[h1]Upper Peninsula[/h1] [h2]Escanaba[/h2] Unfiltered morning light was the call to get up. Turning in bed a man sought to escape the bright sunlight as his head exploded in a fury of knives. He rose an arm to shield his eyes and rolled over to the wall. But like with the wet dripping of softly melting ice his hangover could not escape the sun, after all: his walls were white. Groaning he finally submitted and threw off the covers, jumping – or rather: falling – onto the wooden floor and shuffled to the curtains, pulling them shut.. With numb hands he threw them closed and dropped his head against the wall. There was a pulpy musty smell from the window frame, and cracking open a weary eye he could track the thin moldy line along the river of condensation that bordered the wooden frame. That is if the nuclear radiation of the sun wasn't so beyond white it was torture. Finally overcoming his lethargy he pushed back from the wall and staggered naked across the darkened bedroom to the dresser in the corner. Reaching for the drawers he opted instead to simply not open them, but to lay on the floor and sleep again. He lay there for another fifteen minutes. True to his family name, Marc Hardwell McTarson was no less a sober man as a politician was uncorrutpable. As with his father, he had won a reputation for having conquered the crystal gins of the whiskey runners from over Wisconsin who plied such a sharp and fiery liquor it was promised to put many a man to the ground. He had a gut as strong as a bear, but a liver probably as rotted as an atomic crater. He grunted and moaned as the hard discomfort of the floor offered no salvation and he sat himself up. Fat in the gut with lumberjack's arms, Marc was a pale man with a thinning head of hair. Hardly much older than thirty-five he felt fifty. Seventy with the hangover, and eighty with the sores in his arms from the floor. And by his reckoning eighty-five with the additional bruises just working their way to his brain covering his body. Massive dish-pan purple spots that marked his bare skin with ferocity on his gut and face. As his head cleared some in the darkness, he could only guess that one eye was swollen. And for that one rare moment, he wondered what the fuck he was doing the night previous. These would be questions he would undoubtedly learn later that day as he sat himself up. His bones cracked into place and each time they did he swore he felt a sledgehammer swing at his joints. He threw open the dresser and began pulling out worn and tired clothes. Shirts with moth holes the size of his thumb, old printed designs peeling off and taking much of the fabric with them. And a dirty accomplishment of blue jeans. Both of which seemingly resisting his efforts to put them on. But when it was finished, he had on a faded gray shirt, brandishing the logo of the ancient Bad Ass Beer company. The jeans had a leather patch on the back that probably said “Strangler” fifty years ago. Dressed, he shuffled out on bare feet, dragging his fingers along the drywall of the hallway as he forced himself out to meet the day. Morning spring sunlight filled the living room and kitchen with an innocent malice that he shirked back against, flinching as he squinted his eyes. On the kitchen table he found a loaf of bread, already sliced in two. The bread knife lay nearby. Greedily he reached for it, cutting half of the remaining bread and gorging his face with it before shuffling on to the sink. The water doesn't run, it never did. But there was a pitcher on the country filled with water from the lake. Some people were afraid of drinking it, mentioning Palisades further down the lake, much further. But for Marc of the Iron Belly, it didn't matter. And it never mattered for most. As the stories go, people had been forced to drink from the lake the day the water stopped running. Wells were re-dug, and the few inclined enough to imagine it build windmills about town, slowly sucking the water up from below their feet so there were common wells to drink from. As with the bread, Marc greedily snatched up the pitcher and drank straight from it. It was as warm as the air around him, and had a slight nature smelled. Like pane sap and lake algae. But it was clean and clear, that was all that mattered to him. The water helped whet a tongue dry as a desert flat, and the bread put something in his gut. It made him feel ill but he had learned it from his father. If you were to throw your weight about the town the day after a hard drinking, it was worth trying to eat and drink. God bless his soul, and damn the cancer that took the crazy coot. The water was gone and so were the bread in short order, throwing himself down in a chair he allowed for things to settle and clear up. Slowly the headache subsided, but never wholly went away. And the sun stopped being murder. A ringing in his ears he hadn't noticed fell aside and he sat and listened to the drip, drip of melting snow and ice and the distant roll of Lake Michigan. There were gulls crying in the air and finches chirping in the bushes. And there was the mumbling singing of a little girl. Ellie was her name, and she was in the garden. Pushing himself from the moldy recliner he stepped towards the front-door, lake side. Sitting in the garden a frail golden-haired girl weeded the garden in a dirty browned dress. While she did not sing great, she was a song-bird to Marc. She was as old now as he was when he met married his wife, just over fifteen. She had all the perks and downfalls of a teenage girl, the innocence of a child but the brash and strong minded independence of a woman. Marc hoped to nurture the later, hoping she would find a suitable job and fill in for what was left by his former wife. As he stood in the doorwall she looked up to him, and smiled. She looked just like