Bonus: Robert Evans Wrote A Novel: Here's Chapter 1

So without further ado, After the Revolution, a novel by Robert Evans Richardson Republic of Texas, Chapter one. Manny Manny smiled at the way the British journalists face blanched as the old Toyota hit the pothole. Reggie wasn't used to bad roads, cars driven by actual humans, or the way the heavy metal of the gun mountain the truck bed made, the aluminum frame grown. That was all familiar to Manny. He'd grown up in Sioda Demut, back before the Lakewood Blast,

back when people had still 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 suspensions a little fucked yeah. The Britain nodded and turned greener when the technical hit another pothole.

Many supposed he should offer a comforting 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 biocist, 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 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 made for his life. So he'd embraced the situation and started his own business, hiring on some friends as employees. Together they

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 FOURIGN 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 odds are pretty good as long as the war doesn't end too soon. The technical role 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 coexisted 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, Ulgian, with muscles so sculpted and prominent they had to be vat grown and He moved with the twitchy ungrace of a man who had 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 raison debt. The man moved back to the barricades when he had finished his lap. Reggie looked up at Manny and asked, was he a Was he chromed? Manny smiled.

That was always one of the first questions. As soon as any foreign journal saw a trooper with a large enough billed skin with an off shade, or one who just moved a little too fast to seem completely right. Anything beyond basic aesthetic and medical biomodifications were banned in civilized countries like the UK. The real chrome, the implants that would let a man lift a tank 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 of that grown muscles, Manny said in an offhanded 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 you live right alongside them, don't you. Manny shrugged. Everybody's got something out here, and the wet wears what lets us hold back? The martyrs?

They own the whole city if it weren't for half fats like him. The journalists nodded, and his gaze stayed fixed upon the militiaman until a troubled look crossed his face. He glanced back to Manny. Are you a chromed Reggie asked. Manny smiled. I don't expect either of us as stock, Sabiana, 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 a ship hole, Manny asked. The journalist had the grace to blush many 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, many felt bad about hoping the war hung on another six months. The old government blamed a lot on roided up veterans with military grade mods. He told Reggie, most was just propaganda, fearmongering. People were pissed after twenty years

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

met yesterday. Do you know what some of those people are? Reggie couldnt 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 brick down easy. Most of those folks live on the road in between the civilized parts of Texas and the Federal 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, refortified, and redestroyed several times. The brit was inches away from asking another question when the gateman 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. Hef a. Manny said, the p PA's forward position is about five minutes out. You'll be in the ship then,

or at least shiit 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 journey lists always called Manny the next time they were in country, giving white kids and keffee as a lifetime of bragging rights for surviving a couple of days in his home killed manny soul just a little, but he 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 in Spring Valley Road and blazoned on a weather beaten bullets guard sign.

The Technical pulled to the right, the guns swayed in its mount Many 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. Many could see a line of bullet holes 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 nine eight 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 that hung the blue and white starburst flag of the STF and the flag of the p p A. Three men in uniforms stood waiting as the old toyota rolled to a stop and Manny

and Reggie disembarked. Two of the men were officers in the p p A, Colonel Jacob Milgram and Major Deshaun Clark. Milgram was a boring, tight lipped nerdy type, but Deshaun was one of Manny'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. Manny considered Himid almost a local. He shook hands with Jacob, since Manny knew Deshaun 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. Many shook Hamed'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 would 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. You'll get that ship under control, and maybe I'll work a straight job again. Not too soon, though, he thought.

