Chapter One

called it Dallas. The truck's driver veered around the bloated corpse of a large dog lying in the middle of the road. Reggie gripped the truck bed with white knuckles and eyed the swaying AMMO belt of the twenty millimeter cannon like it was a coiled snake. The gunner, Manny's cousin, Alejandro, grinned down at the journalist. The Suspeneon's a little fact, yeh. The Briton nodded and turned greener. When the technical hid another pothole. Manny supposed he should offer a comfort and

word to the man. That would be good business, but a louder part of him looked at Reggie's brand new boots and thought he can stand a little less comfort. The journalist would brag about this ride for months once he got home. Escorting reporters from the safety of Austin to the sundry hotspots of the Old Metroplex was not Manny's ideal career. Two years ago, he'd been working on a bachelor's in business administration from the University of Austin.

The plan had been to get a job with Ages Biosystems, then charm his way into a working visa and a gig in the California Republic. But the fighting had started up again and ruined all that. The culprit this time was the Heavenly Kingdom, a loose assortment of Christian extremist militias. They'd boiled out from the suburbs of the Old Metroplex

and all but broken the Republic of Texas. The Autonomous City of Austin had stabilized the situation with the help of an alliance of leftist Texan militias the Secular Defense Forces. Beating them back had cost a lot in blood and time, and forced Manny to change every plan he'd ever had for his life. So he'd embraced the situation and started his own business, hiring on some friends as employees. Together they'd built the best network of stringers in North Texas.

His boys fed him video contacts and news updates, and he sold what he could to the big foreign media conglomerates. In a couple more months, he'd have enough saved up that he could fuck off, fly to Europe and apply for a refugee visa. My ans are pretty good as long as the war doesn't end too soon. The technical rolled to a creaky stop in front of a checkpoint that had clearly been erected within the last few days. It was just a collapsible electronic gate and two sandbag

emplacements on either side of the battered highway. A street sign nearby announced that they were on the edge of Richardson, formerly a suburb of Dallas and currently a forward position of the People's Protection Army. A local anarchist militia manny could see the p PA's red black triangle emblem stitched onto the jackets of the soldiers guarding the checkpoint. One of the p p A men walked up to the driver's side window and started chatting with Philip. The driver.

Phil and Manny's cousin Alejandro were both with the Citizens Front, a more or less a political militia from the suburbs of Austin. Both militias co existed under the broad umbrella of the Secular Defense Forces. The SDF had been organized by the Canadian government to lump all of North Texas's palatable militant groups into a single package that could be conveniently armed. While the first guard talked with Philip, his partner did a circuit around the back of the truck.

The man was big, bulging, with muscles so sculpted and prominent they had to be vat grown, and he moved with the twitchy ungrace of a man who replaced his nervous system with circuitry. His weapon was a very old, very battered a R fifteen with an M two four three grenade launcher below the barrel. The latter was old U S military gear. The former had been someone's toy before the revolution gave America's half billion civilian guns a new riz on debt. The man moved back to the barricades.

When he had finished his lap. Reggie looked up at me and asked was he a was he chromed? Many smiled. That was always one of the first questions as soon as any foreign journal saw a trooper with a large enough filled skin with an off shade, or who just moved a little too fast to seem completely right. Anything beyond basic aesthetic and medical modifications were banned in civilized

countries like the UK. The real chrome, the implants that would let a man lift a truck or take a rocket to the belly that ship was locked up tight. A few national militaries even used the stuff these days, not after the revolution. He's got some vat grown muscles, Manny said, in an off handed way that suggested such things were common aftermarket nerves too. Probably his stuff is low grade, that's why it's so visible. Reggie nodded. His eyes stayed locked on the big man. He was quiet

for a while before he spoke again. You just live right alongside them, don't you, Manny shrugged. Everybody's got something out here and the wet wears. But lets us hold back the martyrs. They own the whole city if it weren't half fats like him. The journalist nodded, and his gaze stayed fixed upon the militiaman, until a troubled look crossed his face. He glanced back to Manny. Are you all chromed, Reggie asked. Manny smiled, I don't expect either of us as stock sabien eh, but I doubt I've

