once … “ More chatter, but Langley had heard enough. The fact that surveillance equipment had been installed in some Signal Corps listening station was secondary to him. 

What’s a little espionage to the first great victory of the revolution? And the beginning of the end of the Empire of America?