The least this war can do is last long enough to get me out of Texas. Hamid 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 correspondence. It was the norm for young writers to be intimidated by grizzled military men. Some of them got over that Manny had worked with the middle aged der Schpiegel reporter last week could probably taken as

much incoming fire. As Major Clark Colonel Milgram led them to 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 US dollars, a currency as dead as the last American president. Manny recognized ads for bands and movies. He remembered it from his childhood. The

glass facade had shattered years ago. The kitchen had been gutted and replaced by wall length mirrors 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 in the human eye, and orderly brought in three beers shiner box from Austin, and one dark brown tea in a glass cup for Hamid. The brit raised his glass in a friendly salute, thank you for meeting with me, and then he started to ask questions. Many leaned back in his chair 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. Devin Martinez was up in Addison today, taking a Californian documentary crew on a tour of an STF training facility. He'd messaged Manny to let him know they'd gotten through the check It's without any issue. Oscar Allenby,

his other stringer, 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 Manny nonetheless, when 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 Manny's attention 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 in Raza front another local militia 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 nine checkpoints on that part of the Richardson line, Deshon said, as he pointed to each one. Five of them border Republic controlled territory. The traffic from there is mostly autonomous, and those vehicles slave 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 armed. Reggie was quiet for a few seconds while he figured out the most polite way to phrase his next question. Many can almost hear the gears turning in the journalist's head before he finally spoke. 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 border 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. Many leaned in a little interested, in spite of himself, at where this was all going to lead. Perhaps, Hamad 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 Martyr's brigades as a hacker that can crack that, then I'm the King of Albuquerque. But something still went wrong,

Reggie insisted, hamid smile turned cold. This is war, Mr McGhee, 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 their survivors as well, if possible, Manny interjected, not waiting to

see if the journalist 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 Miilgram said, with a smile to Manny. They gave 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 Manny was glad they'd be spending most of the

rest of their day and doors. Dehaun clapped a hand on Manny's shoulder as he lit one of his new cigarettes. It's good to see you again, 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 Deshaun gestured at the gun emplacements and loitering militiamen at the command post. This is not war, not really. Your job is to help your people, children of peace and plenty,

understand what's 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 bit of the blood drained from the journalist's face. Nutty old fuck, Manny thought, with more amusement than fear. Classic to 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. Manny's eyes lingered on it for a second before he turned back to Reggie. Ready to go, he asked Chipper 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 militias steadfastly refused to involve themselves in the region's greater conflicts. They'd been targeted a few times by the Heavenly Kingdom, though the s d F, 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 in between, he'd unrolled a portable screen and had a holographic display up, looping four separate sections of the security footage Colonel Milgram had sent over. The journalist alternated between typing furiously scrawling notes in his journal and taking huge gulps from something

brown and foamy. He stopped working when he saw 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. Many 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 lens. Notice anything, spotters, Manny said, probably trying to get a kill. Count. No, man, look at where he's pointed. That Count's not looking at any post. He's looking straight back deeper into the old town. And I'll bet you he's high enough up to be staring right at Colonel Milgram's command post. Manny looked again. He thought about the angle. Okay, so what, he asked, You think this was a probing attack for some big action.

The journalist shrugged. Maybe it's something new, is what interests me. Two years of Modydom 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 of 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. Many ordered

a Shiner. It was the one beer a 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'd heard it, of course, vague stories of rioting in Kansas, a fundamentalist uprising inside the southernmost territory 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 exactly what role the preacher played within 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 as 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 god fondling Nutfoxx 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, and California, Cascadia, the North American Republic, I've just seen a lot of hate. Look,

Manny interrupted me. I'm a man of peace. I love everybody, but this continent has been weren't apart and bleeding out for the last thirty years. A lot of people hate Christians. The ones that don't hate Christians hate leftists, and everyone outside the American Republic 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. Manny wanted to resent it, but he'd been doing this job long enough to know that 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 Manny. Can

I buy you another round? Many shook his head, no thanks, I'm tired and I don't want to drag ass 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 ebbed a night shirt and sweatpants from his bag and slipped them on. Many considered cleaned

pajamas a necessity. He fired up his deck again once he was swaddled in his sleeping bag. There was a jetting 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 new video uploads, and

headlines from the local news. Devon had messaged him twice more to let him know that he and his journalists were headed back to Austin, and then that they had 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 cut me out of the deal, I'm going to But the longer he thought about Oscar,

the more Manny worried that something might have happened. Oscar had been working in Plano today, near 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 right 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 could just hang on a little longer. He soon fell asleep and slept pretty well until the first mortar landed.