[b]Washington, DC[/b]

Secretary of State Lillian Mather read the latest diplomatic dispatches while her limo sped down Pennsylvania Avenue towards the White House. The Asian and Middle Eastern messages were the most important; they encompassed updates on the wars raging in those respective theaters. The US diplomatic and intelligence presence abroad wasn’t much, but her people did their job well and kept her constantly updated on the ever-shifting geopolitical landscape. 

She wanted the State Department running at its best because she wanted to prove her detractors wrong. Lillian was the first female cabinet secretary and that drew a lot of ire from the beltway insiders. People were all for a woman running the Department of the Interior or Education, low-level posts that didn’t require much responsibility, but to have a woman as Secretary of State, the nation’s chief diplomat? That was unthinkable. What if some fit of womanly emotion overcame her during an important summit meeting? She could make the country look weak or worse start a war because she didn’t have the intelligence of composure of a man. In her best diplomatic language, Lillian thought those people could go fuck themselves.

This year marked her twentieth year in the diplomatic field. From political science professor, to State Department policy wonk, to diplomat, she had done just about every type of job State had to offer. Before getting tabbed to be Secretary of State her crowning moment had been the negotiations of the peace treaty with Canada that ended the second North American War. If anybody looked at their record and still had reservations about a woman running State then they were a misogynist of the highest order.
Lillian tucked the documents under her arm and exited the limo once it came to a stop. She followed behind a White House staffer and a Secret Service agent, her own bodyguard matching her gait stride for stride.

“Madam Secretary,” Vice President Russell Reed said as soon as Lillian entered the Oval Office. “Have a seat; he’ll be here in just a minute.”
Reed smiled as he stood from the couch facing the president’s desk. They shook hands quickly before sitting back down. Lillian took a seat beside him. The vice president stretched out and smiled at her.

“We haven’t spoken since your confirmation hearing, so I owe you belated congratulations.”

“I’m just glad you weren’t chairing the committee still. I have no doubt you would have put me through the paces.”

They shared a polite laugh. The two Washington insiders knew each other very well in a professional sense. In all Lillian’s years working in foreign relations Reed had been there right alongside her, first in the House and then in the Senate. He was perhaps the only person in the administration who knew as much about foreign affairs as she did. Both long-time serving Washingtonians joining the neophyte President Norman’s cabinet was seen as a boon for the general. The thing Lillian still couldn’t wrap her head around was the vice president’s decision to leave the Senate to be Norman’s running mate. The tongue wagging inside the Beltway was furious. The obvious answer was that the vice presidency was to be a launching pad for a White House run in eighty-eight. But could Reed afford four years in the president’s shadow, eight if Norman was reelected. He had a stellar record as Senate Majority Leader… but by the time he ran that would be old news. The only way he could avoid fading into obscurity was doing what he appeared to be doing now and act as a close and prominent adviser to the president, but that lasted as long as Norman allowed it. One slip and he could be forced into the cold. Whatever game Reed was playing, Lillian was certain it was a risky one with a razor-thin margin of error.

“Congratulations to you as well, Mr. Vice President. I saw where the bill to nationalize NEWI went through the House without a hitch. Your protégée seems to be picking up where you left off when it comes to running the House.”

“Clay doesn’t mess around when it comes to legislation, especially White House backed legislation. The House was the easy part, now comes the Senate. Getting those mules to pass anything is a tall order.”

“But I know who can get it done,” a voice said from the doorway. President Norman entered with a smirk on his face. “If there’s anyone who knows all the senator’s dirty little secrets, it’s the vice president.”

“I only know where some of the bodies are buried, Mr. President,” Reed said as he and Lillian stood.

“Just the ones you buried yourself, right?” Norman asked with a chuckle.

“I’ll never tell, sir.”

The President shook Lillian’s hand and urged both her and Reed to take a seat while he read the diplomatic dispatches she had couriered over. They remained silent while Norman read the papers with a pair of reading glasses on his face.

“The fighting in the Suez is worse than I imagined,” he finally said, putting the papers down and removing his reading glasses. “CIA is reporting the same things all across Africa. It brings up a reason why I wanted this meeting. You speak French don’t you, Madam Secretary?”

“Oui.”

“Détente,” said Reed. “What’s that French for?”

“Relaxation. What does it mean besides that?”

“I want détente to be this administration’s foreign affairs policy,” said the President. “The world is still not happy about the annexation of the NWC. We need to move past that and get back on good terms with the powers. Where would you start, Madam Secretary?”

“China. They’re the largest superpower right now, and with Spain and Ethiopia at each other’s throats they’re the only ones we can strengthen ties with and not get dragged into a war.”

“They’re at war, too,” Reed said in a lazy tone. “Let’s not forget that.”

“It’s not a war that we need to concern ourselves with,” Lillian said matter-of-factly. “They don’t need our help.”

President Norman stood from his chair and walked to the front of his desk, leaning against it to talk to his two advisers. “Lillian, what I want to do is reach out to China and appeal to their pragmatism.”

