[h1]New Jersey[/h1]
[h2]Sandy Hook Bay[/h2]

The envoy leaned over the deck railing, the shadows cast by the sails over him helping to shield the early summer sun from the back of his neck. It was early June, and a heavy heat beat against the deck of the state ferry as it sailed south on the wind for the Jersey shore. And while the sun was shaded from his back, the bright glimmering reflections of the sun on the water was powerfully sharp as the water turned and shifted in the summer breeze. All around the ambassador the crew went about their work manning the rigging as the ship steered in for the shore to land.

There was still some time ahead of him as he watched the New Jersey coastline pull closer into view. The green crowns of trees and the white facades of hidden houses – many possibly abandoned – were pulling out of the long atmospheric haze that had hid the shore from the boat. And coming into the far distant corners of the bay where the Navesink River met the waters behind the long barrier spit that protected this northern corner of New Jersey from the dark and foreboding temperament of the greater Atlantic Ocean he knew that while his rather brief journey was closing, his mission wasn't entirely over either.

A tall man standing shockingly near six-foot the ambassador was a young, handsome man. With long black hair combed back across his head and a straight-black suit he was the image of the old-world government agent or business contractor. His brown eyes shone with the light of the sun, turning them almost gold.

Pulling under the first half-derelict bridges that strode the gap between the Sandy Hook spit and mainland Jersey he formerly entered land – and waters – outside the control of New York. Monmoth and lands south were not the direct jurisdiction of the New York landowners, but in recent years had become dependent on and recognized the strength and power of New York to the north. And even more so they turned more readily to the New Yorkers for aid and direction as a common anxiety fell upon them from the south. Misdirection and uncertainty marching at the head of an army claiming itself to be that of the United States itself; a title that had to many in New York become discredited by its inaction and the fragility behind the old strength it had once so long ago displayed.

To the older men who lived in New York, the handful educated in the old world the United States Government which now thrust spears into Southern New Jersey had as much credibility as the government of the now more distant, more fantastical land of Somalia.

“Ambassador Crown.” a crewman said from behind him, “We're coming in close. Less than half an hour.”

Crown turned to him and smiled, “Thank you.” he said with a smile, and turned back to watch the passing green shoreline.

Alexander “Alex” Crown had been directed south by Albany little more than a day ago to partake in wider efforts to grant diplomatic assistance to the regional influences of northern New Jersey and to provide or attend to a gradual dismissal of previous incursions by the northern Republic. Depending on who each agent acquired an audience with this could often be said to be easier said than done. But the over all orders were simple: using the agent's geniality, persuasiveness, and what requests that may be fulfilled by Albany for material support organize and orchestrate the cooperation of New Jersey land-holders or bosses to build a coalition to stall or defeat United States Government expansion northward.

But failing all this, Alexander felt that perhaps in someway he could go further. If not to goad  the people of New Jersey to reconstruct the government that had collapsed following their previous war then perhaps the powers that be in Jersey would comply to annexation by New York. It was a stretch, but Alexander didn't get by in thinking of short goals.

He was confident in his ability, and he couldn't be less so knowing who he was headed too. It wouldn't be the first time Alexander met him. But it would be the first as an envoy.

The waters opened wide as the ship glided into Shrewsbury Bay. All around the edges of the bay the shore assumed no sort of order as it itself wrapped itself up into smaller bays and up into the shallow beds of rivers and streams. The detritus of the world passed had littered itself along the rocky shore-line or still floated half-drowning against piers at the concrete-lined harbors that divided the old residential suburbs from the bay itself.

On his left the high walls of club-house building stood over the water, shrouded behind trees and thick shrubbery and weeds at the edge of its concrete shore. Decades before that had been a golf-club. But after the eruption the interest in golf had died flat-out with the rest of suburban, wealthy society and like the rest of the area it fell in on itself, and like the nation scrambled to survive before re-organizing. He had worked there, some years before. The building had been re-acquired by he and his partners as a factory, a trading post in this area of New York and in the time since he saw that the compound had expanded behind the trees and weedy bushes. Towers and  taller buildings peaked out over oaks not even a century old and smaller soft-woods. Boating traffic was heavier in that side of the bay, and the ferry skirted the edge of the boisterous activity as mercantilism marched along at a small scale here.

In a quieter section of the bay the ferry skirted along the still water. Its bow turned to a smaller harbor opposite the old golf club. Alex braced himself, stepping off the rail and adjusting is collar and cuffs. The sailors went to work, pulling up the sails and heading for the oars. The silent tight flapping of wind in the sails cut out to a low rhythmic thumping of the water. Ahead the long reaching fingers of docks and of the piers reached out to open-water and at the same time protected the yachts and small boats inside. They moved among the sea of trees that were their masts, and drew up to a dock clear of men save for a small guard surrounding a relaxed individual leaning against a long tilted electrical pole.

As the boat was moored to the side of the dock, and the ramp drawn the man who had been reclining against the pole walked forward as Alexander stepped foot on the deck.

“Well I'll be damned!” the man shouted, his face beaming with a wide smile, “If it isn't Alexander. What are you doing and what are you wearing? I swear to God you look like a fucking G-man in that. You're sharp, friend!”

Alexander smiled as he tipped his head to the man standing before him, a round robust figure with a light caramel complexion. A wild mop of black hair adorned his head. He didn't look much, and his common clothes betrayed his position so little, it actually did just so. The ratty stained jeans and worn leather boots and tucked white shirt did not make him out to be a king, but he was very much so.

“Boss.” Alexander greeted.

“Well Jesus for fucksakes you don't need to use that one me.” Boss laughed, “Call me by my name.”

“Right, how are you doing Mr. Calloon.”

Boss Calloon rolled his eyes and sighed, “You're just fucking with me today aren't you.” he spat. But it was harmless. Banter more than anything.

“After all the trouble of sailing out here to see you: then yes.” said Alex, heading down the wooden pier.

“Well whatever, it's been a few years. What's happening?” Calloon asked

“Not much to say. I got homesick and went back home. Got married, entered government. Got here.”

“Well you make it sound easy.” Calloon asked, “Me: I got hungry people to feed and now we have to worry about how things are going to be with these army folk coming north. I'm not one to go to fight, but I have to defend my people somehow; I'm expected to lead.”

“And lead you shall.” Alexander said, “And that's what I'm here to talk to you about, Marty.”

“There we go.” Marty Calloon laughed, relieved as both men stepped up off the piers. The ground here had been once paved, but in time grass and weeds had grown between the cracks in the asphalt and the area was becoming over-grown. If it weren't for the otherwise well maintained looking buildings of the private docks the entire property would look overgrown, bushes and weeds even grew over the old cast-iron fence that marked the lot off.

“So, what can I do for you?” Alexander asked, as they joined up with a carriage team parked in the lot. Men armed with worn rifles sat guard at the corners or loitered about watching them and anyone outside. It was conspicuous for a man who looked less so, but then Alexander wondered if it was more for his sake than for Martin's.

“Well I'd suggest Albany just throw and entire fucking army down south and be done with it, but I don't think they'd like the idea.”

Alex shook his head, “No, they wouldn't. They want to sit this out and watch. But they still want to interfere.”

“I suppose no one's kids have been crying over a lack of inheritance then.” Marty grumbled.

“No sir.”