[center][h1]Jacksonville, Florida[/h1][/center]

A soft breeze blew through the window while a rotating fan lie dormant on the wooden desk at which James Ford sat, sipping a glass of ice-cold sweet tea as he worked. The southern heat was already bad enough, but in the past couple days the city of Jacksonville had experienced a heat wave of sorts. It had gotten so bad that the Mayor had ordered all the factories without air conditioning closed, and of course ordered more units to get them back open as soon as possible.

The beaches were lined with people, who had decided to use their time off work to attempt to cool off in the Atlantic ocean. After all, nobody had air conditioning at home, excluding the lucky former homeless who had been housed in the mansions of the rich whom had either fled or died during the revolution. The ocean was their best way to cool off, and with just how hot it was, Ford himself wished he could simply don a swimsuit and walk on down to the water.

But instead he was in his office at the capital building, singing papers and making calls. The building had never been outfitted with air conditioning while the USA still existed because of course they hadn't decided to spend money on it. And he wasn't about to put A/C units in his workplace while there were factories that had nothing but fans. All he did was sign papers, which generally doesn't make you sweat as much as manual labor does.

So far, the day had been rather uneventful. He had gotten his usual call at 10:30 in the morning from Virginia, where General Law begged for more tanks, more guns, more planes, and more men. At 11:30 he got his usual call from General Decker in Texas, in which the General demanded that more relief supplies be sent. He had already agreed to allocate as much as he could to the respective forces, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

The men at the Mason-Dixon line would always feel outnumbered and outgunned by the fascists, which they likely were since a sizable portion of the Army was stationed in Texas to provide relief to the victims of the nightmarish dust storms that were ravaging the Midwest. And the men in Texas would never have enough food, medical supplies, and temporary housing to ease the pain of the locals. The Confederacy was essentially waging a two-front war, one with the (so far) docile rising tide of fascists to the North and another with the rising tide of nature's fury to the West. 

Alas, the more pessimistic estimates projected that drought would soon hit the rest of the Confederacy and the dust storms would follow. Should such a thing happen, of course, the entire country would starve without any source of food. The storms were already causing trouble anyways, with the Confederate fleet finding itself keeping all but its smallest ships docked to preserve fuel in case of a war. For all his tough talk of liberating the northern worker, Ford knew that a war with the Sister States would be impossible unless rain finally came to the Midwest. Or, you know, if angels descended from heaven and returned the soil to its original state.

As he took another sip from his quickly emptying glass of sweet tea, he found himself pondering the problem. It had been brought into the spotlight when the council began to discuss war with the North, and it was something that often kept him up at night. Time and time again, he found only one solution: rain. Yes, there were other methods. The Army, in fact, was already attempting to create a shelterbelt of trees with the goal of slowing erosion. But in the end, only rain would be enough.

[i]If only we could make it rain.[/i] He thought, tapping his ballpoint pen on his desk. [i]If only we could just pick up the water in the harbor and drop it on Texas.[/i]

He'd already thought about that, actually. But it was just wishful thinking, no air force on Earth could act as a rain substitute.

[i]It's too bad we can't make the clouds rain on command.[/i]

The train of thought likely would have continued on without stopping, but he instead intentionally cleared his mind and took another sip to tea in the hopes that he could once again concentrate on the issue of steel production (which of course was connected to infrastructure issues which were connected to economic issues and so on and so on). In doing so, he realized that he had been ignoring another pressing matter. Namely, the fact that he had finished off at least a dozen glasses of various cool drinks in the past few hours without once leaving his desk.

And so he abruptly sat up and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

[hr]
As usual, something hit him in the bathroom. An answer in the form of a question that came to be as he was washing his hands and staring at the mirror, noticing the condensation that covered it. Tiny little water droplets slowly fell down the polished mirror's surface, eventually hitting the counter upon which the sink was placed and adding to the already present water on its surface. Ford knew how condensation formed, most people did, but there was one thing that he didn't know. Or at least, didn't remember.

[i]How's rain formed, anyways?[/i]

He wasn't exactly sure whether it was something he should know. After all, it wasn't something people brought up in everyday conversation. If he were to be honest with himself, he wasn't even sure if it was something that [i]was[/i] known. It had, to him, always been just a fact of life. "Oh, yeah, rain happens. Why? Momma says it's God crying." He'd never been in a position where he needed to know it either, he was a politician, not a meteorologist.