Reed ticked points off with his fingers. “We’re two of the largest land powers in the world; they’re the biggest economical power in Asia while our annexations of the NWC and the NER have turned us into the top economic power in the hemisphere. True, we have distanced ourselves from socialism, but we need to move past ideologies and look at the fact that a US-China partnership benefits both sides immensely.”

“I think it’s easier for us to call for pragmatic thinking when we’re the weaker party. China can afford to stay on the ideological high ground because we need their support if we want to step up on the world stage. But I think those ideas are at least good enough to get some kind of dialogue going with them. How do you want to handle this, Mr. President?”

“Strictly backchannel for the moment,” Norman said. “Quietly get in touch with Ambassador Dorn in Beijing, see if he can get the Chinese to at least agree to a meeting with an envoy from the administration.”

Lillian slowly nodded before she finally spoke.

“Okay. It’s a start. I’ll see what I can do.” 

[b]Jackson, Mississippi[/b]

The First AME Church of Jackson had standing room only that night. James Calhoun stood near the back of the church with his daughter Sarah and a group of her friends. They made the drive up from Natchez in James’ truck, four people wedged into the cab while three others rode on the back. He was twenty years older than everyone on the trip, and as such felt like the group’s designated grownup. Even now in the church, he was one of the older people here. Many of them were kids not much older than Sarah and his sons, but there were a few who appeared to be in high school. 

A still overcame the crowd and James could see movement down the center aisle. He stood on his tiptoes and saw a lone figure moving among the people heading towards the pulpit. A young black man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties stood behind the podium and gazed out at the crowd with a calm demeanor on his face. He wore an immaculate black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie. He was what people around here would call light-skinned with a dotting of freckles around his eyes.

“My name is Isaiah Wolde,” he spoke in a rich baritone voice that carried through the church. “I am an Ethiopian. I was an American, born in South Carolina with the name Jason McCray. I left this country as part of the Ethiopian Airlift. I have spent almost ten years in Africa, I changed my name and I converted to Islam.”

A bristle went up in the crowd at the mention of Islam. Wolde let it pass before continuing.

“I rejected this country and its way of life because I saw the truth overseas. I lived in an Empire, not a nation or a country, but an Empire created by Africans for Africans. I was no second-class citizen there, there were no ‘whites only’ or ‘colored only’ signs in the city I called home, there was no one to call Negroes ‘uppity’ for wishing to better themselves. Ethiopia frightens the people of the South, they see an empire ran by non-whites and they run for cover. I have received Allah’s blessing, and He has called me back home, to this country of my birth with a specific mission. It has been almost one hundred and forty years since the slave was freed here in the United States, but still the Negro struggles for freedom, struggles for basic things that should have been given to him years ago. I am here to tell you that the time for asking is over, it is now the time for demanding. The time for politeness is over. They keep us down because they are afraid of us… well, perhaps we should give them something to really be afraid of.”
Wolde took a moment to take a sip from the glass of water on the podium while the crowd applauded. 

“I am told we have a James Calhoun in the crowd who had a recent problem. Mister Calhoun, could you please come forward.”
James looked at Sarah with wide eyes while she beamed. With the help of her friends, she pushed James forward into the crowd and got him walking towards the pulpit. His feet felt like lead as he climbed up beside Wolde, his hand was limp as they shook hands.

“Please, Mister Calhoun, share your story to the people here.” 

“My…, my name is James—“

“Louder!” someone shouted. “Can’t hear you in the back!”

“My name is James Calhoun,” he said again. “I… I am a farmer from Natchez. For… for the past three months, me and two of my neighbors have been trying to register to vote…”

He relayed his stories to the group, from being denied pencils to fill out their forms, to the complicated and confusing questions on the literacy test, to the day before when James had passed the test but was still denied his right by a white man who couldn’t even pass the test. The more he spoke, the more comfortable he felt. The crowd helped to egg him on by reacting to his story with indignation towards the white people of Adams County and sympathy towards James and his friends. When he finished, he looked towards Wolde who smiled and nodded before stepping back up to take James’ place at the podium.

“Thank you for sharing your story. Mister Calhoun’s story is one of many Negroes across the country. Here in the South it is the worst, but every day the Negro faces an uphill battle. The President talks big about an American Dream and an American Century, but whose dream and century is he talking about? Not our dream, not our century. The Negro American Dream is apparently to sit down, shut up, and know your place; The Negro American Century will be us quietly standing to the side and smiling while the white folks make the decisions. We must show them that we have been pushed to our breaking point. This is why I am calling for a general boycott and protests in Adams County, Mississippi. The place that has seen fit to rob our Negro brothers of their dignity and right to vote will be the first battle in the war of civil rights, the final emancipation of the slave.”

The crowd broke out into a fit of cheers, applause, and wolf whistles while Wolde calmly nodded. Off to his side, James watched the crowd uneasily. These people could talk about coming to Natchez and starting protests and boycotts and a war… but none of them lived there. A sense of dread settled into his stomach as he watched Wolde fire the crowd up even further.