got anything you don't. Reggie seemed somewhat comforted by this. Most of what I've read about the really heavy mods says they cause a lot of well unstable behavior. That's why, that's why this city such as ship Hole, Manny asked. The journalist had the grace to blush. Manny looked away for a moment. His eyes landed on the bones of three large public housing buildings. A barrel bomb had detonated

in the center of the courtyard. All three shared. It had peeled away the walls, some of the floors, and the resulting firestorm had burned up everything that wasn't concrete, steel, or rebar. For just a moment, Manny felt bad about hoping the war hung on. In other six months, the old government blamed a lot on roided up veterans with military grade mods. He told Reggie, most was just propaganda, fear mongering. People were pissed after twenty years of plague, disaster,

and poverty. Manny shrugged. It's true, though a lot of chromed up vets turned on the government. You can't make men into gods and expect them to keep fighting from men, Reggie pointed back to the bolding Militiaman, I take it, muscles there is pretty far from a god. Nah, Manny laughed. He's just a guy with too much meat money. Gods don't man check points. The Brit was excited. Now. These were the questions he'd wanted to ask since they met yesterday.

Do you know where some of those people are? Reggie couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. Could we talk to them? Manny didn't have any of those contacts, nor did he know any other fixers who did. He tried to let the Brit down easy. Most of those folks live ah on the road in between the civilized parts of Texas and the Republic of California, Oh. Reggie looked disappointed. The truck rolled past the wreckage of an old Catholic school. It bore signs of being fortified, destroyed,

re fortified, and redestroyed several times. The Brit was inches from asking another question when the gate man waved them on, and the battered Toyota farted its way into drive, belching and complaining, past a network of potholes until it hit a relatively straight chunk of asphalt. Only a few minutes now, hefe Manny said, the p PA's forward position is about five minutes out. He'll be in the ship then, or at least shit adjacent. The journalist's face washed over in

an even mix of anxiety and pride. One of the first lessons Manny had learned at this job was that phrases like the ship made rich gringo writers unreasonably excited. An excited journalists always called Manny the next time they were in country. Giving white kids in caffie as a lifetime of bragging rights for surviving a couple of days in his home killed his soul just a little bit, But Manny pushed down the anger and told himself that a chip on the shoulder was a lot less useful

than money in the bank. The Technical rolled off the old highway. Manny could see twenty three and Spring Valley Road and blasmed on a weather beaten bullets guard sign. The Technical pulled to the right, The guns swayed in its mount. Manny couldn't help smiling as the brit instinctively pulled away from it. They rolled up to what had once been a strip mall and was now a forward

operating base for the People's Protection Army. An old laundromat, a bookstore, and a half dozen restaurants now had their roofs ringed with barbed wire and machine gun emplacements. Manny could see a line of bullet hole stitched across three of the shops. None of the windows were intact, but otherwise the buildings had weathered the war rather well. Three M one howitzers were parked next to a taco shop that had once served the local college kids, beer and

cheap grub. There was a flagpole out in front of the shop, and from it hung the blue and white starburst flag of the SDF. Three men in uniforms stood waiting as the old Toyota rolled to a stop in Manny and Reggie disembarked. Two of the men were officers in the p P, A Colonel Jacob Milgram and Major de Shaun Clark. Milgram was a boring, tight lipped near D type, but DeShawn was one of Mannie's favorite sources.

He was an old infantry guy, a consummate brawler with a face full of scars and three published books of poetry to his name. He actually had a base of international fans, mostly in Spain. The third man was Hamid Mohammed, an adviser from Syrian Kurdistan. The Curds had been giving aid to the Sundry militias of the Secular Defense Forces for years now. Mannie considered Hamid almost a local. He

shook hands with Jacob, since Manny knew DeShawn better. He met the man with a full embrace and used it as an opportunity to palm the major a packet of his favorite cigarettes. Deshaun gave him a wink and a smile. Manny shook Hamid's hand next, and then kissed him on the cheek. Hamid returned the kiss, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, Emmanuel, my friend, you really should get out of this business. One of these days you'll come up

here and it won't be safe. Manny frowned a little at the use of his birth name, but he didn't make an issue out of the matter. There's still a war on right. He smiled at Hamid he'll get that ship under control. Maybe I'll work a straight job again. Not too soon, though, he thought. The least this war can do was last long enough to get me out of Texas. Hamide smiled back, and Manny introduced Reggie to

the officers. The journalist was clearly awkward in that special way Manny had come to expect from new war correspondents. It was the norm for young writers to be intimidated by grizzled military men. Some of them got over that Manny had worked with a middle aged Der Spiegel reporter last week could probably take in as much incoming fire as Major Clark. Colonel Milgram led them into the militarized taco shop. A brief blast of nostalgias squeezed Manny's lungs.