him, with a round race and a soft wide chin. Her eyes and hair were her mother's work, golden blonde and steel-blue. She waved gently back at her father, and he nodded back as she turned back to the carrots she grew alongside the deck. She would have seen her father, looking in. But in the window he saw a gravely thirty-five year old who had married young and lost a wife too young. His face was graying too quick and he hadn't shaved in several days. His brow was swollen and split by someone's fist or a rock. He couldn't remember which but he was sure he'd find out later today. With a tense distraught breath, he decided to brave the outside. The doorwall groaned as he fought against rollers that had become frozen stiff with rust; there was nothing to do about that. It groaned shut with equal determined stubborness. The air outside was crisp and clean. There was a cold freshness to it, but a certain coming warmth. Out to the lake, large chunks of ice still drifted in great black waters and large patches of snow covered most of the ground. Hanging from the overhang, icycles shimmered in the morning light as they dropped crystal drops from the warm thaw. In places a little bit of greenery was beginning to poke through, but there was still a lot of snow left behind. Keeping the sun to his back, Marc leaned against the railing of the lake-side deck. Under the patchy spring snow there would have been a gravel path to the sand and gravel beach down the long hill. “Good morning!” Ellie greeted. “Mornin'” Marc replied in a stiff voice. His throat was dry and sore. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence between the two. Finally broken by Marc's daughter, “You should get Doc to look at that.” “At what?” Allie put her hand to her forehead, just above her left brow. “At da goose egg on your head.” “At da- oh...” Marc mumbled, “It'll be fine.” “No it won't, it looks bad.” fought Ellie, “You should get it looked at.” “I had worse.” Rolling her eyes, Ellie sighed, “I'm sure you have, pops.” “Have I ever told you about da time someone tried to gut me with a knife?” Marc asked. “No, and I don't want to here it!” “You sure? He damn near took my galsack out until someone stopped him.” Ellie moaned and put her hands to here ears. “Gross!” she protested, yelling with distress and protest. Marc laughed dryly. He still had the jagged scar from that. “What are you going to do today?” his daughter asked, hoping to change the subject. “Work.” Marc grunted, indifferently, “Going to work.” “Well, I'm going to be at Chrissy's, I hear her mom has got new books and she said we can read them!” Marc smiled, “Sounds like a safe plan, just be back before sundown.” “Don't worry.” “Yeah, I won't.” Marc answered, lowering his head. Ellie was a good kid. [h1]Lower Peninsula[/h1] [h2]Lansing[/h2] Boots muffled in the old hall of the Michigan State legislature. The ancient wooden galleries empty, save for a few curious passery-bys from off the streets, still dressed in spring winter coats as they thumbed their faces, watched the house body below shuffle to their wooden desks. There was little pomp and circumstance to the coming below as many simply shuffled off of the granite floors outside. To the side in a distant corner one of the sergeant in arms stood with his hands crossed behind his back. He wore a dark wine-purple uniform, deeper than the purple itself and bordering on black. An oak nightstick hung at the side of his belt as he stood at attention. Watching high among them, amid the thin and sparsely spaced public onlookers, simple writers, business men from the gray heart of Lansing itself sat in a shadowed corner an individual of more pomp than the others around him. Pale white fingers twiddled idly at a shaggy brown beard that fell short of the chest of his tarnished black suit and yellowing white undershirt. He leered at the floor of the House of Representatives with a cynical point of mind behind his chestnut eyes. As the representatives gathered at their seats, the speaker of the House stepped out from the backroom to take the podium. Andrew Steffonson was a man of no mean demeanor, but neither kind or weak either. A hobbling dwarf of a man who bore his fair shares of scares from younger, crueler days and a hand that twisted around the head of a maple cane like cracks in a glass vase. His face thin and gaunt with thinning hairs. He was a mummy of a person, old enough to have seen the end of the world. He took his seat at the podium and rested his back into the high-back chair. The green light from gas lamps dotting the chamber betrayed a cryptic complexion in his pale northern skin. But his voice betrayed the dress of frailty. “I call to order this session of congress, to meet on orders concerning the bolstering of our physical trade assets, and of House updates on the condition of the Detroit outposts, and the present conditions around the remains of Palisades. “Dha gentleman from Grand Rapids has da floor.” Steffonson offered with a wave of his hand. His voice was heavy with the cold weight of the upper peninsula, which he had come to dominate half without contest, and he delivered into the house the same spirit as the north. Since the collapse of the old-world the size of both the Senate and House had been reduced greatly. If seen compared to what it once was, the Hall of Representatives would be a void of emptiness with half of the old congressmen having died, and their districts reshuffled to the best of the new legislature's ability to maintain the old order. It was a solemn reminder to the state's contraction as much as the glass tiles that had cracked or fallen out over-head served as a stark reminder to the decay and fading of memory as the Old World. And in a haunting manner, those glass tiles that had once bore the seals and crests of the old states