[i]Well, if we can predict when it will rain, we must know.[/i] He thought, as he mindlessly opened the door and walked down to his secretary's office. He knocked four times as he always did, then let himself in after she told him he could. It wasn't as if she ever said no, nor did she ever have a reason to. It was simple courtesy, after all, he would be a bit annoyed if someone just barged into his office without permission.

"Miss Coffman?" He said, looking around the room. She had her desk fan on, and used a rock-a smooth one, probably from the beach or a river-to hold her papers in place. Ford made a note that he ought to gather a few rocks for his own office.

"Ah, Mr. Ford." She replied, setting down her pen and putting the sheet at the bottom of a pile of others on her desk. "What can i do for you?"

The woman sitting at the desk, despite her almost stereotypical "southern belle" appearance was a veteran of the revolution. She had fought with a rifle company in North Carolina, then gone straight back to working as a secretary. As funny as it might have sounded, Ford didn't know what he would do without her. She did her job well, and he was extremely thankful for that fact.

"Ah... well, would you happen to know how rain is formed?"

"Well..." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Aside from the wive's tales?"

"Yes, aside from the wive's tales."

"No. That's odd, it seems like something I ought to know. It can't be that complicated, can it?"

"Well, I'd like you to find out. It's important."

"This has to be connected to Texas in some way, right?"

"Yes."

His idea immediately popped into her head, which prompted her to rest her forehead in her palm.

"Please tell me you aren't trying to figure out if we can-"

"I am."

[i]Oh God bless his little heart.[/i] She thought.

"Should I just go ahead and ask that up-front?"

"Sure, go ahead. It's not like we have a need to beat around the bush."

"Alright then, take a look at the papers in my drawer. There's something important there I was just about to bring over to you."

She left the room, leaving Ford to get whatever the secretary was going to bring to him. Part of him wanted to just leave it in the hopes that he could finish in time to relax (preferably at the beach). But she had said it was important, so he couldn't just do that. He went over to the secretary's desk drawer and opened it up, revealing a document right on top that seemed rather ornate. All internal documents were plain, sometimes just having a hammer and sickle on them to denote that they were official government papers. This one had a giant coat of arms right on the front page.

"Huh, European?" Said Ford to himself, picking up the document and inspecting it closer. "The British? What the hell d'they want with us?"

He quite honestly had no idea what to expect. It was, after all, the British. They [i]technically[/i] had claims on CSSA land, but unless they had been taken over by a bunch of particularly radical fascists while he wasn't looking they wouldn't ever press colonial claims from before the industrial revolution. Given a guess, he would have assumed it was something about continuing trade agreements or somesuch. Intrigued, he sat down at the secretary's desk and flipped it open.

"They want an embassy, then? Ain't no reason not to give 'em one, not sure what they want with it though."

[hr]
"Hello? Dr. Hoffman?"

The voice was a new one to Earl's ears, and the fact that it was accompanied by a knocking on his office's door told him that it wasn't anyone he or his associates knew. Not well, at least. He wasn't entirely sure why anyone would seek to speak to him, after all, he was just some meteorologist. Nobody cares about meteorology, aside from those that study it and perhaps their direct employers. People listening to the forecast on the radio don't care about the science behind it, just that they know whether or not to finally patch up their raincoats.

"C'mon in comrade, you don't need to ask permission."

His office's door creaked open and a woman he had never before seen walked in, wearing a very well-kept dress. Definitely someone important, or perhaps someone that got lucky when the government turned the mansions into apartments and gave away the possessions of their former owners. If it was the latter, they were certainly very careful with their clothing. Of course, they might just wear it for important business, but then why would she be wearing it now?

"You're in meteorology, right doctor?"

"Yes, Miss...?"

"Coffman. Samantha Coffman."

"Well, ain't that a coincidence." He said, standing up and shaking the woman's hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Coffman. What can I do for you?"

"I'm here at the request of Premier Ford, there's a matter he wants me to discuss with you."

"What on Earth does the Premier wanna discuss with me? I'm a meteorologist, for pete's sake."

"Well, that's the important part. You know how rain forms, right?"

"Well, of course I do. Atmospheric vapor condenses into water or ice droplets that eventually get too heavy and fall, y'know, like condensation on a mirror but on a larger scale. Ain't that common knowledge?"

"I wouldn't know. Neither I nor Ford knew. It sounds familiar though."

"Well maybe it isn't then."

"I personally think that we didn't know because nobody ever talks about it, it certainly isn't that complicated."

"Okay so I gave you your fun little fact, what're you actually here to talk about?"

