Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: New York

John Red Cloud was a short, Algonquin warrior of undeterminable age. He sipped beer from a tall glass, having nursed it for over an hour. It was well past 3 AM and he sat in a rundown tavern catering to dock workers and seamen. He had the leathery features of a seasoned warrior and a grudge to settle with the leaders of the German Dominion. Because of that, he waited here to murder a man.

Red Cloud tightened his grip around the beer glass. He had believed a lie. He had fought for an illusion, and that angered him in a deep and solemn way.

He took a slow sip, as if trying to dampen his inner rage. Because of GD duplicity, he had declared war against them. He had not done so verbally, but in his heart. He had begun that war in the depth of winter by murdering the Dominion ambassador to Quebec.

The GD secret service hunted for him now, as he hunted his enemies. This was an old game for Red Cloud, and he was a survivor of a long and bitter battle that had started against the Canadian government many years ago. He knew the odds: he was one warrior against an empire. Because of that, he had chosen a time-honored technique and target. He would assassinate the leader of the GD, Chancellor Kleist.

Unfortunately, he had a problem. To kill Kleist, he had to leave North America, cross the Atlantic Ocean and land in Europe. Instead of hiding in the northern wilds, he would carry the war to the enemy. The trick was getting across the great salt sea.

John had not called upon his people for aid, even though they had voted him the Algonquin representative to the Germans. He’d made his decision alone and he would work alone to exact revenge upon those who thought to mock his people.

Tonight, he wore a red flannel shirt, jeans and boots. His jacket was draped over his chair as he sat hunched in the shadows, cradling his glass.

Unlike some of his fellow Algonquians, Red Cloud could hold his liquor, but he wasn’t taking any chances tonight. He had ordered the one beer, nursing it, but he wouldn’t drink any more. He dared not get drunk tonight—oh no. After weeks of searching for the right man, he had finally found his ticket to Europe.

The grungy Halifax bar was a dive catering to dockworkers and seamen who had made the trip across the Atlantic. Such journeys had increased since Quebec seceded from Canada and joined the GD. The Europeans poured military supplies and hardware into Quebec and into New Brunswick, which had become a part of Quebec a few weeks ago.

It was a long story, but the GD prepared for war against America. That had included grabbing the rump of Eastern Canada: New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland.

A long story indeed as John hunted amid mayhem, killing twice in order to reach Halifax. He had a problem, or two problems intertwined together. The GD secret service hunted him and he lacked the identification papers to pass the endless roadblocks or to board a plane or boat for Europe. Because of the threat of North American war, the GD police did not like Quebecers to travel from region to region in their own country.

John’s scarred hands released the beer glass. His black eyes seldom smiled, and he wore a toque : the French word for a knit woolen hat.

John had a simple plan, the best ones always were. He needed identity papers and a cover job. What better papers and cover than as a seaman of the GD? Unfortunately, he did not have access to good forgers. Therefore, he hunted for a GD seaman who looked like him—the same size, similar features, and so on.

From a nearby table, a chair scraped back.

John glanced up. The man who had shoved his chair had dark features and leathery skin. He also had a brush cut. Therefore, when the time came, John would shave his head. The man wore a green jacket and had several rings on his fingers. He had two black fingernails, and he was missing an upper left tooth.

At the right time, John would pull out one of his teeth. He had to reach Europe, France in particular. He could speak French and from a lifetime of living in Quebec, he knew French customs. Perhaps as important, he had the name of a French secret service agent who hated the present GD regime. This agent was the key to John’s plan.

The seaman rose unsteady to his feet. He put his left hand on the table. Half the middle finger was missing. The man had been drinking all night, and playing darts from time to time. The man shouted his good-byes. Then he staggered for the door.

With a sigh, Red Cloud stood. He did not want to kill the man. It did not make him feel good knowing that soon he would take the man’s life. It made him sad, just as it would have made one of his ancestors sad having to kill a deer for the family. His ancestor would have asked the gods’ favor to help him make the kill, and his ancestor would later ask the deer’s spirit to forgive him, as his family needed the meat.

John did not believe in the old gods. After his family died years ago in the Quebec civil war, he didn’t believe in much. Thus, he would not ask the man’s forgiveness as he stole the life. Still, it grieved him to snuff out an innocent life. It was yet another thing the forked-tongued GD leaders would have to answer for.

As John stepped outside, rain struck his face, making him blink. He wondered if GD soldiers would feel sad killing any resisting Algonquians. He did not think so. The white man killed without remorse. The Algonquin was superior, therefore, because at least he regretted the need for an evil deed.

A streetlight cast ill-defined light as rain hissed past the post. A quarter-block ahead of John, the seaman stumbled, laughing to himself, perhaps at a joke told earlier tonight. That was good, yes, very good. At least, the seaman would die happy.

John hurried across the slippery paving. He had a knack for moving fast without seeming to. With a barely perceptible turning of his head, he glanced right and left. Except for the target, there was no one out this late in the dingy part of Halifax. As John broke into a jog, he drew a bone-handled hunting knife from inside his jacket.

“You!” he said. “Wait a minute, eh?”

The seaman, who was the same height as John, stopped and turned around. In the dimness of the street lamp, the man had a questioning smile on his lips. It did not appear that he saw the knife. Maybe at the last second he sensed something out of place. The smile slipped, but it was far too late for the seaman. The razor-sharp blade sliced across his throat, and John Red Cloud nimbly stepped aside.

Blood gushed from the cut, and because the steel had sliced the vocal cords, the dying man couldn’t cry out. Instead, he staggered backward, hit his shoulders against the nearby building and tumbled sideways. He kicked his booted feet a time or two, and then he shuddered, lying still.

He must have been very drunk .

Blood pooled under the body—lots and lots of blood. John carefully stepped upon the slick paving. From experience, he knew the blood could act like oil and make for treacherous footing. Kneeling on the man’s chest, he searched the pockets and found his ID. He extracted the plastic and what little money the man carried. Then John pressed his teeth together because he didn’t like the next part.

With the knife-tip, he made a question mark on the man’s cheek, including digging out the dot on the bottom. The mark had no significance of any kind. The question mark was simply to give the police something to think about, a thing that would hopefully throw them on a rabbit trail leading nowhere except away from John.

Wiping the blade on the dead man’s coat, sliding it back into the hidden sheath, John rose and walked away. He would not use the ID right away, but in a week or two, after the man’s ship had left without him. He would board a different one later. And he would—with the Spirits’ guidance—reach the Old World, Europe. Then he would begin to hunt Chancellor Kleist of the German Dominion and kill him like the dog he was.