served as the only lesson and reminder of their existence to many in this room, and even given the nearby lands the congressmen could only name maybe a quarter of the old world states. The door to the galleries swung open quietly, and a squat man slipped inside on soft feet. He crept quietly and quickly through the galleries to that far corner with the chestnut-eyed man watching the floor below. As a portly figure took the stand, he sat down. “Erwin, did I miss anything?” he asked, out of breath. “Nothing's happened yet Bryan, but he's just go on the stand.” Erwin motioned. Erwin Codlkya, the senator from Livingston was a force he prided himself on as being a quiet if precise man, with a methodical point of view in politics and a timely response. Despite being well into his middle age, he wore a thick head of brown hair the envy of anyone his age. Most certainly including that of the man about to speak now. “For the rise of our state from a subject to an independent entity on the American stage, our risks have been great. But we have overcome. But we have not yet ensured our individuality and independence until we have promised ourselves commercial sustainability and the realized power of our lake's ports. Therefore, our vetted interests and sovereign guardians of the Great Lakes is owed to us and by us to seek a total control of these impressive waters!” He spoke with a vigor and energy, using the podium as a stump to ride his own words to their conclusion. “The success of our state does not any longer stem from idly waiting, we did treat our enemies in the passive with that level of passive, dismissive caution and nor would we ever! To go forth and dream big is our righteous duty and I suggest to this body that we allocate our noble resources to a campaign to close and take the shores and passages of the Great Lakes for use for our benefit and to close them to our enemies so they may not benefit to their gains!” Bryan leaned in, “That's it?” he asked. “There's more.” Erwin cautioned, the representative from Grand Rapids continued. “The total control of our water ways will rake benefit into the state, by naming all ports as Michigan coastline. Bringing in the additional revenue from merchants inland and by river. It is a sensible choice, and one that I ask we all consider.” “It's done.” Erwin said, leaning into his portly aide, “Go and tell Haufman that Brier has shown his cards on this. Before the scribes get to him, I want the senate ready as soon as this orders gets off of The Northern Warrior's bench and down the hall.” “W-wait so soo-” Bryan began in a shocked gasp, “I just got he-” “Shut up and get it down the line. Haufman will want to know.” Bryan nodded and rose from his seat. His subtly had waned and instead his feet drummed across the wooden boards as Brier left his podium. He glanced up into the stands, searching for the noise. He found Erwin instead, leaned back and poised to watch and he knew what was happening. _______________ “So Peter Brier intends to take us to war?” Andrew Haufman, the Speaker of the House asked. “It would seem like it.” Erwin acknowledged, arms folded as he leaned against the office wall. Both men were lit up by the afternoon sun from just outside the window. A clear overhead sky let down an unfiltered sunlight which the city glowed under. Though still scorched, and much of the worse damage from so long ago only feebly patched aside the red and orange bricks of the nearby offices and old parking garages that encompassed the capital building still stood and glowed bright. Out through the dusty windows as well, the gray monolith across from the capital building's back was still a patchwork of plywood but all the same used by state officials who wandered through to use it. It was undoubtedly where Representative Brier decided on his proposal in a committee over the past several months. “Well, what are the details?” Haufman asked. A tall man he towered over Erwin and held him in a still blue gaze. He offered him a glass of hard cider as the two talked. “The thing is he didn't offer much. As I watched the debate on the floor it turned more into an argument of the proposed action's validity than details. But even the jingos on the flood think it could be pulled back from full coastal control in order to force a state monopoly on the lakes.” “By the end of the week it'll be on my desk.” said Haufman, sitting in our court, “You and I know that and the most ready we can be to receive it the better. What's the predictions, whip?” “It hits the senate floor proposing we claim areas.” Erwin said, sipping his glass of cider. He looked over out the windows and thought awhile, “Taking a wild guess I can guess Green Bay, Windsor, Canadian Sault Ste. Marie, Toledo, Milwaukee and Chicago will be on the shit list. They could bullshit something for Duluth and Thunder Bay so we have total control of Lake Superior.” “They're really going to go that far out?” Haufman scowled. He wasn't much for scowling and had an odd face that made him look like a caricature of a bulldog when he did. “What'll be next if they get their way, The Falls?” “It's bullshit, I know. Even after allocating the means to the military and giving Richard authorization it'll only spell trouble.” Hauffman nodded, dragging his meaty hands through his thinning black hair. “If we kill it then, they'll send it right back in some form or another. Do we know Andrew's position on this?” “I don't doubt he likes it. He finds war exciting.” Erwin chuckled, “My father used to tell me war was bullshit. Then he disappeared, so go figure.” “No use about that, keep an eye on this will you? Then get some bodies ready when it's ready to hit our floor. I want the Senate body ready for it when it comes. I'll look into the military's opinion on this and we'll work from there.”