"Just that, rain. I'm sure you're aware of the dust storms that are wreaking havoc in Texas."

"Yes..."

"And of the Sister Republics' buildup of forces."

"That one I didn't know about."

"Yeah that's because it's classified. We don't have enough force at the Mason-Dixon line to actually stop a fascist attack, so we haven't been telling anyone about their troop numbers. Don't tell anyone. Well, we've got that giant fleet in Norfolk that doesn't have any fuel to move it. If war breaks out with the Sister Republics right now, then we can't mobilize our Navy. If we can't mobilize our Navy, we'll be blockaded and it'll all just be a repeat of the Civil War. So we need fuel, but to get fuel we need oil, which we can't get because nobody can work when a dust storm can just roll through at any moment."

"I don't see why you're talking to a meteorologist about this."

"Then I'll cut to the chase, is it possible to artificially induce rain?"

"Beats me, there was this man named Charles Hatfield a while back though. Called himself a moisture accelerator. San Diego hired him to end a drought."

"Anything come of it?"

"Yeah, San Diego got flooded. The guy's still out there, unless he's been killed by one of the successor states. No clue where he is though. Honestly, I couldn't tell you if he's anything more than a con man. He could easily just have chosen good days for rain and claimed credit, but the incident in San Diego would have to be one hell of a freak accident. You'd be hard pressed to get to him, though. He lived in Cali. It don't matter anyhow, he'd probably just run away to the North with your money."

"The government ain't gonna hire a con man, Doctor. There's gotta be some way, a scientific way. Not whatever this Hatfield fellow does."

"He just shoves a bunch of stuff into a barrel and leaves it out, nothing much scientific about that. I suppose if you could force the condensation you could pull it off."

"Well, there must be way to do that."

"Maybe, but it isn't something that we know of."

"Necessity is the mother of invention. We need to end the dust bowl and we need to end it before the fascists come for us, that's necessity enough. On behalf of the Premier, I request that you temporarily leave your teaching position here and assist in research on the artificial generation of rain. We can give you any resources and personnel you need."

"Is that a request or an order?"

"Just a request, Dr. Hoffman. I didn't even intend to do much more than report back that it would be impossible."

The doctor stood by his desk for a good long while, stroking a small beard he didn't have. Well, a relatively long while. He didn't need to wait that long to come up with his answer.

"You're chasing a wild goose here." He said, sitting back down at his desk. At the same time, however, he started cleaning out his drawer. "And that sounds a lot more interesting than explaining cold fronts to people who honestly couldn't care less. I'll inform the university that they need to find a new professor."

[h2][center]Port Gibson, Mississippi[/center][/h2]

Unruly and wild grass danced in a soft breeze, illuminated only by the full moon that hung high in the sky of the beautiful little town of Port Gibson. Trees stood tall by the river, in which the starlight was reflected as if in a painting. It was a peaceful night by the river. The way the moonlight fell through the leaves and the way the wind blew just right to provide relief from the mild heat were so perfectly designed that, had anyone been there to experience it, they would find that they would be more than willing to spend an eternity there.

But there was nobody there.

Streetlamps stood by idly as if they were soldiers standing at attention, never daring to cease their duties. Curtains were drawn in the shops that lined the street, their hours having ended long ago. Only one building had lights on, and only then because it was a hotel. The only one in the town, in fact. It was a run down dump of a place, but it was perfectly fine for what it had to do. Its sign hung just barely crooked above the door, as if it was making sure all who visited the place knew exactly what sort of hotel this was. Perhaps some would have sat on the balcony and seen the procession that had marched on through with the reluctant guidance of the streetlamps.

But there were no such people there.

In the square just before the town hall the grass was well kept and illuminated by the flicker light of torches, the orange flames dancing against the backdrop of the sky. Or perhaps they were protesting. Nevertheless, they did their duty well. A great pile of sticks and branches burst into flames in the middle of that square, a bonfire just like those of festivals and celebrations. After mere minutes the flames were extinguished by buckets of water, and the purpose of the bonfire's existence was housed up onto the square's lone magnolia tree.

The tree's leaves rustled in protest and it's branches creaked in sorrow, and if it could have thrashed its branches to punish the throngs that surrounded it then it would have. But alas, it was nothing more than a tree and the tiny little payload was made to hang from it's sturdiest branch. The crowds dispersed, making an awful ruckus as they returned to their homes for the rest of the night satisfied with the work they had done.

And the very next day when morning dawned, in the sun underneath the lone magnolia a little mixed girl hung.