The place had obviously been closed since the revolution. The drink specials and meal prices printed on the wall were given in U S dollars, a currency as dead as the last American president. Many recognized ads for bands and movies he remembered from his childhood. The glass facade had shattered years ago. The kitchen had been gutted and replaced by wall length screens displaying maps of the city. At least a dozen uniformed men and women milled around the

space in small groups. He and Reggie sat down at a long picnic table with Hamid and the two officers. Reggie set his camera up on the table. It was just a small silver sphere, but Manny knew it could record everything happening around it at a higher resolution than the human eye. An orderly brought in three beers, shiner box from Austin and one dark brown tea and a glass cup for Hamede. The brit raised his glass in a friendly salute, thank you for meeting with me, and

then he started to ask questions. Manny leaned back in his chair and enjoyed a long gulp of cold beer. If he wasn't needed to translate, he generally checked out during interviews. He used the free time to activate his deck and check in on the two stringers he had working right now. David Allenby was up in Addison today taking a Californian documentary crew on a tour of an st F training facility. He'd messaged Manny to let him know they'd gotten through the checkpoints without any issue. Oscar

Martinez didn't have any journalists with him. He was embedded with a Republic of Texas police unit getting footage from inside a neighborhood that had recently been liberated from the Heavenly Kingdom. There were no new messages from Oscar. His last check in had been the night before. It was probably nothing, but it concerned Manning. Nonetheless, what if Oscar got a better offer for his footage. He'd always been loyal before, but if that funk from the Guardian had

gotten to him. I'm interested in the Abrams Road bombing, Reggie told the colonel, and Many's attentions swung back to his reporter. That's an odd thing to ask about. The bombing had occurred two weeks back. It had been big news for a couple of hours. Manny had paid one of his contacts and rossa Front for a video of a walk through of the wreckage. It had brought in about three grand profit. The Abrams Road bombing was not

a martyrdom operation. Colonel Milgram sounded almost angry, terribly sorry. Reggie said, you're right, of course, there was no driver, so no martyr right right, Deshaun Clark said. He pulled a folded piece of white paper out of his pocket, opened it up and smoothed it out on the table. It was a map of the df W area, color coded to show the positions of the various militias in the region. We operate eight checkpoints on that part of the Richardson line, DeShawn said, as he pointed each one.

Five of them boarder Republic controlled territory. The traffic from there is mostly autonomous, and those vehicles slaved themselves to our traffic management system before they can enter our territory. The other three checkpoints border territory controlled by the martyrs. They don't see much traffic and they're all heavily manned. Reggie was quiet for a few seconds. Manny could almost hear the gears turning in the journalist's head as he

struggled to find the words for his next question. Would it be fair to say the autonomous checkpoints are less secure than Deshaun smiled a thin, quiet smile amid grimace. Colonel Milgram responded in a terse voice. The autonomous checkpoints have fewer defenders, but they board a Republic territory. The martyrs haven't pulled off an attack on one in quite

some time. Was Abrams Road not one such attack. Reggie looked eager now like a hound, following assent, we don't know who bombed Abram's road, Colonel Milgram said, no one's taken credit, but we doubt it was the martyrs. Why the journalist asked, Manny leaned in a little interested in spite of himself, at where this was all going to lead, perhaps, Hamid said, you should read a bit more about this

heavenly kingdom. They reject all autonomous technology. They even use remote human pilots for their drones, like it's two thousand and fucking three. That's why our skies are always clear. We jammed them. Reggie asked, is it possible they found some way to hack your defense system? Amid laughed, we bought this system from the Israelis. If you're telling me one of the Martyrs brigades has a hacker who can crack that, then I'm the King of Albuquerque. But something

still went wrong, Reggie insisted, amid smile turned cold. This is war, mister Reggie. It's mostly things going wrong. That's where the line of questions petered out. Reggie asked them for access to the security footage from the destroyed checkpoint and Colonel Milgram agreed to send it over. We'd like to speak to the survivors as well, if possible, Manny interjected, not waiting to see if the journey list would ask.

