Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

"Textiles. They made wool coats and stuff like that. There’s some sheep farms on the outskirts of town. They got wiped out, too. I also think they did a lot of scavenging. There was a company up here that did a lot of wireless stuff before ‘all this’. I think they were selling the leftovers back to the army." Shep stroked a finger across his gray mustache. "Okay. Wiped out by what?" Dustin McBride motioned toward a heavy tarp and said, "Agarn."

Corporal Brown responded to that nickname. He pulled away the covering, revealing three bodies. Each corpse wore heavy animal hides but even through the winter clothing Shepherd spied pale skin, elongated fingers, and bodies lacking any hair.

"Red Hands."

Shepherd knew the Red Hands to be a primitive tribe that could breed and spread fast, lived as one with nature, hated technology, and fought bravely despite using primitive weapons. Still… "You’re telling me Red Hands wiped out this colony? With bows and arrows?" "Looks that way, yeah." "How many colonists here?"

McBride answered, "The info I’ve got says about three hundred. Far as I can tell, we’ve found about three hundred dead bodies so far, too."

"They were armed, right?"

Corporal Brown, a smoke still dangling from his mouth, answered, "Piss-tols, ri-fulls, a couple o’ Jav-lins, even got one of them pinballs ‘case a Shadow came callin’. They used to come ‘round here back in the day, or so I heard."

Shepherd grunted. The Red Hands existed like cockroaches, as soon as The Empire thought they stamped them out a new band appeared somewhere. Red Hands moved through the wilderness expertly, usually staying out of sight for as long as they wanted to stay out of sight.

"What a sec," Shep jumped. "Three hundred people with guns wiped out by Red Hands? How the Hell many Red Hands would it take to do that?"

Corporal Brown-"Agarn"-answered, "A shitload or two."

A lonely Humvee pulling a trailer halted on Interstate 5. Overhead, a clear sky waited for the sun to climb the green foothills that cast shadows across the highway.

Garrett "Stonewall" McAllister stepped out onto the pavement and loitered behind the open door, glancing first left and then right as if searching for spying eyes.

"General, we’re going to be late," said Benny Duda who also exited the vehicle.

"Please, Benjamin, you know I have an image to protect."

Garrett looked first at the soldier sitting at the driver’s wheel then the one standing in the cupola behind a. 50 caliber machine gun. Neither dared meet the General’s glare.

"Yessir, I understand. We do have a time table, though."

Stonewall grunted then walked to the horse trailer. The sound of his boots clicking and his sword jingling bounced between the foothills.

They retrieved two horses-both saddled and ready-and detached the trailer. A moment later, the two riders trotted along the Interstate as it hooked east then south again with the Humvee coasting obediently behind.

Two miles later they arrived at the entrance to a small town situated amidst forests and high desert plains. The volcanic rock of Mt. Shasta dominated the eastern horizon, its flat peak covered in snow. Stonewall eyed it as he brought his horse to a halt.

Duda’s voice pulled his attention to the task at hand: "General?"

Unlike the encounter at Crater Lake two days prior, Garrett did not want to come across as intimidating or eccentric. Today called for diplomacy, for the ground on which he stood separated two armies. Duda appeared to have remembered this strategy and had already dismounted. Stonewall joined him. The Humvee, meanwhile, came to a complete stop several yards behind. The soldier in the cupola moved to the passenger's seat, far away from the gun.

The road sloped down through an archway that featured an illustration of Mt. Shasta along with the town's name of "Weed." Under that arch gathered a line of five men dressed in black coveralls and jackets with shield-shaped patches. Their collars flaunted insignias of rank. They displayed expressions ranging from frightened eyes to stern jaws of determination with a variety of blends in between.

Stonewall sympathized with those frightened eyes; The Empire had arrived at California’s door after a year of anticipation.

At the same time, he feared that those stern jaws meant a stubborn pride that The Cooperative’s militia officers would translate into a conflict he very much wanted to avoid.

Stonewall glanced toward an old gas station situated away from the meeting. There he saw a group of California’s front line fighters mulling about. Among them he saw that same collection of frightened eyes and stern jaws, but much more intense. After all, these men would do the fighting and dying should conflict come.

I would like it very much if these men would join my ranks so we could fight the Earth's enemies together.

Alas, those men gathered in the shadow of the problem. A ship towered over the station from its landing spot on the far side. Colored silver and black, it stood three stories tall on rows of landing gear and stretched fifty yards long. Its name reflected the general design: Stingray.

The extraterrestrial machine sat silent but it spoke of stealth, energy weapons, speed, and maneuverability. It spoke of the battle to come in the skies over the Golden State.

One of The Cooperative’s officers approached. The man displayed extra girth that appeared the work of time, not gluttony and he appeared well-groomed, almost painstakingly so. What remained of his gray hair fluttered in a chilled breeze.

He wore a silver star on his collar and a patch on his breast displayed the image of two outstretched hands meant to show unity but, to Stonewall's eyes, they appeared to arm wrestle. One of those hands shined silver, the other a politically correct brownish shade representing the diverse skin colors among the human part in The Cooperative’s equation.

Stonewall raised his arm in a textbook salute and said, "General Stonewall McAllister, Second Mechanized Division of Virginia."

The other man did not return the salute. Instead, he gaped the way most people gaped at Stonewall when first meeting the man in the Old Mist uniform.

"Exactly what war is it you’re fighting, son?"

Garrett, who had recently passed forty years of age, held his temper.

"Ah, you might believe that I endeavor to fight the War Between the States. However, I have not come here to discuss my choice of wardrobe. We have urgent matters to resolve."

The other man sneered, "The only thing that needs to happen is that you and your followers need to stay out of my state."

Stonewall saw that the man standing across from him wore one of those stern, stubborn jaws. He realized that any threats he might conjure would fail to impress and, for obvious reasons, Stonewall had not brought along Captain Kaufman’s Chrysaor to drop from the sky. Besides, while much smaller than a dreadnought, Stingray attack cruisers did not lack teeth.

He did, however, find something to say.

"Well, if you choose not to talk perhaps your Masters will. Are any of your leash-holders about?"

He threw in a wry smile but maintained his gentlemanly disposition, not an easy task for a man with a handlebars mustache and thick sideburns.

The gray-haired officer frowned, but before he could respond a sound grabbed the attention of everyone at the Weed city gate: two quick bursts that could have been a high-pressure air hose hissing.

All eyes shot to the gas station. An object moved over there somewhere behind the crowd of soldiers. That object shot into the air a dozen then fifty feet and flew forward, glinting silver in the sun then descended to the gathering. Two more quick bursts sounded, this time close enough so all could see the blasts of vapor from the jetpack.