He knew those men were all stationed behind the line now, which would make for a safer, easier rest of the day than heading up to the wire, of course, Colonel Milgram said, with a smile to Mannie. They said their good byes, and then Major Clark walked them out to their waiting Toyota. The Texas heat hit like an oven as they exited, and Mannie was glad they'd be spending most of the rest of their day and doors. DeShawn clapped a hand on Manny's shoulder as he lit one

of his new cigarettes. It's good to see you, Emmanuel, he said, and then he smiled at Reggie, and it's nice to meet you, my British friend. I'm sorry you've come to the front at a boring time. Why, Reggie asked, because this Deshaan gestured at the gun emplacements and loitering militiamen of the command post. This is not war, not really. Your job is to help your people. Children of peace and plenty understand what is going on here. You must

teach them the language of war. And to paraphrase a dead poet, the language of war is a language made of blood. To be spoken, it must be earned. There was an awkward pause, A little of the blood drained from the journalist's face. Hugh Nutty, Old fuck, Manny thought, with more amusement than fear. Classic de Shaun, he said, and laughed. To ease the tension. The major bid them both a good day, hugged Manny, and sauntered off back to the command post. Smoke from his cigarette curled up

into the air behind him as he walked. Mannie's eyes lingered on it for a second before he turned back to Reggie. Ready to go, he asked Jipper as he could manage. Three hours, a handful of interviews, and one short drive later, Manny and Reggie arrived at their home for the night. The Richardson Autonomous Project, once a Walmart, now a twenty two year old experiment and sustainable urban living. The project was the furthest island of civilization on the

sd F side of the Front. Its militia steadfastly refused to involve themselves in the region's greater conflicts. They'd been targeted a few times by the Heavenly Kingdom. The SDF, by contrast, left them alone, so when a fixer like Manny found himself on the wrong side of the lb J Freeway after dark, he could usually trust the project to provide food, booze, and shelter for a price. Of course,

sleeping arrangements in the project were broadly communal. The bulk of the old walmart had been converted into an indoor meadow, with grow lights hanging from the rafters and a wide, lush field of native grass sprawling across most of the inhabited space. Fruit trees, bushes full of berries, cannabis, plants, and copses of bamboo lined the edges of the space. The center of the field was dominated by a large

circular kitchen surrounded by a handsome oaken bar. Table tables, gazebos, and sundry personal structures dotted the field, along with a pair of dance floors. Reggie's face lit up when he

saw the bar. By the time Manny had dropped off their bags and paid Charlie and the driver for the night, the journalist was already three beers in the brit wasn't precisely drunk or sober, but at that productive twilight it in between He'd unrolled a portable screen and had a holographic display up, looping four separate sections of the security footage Colonel Milgrim had sent over. The journalist alternated between typing furiously scrawling notes in his journal and taking huge

gulps of something brown and foamy. He stopped working when he saw a Manny approach and waved him into the adjacent seat. Hey, brother, check this out. Manny pulled up a seat and the journalist directed his attention to a six second loop of footage from immediately after the bombing. It showed two man size silhouettes standing on top of an old garage. Manny remembered the building. It stood maybe

two hundred meters from the Abrams Road checkpoint. One of the silhouettes had a rifle, the other held a short squat tube that Manny recognized as a camera. Len's notice anything spotters, Manny said, Probably trying to get a kill count. No man, look at where he's pointed at. CONT's not looking at any post. He's looking straight back deeper into the old town. And I'll bet you, he's high up enough to be staring right at Colonel Milgram's command post.

Mannie looked again. He thought about the angle. Okay, so what, he asked, Do you think this was a probing attack for some big action. The journalists shrugged. Maybe it's something new, is what interests me. Two years of modytem operations that all look more or less the same, and now this weird one, an autonomous vehicle bomb from a group of fanatics who think autonomous vehicles at the devil. Yeah, Manny agreed,

that does seem weird. The bartender walked up and offered Manny his pick of the finest liquor in this particular war zone. Manny ordered a Shiner. It was the one beer drinker could find across both the Republic of Texas and the Austin Autonomous Region. He looked back at the looping footage. They both watched it twice more. Then Reggie spoke up again. What have you heard about pasta Mike, he asked. Manny stiffened a little bit at the name.

He had heard it, of course, vague stories of rioting in Kansas, A fundamentalist uprising inside the southernmost territories, of the United Christian States. He hadn't thought much about it at first, but two years ago Pastor Mike had moved to Texas, shortly before the Heavenly Kingdom had declared itself. It was hard to say what role exactly the preacher played in the organization, but he was certainly its most

visible face. I know who he is, Manny said. I know the Republic led him in because they thought his followers might provide a buffer against Austin's influence. I know that blew the funk up in their faces. Manny took a long drink and continued, that's an old story around here, the Republic using those gone fondling nut fucks to push back against the leftists. The journalist raised an eyebrow, and

Manny instantly regretted his crude response. He didn't really care about religion one way or the other, but whenever he came out to the front, it was hard not to get a little angry, especially after a drink. Sorry, he said, it's been a long day. Reggie looked down, coughed, and took a sip. He looked back at Manny, took another sip and said, you know, that's another subject I'd rather like to cover what Manny asked, anti Christian sentiment in

North America. Manny grunted and looked down at his drink. The brit barreled on, You're not the first North American I've heard express anger towards Christians, he said, in California, Cascadia, the North American Federation. I've just seen a lot of hate. Look, Manny interrupted me. I'm a man, a piece. I love everybody, but this continent's been torn apart and bleeding for the

last twenty years. A lot of people hate Christians. The ones that don't hate Christians hate leftists, and everybody outside the American Federation hates capitalists, hate, hate hate. Manny took a gulp of his beer and set it down a little harder than he'd intended. He looked Reggie in the eye and finished, there's exactly one thing all the broken bits of this continent have in common. Hate. The journalist

arched an eyebrow at Manny and returned the gaze. He had the look of a man peering into the enclosure of a particularly exotic zoo animal. Mannie wanted to resent it, but he'd been doing this job long enough to know this was just how journalists looked at people. Reggie downed his drink. He reached a hand up to signal the bartender, and then looked back at Mannie. Can I buy you another round? Manny shook his head, no thanks, I'm tired and I don't want to drag us at the front tomorrow.

He downed the last of his beer, bid Reggie a good night, and headed over to the spot of turf where he'd set up his sleeping bag and gear. He popped off his shoes, his pants, and his shirt and rubbed himself down with a handful of wet naps. Then he grabbed a night shirt and sweat pants from his bag and slipped them on. Manny considered clean pajamas a necessity. He fired up his deck again. Once he was swaddled

in his sleeping bag. There was a juttering start, and then the corners of his vision were populated by a series of small, partly translucent screens. Each one bulged with updates, friends asking about his weekend plans, spam from his college, notifications about the new video uploads, and headlines from the local news. David had messaged him twice more to let him know he and his journalists were headed back to Austin, and then that they'd arrived, Oscar still hadn't responded. Manny's

initial concern was over his loyalty. I got that fucker started as a stringer. If he sold that video and cutting me out of the deal, I'm going to going to But the longer he thought about Oscar, the more Manny worried something might have happened. He'd been working in Plano today, You're a very stable chunk of the front, but this far out almost anything could happen. Many closed his eyes, sighed, and tried to purge the anxiety from

his mind. There was nothing to do now other than get to sleep so he could wake up tomorrow and make more money. That thought prompted Manny to pull open his banking app and check on the status of his savings account. The numbers glowed fat and happy, and the space in front of his head another five months in the field, maybe six, then I buy that plane ticket.

He started to think about the pictures he'd seen of Dublin and Berlin and Barcelona, all the places he thought he might live if this war would just hang on a little longer. He soon fell asleep and slept pretty well until the first mortar land. Hey everybody, Robert Evans here. I hope you just enjoyed the chapter you listen to.

I hope you enjoyed the chapters to come. If you would like to read the text version of this book either on the web or on your e reader as an e pub, you can find those on the website a t r book dot com. So again, the free ad free e pub and the text of every chapter will be on a t r book dot com. Thanks