Part 1
Rain (Things Change)
February 3, 1984
It was February, but there were no decorations. No bonfires and barbecues for Independence Day. But the Stars and Bars still stood bravely against the cold, grey sky.
Franklin Barringer fiddled with the television antennae. The old set required a diamond-cutter's precision to pick up anything. Finally, an image coalesced in the electric fog.
“This is Martin Hubbard, for the Confederate News Service.” The CNS studio looked as ever, but Hubbard, the man who had seen the country through the worst of three decades, looked … gray. “Tensions remain high between the United States and the Confederacy today, as disagreements simmering since the Christmas Crisis have erupted once more.” Stock footage of Confederate boots marching, Confederate warcars rolling. “Union soldiers have massed along the border, and President Vance has ordered Confederate Sky Command on red alert. The Confederal Army has been deployed, and armored cavalry are facing down the Union aggression. More reports as they arrive. God bless the Confederacy. I’m Martin Hubbard.”
And then a picture of an Independence Day parade past appeared, and the fucking Bonnie Blue Flag came on again. “Jesus,” Franklin slapped the side of the heavy set, and the music dissolved in a squeal of static. “They’re not telling us anything! Mary! They’re not saying anything! There are soldiers at the border? That’s not news, that’s every other Tuesday!”
“It’s Friday.” Mary was in the kitchen, wiping a baking dish. She had woken at her usual time, dressed normally, and proceeded to the kitchen to prepare for tomorrow’s party. The turkey was almost ready to put in the oven.
“Mary,” Franklin stepped into the kitchen, “What’s wrong? Why won’t you acknowledge what’s going on here?”
“I’m very busy.” She put the dish down. “You told Clea to go home, and I have to do everything myself.” Franklin didn’t want to keep the colored maid here during … all this. Honestly, he hadn’t thought there would be anything for her to do. Now, this.
“Honey.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “There’s not going to be a party.”
Still facing away from him, she looked silently out the window. Then, barely audible, “Oh, Franklin. Daniel is out there.”
“Everything’s going to be …”
"Fine? You can’t tell me everything’s going to be fine." They looked out the widow at the row of flags, snapping in the cold wind.
===
“Barringer! You're going with the State General.”
“I - sir?”
“State General Conners is going to Stone Mountain to meet with the President and ranking State and Confederal officers. You will take the State General and his military guard to Stone Mountain, and return with him here as soon as possible.”
“Sir, I’m combat qualified, I don’t -”
“This is more important than one more bomber, Airman, and your team is down one. You drew the short straw.” Garrett’s leg had been crushed under a jeep during the rush to mobilization, just hours before. He was still doped to the gills on painkillers.
“Yes. Sir.”
“The State General is going to be ready in ten minutes. They’re prepping a Kestrel now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You get him there and back fast, boy.”
“Sir.” He saluted, and the Sky Marshall stalked off.
“Shiiiiit.” Daniel put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Fucking Garrett. He waited through all the war games to fuck them all over now? Shit.
“Uh oh, busted to babysitter duty!” For Christ’s sake. Daniel didn’t even open his eyes.
“What are you even fucking doing here, Maxwell?”
The paratrooper jingled as he strutted down the hall - just the harnesses and copient ammunition. Even Maxwell wasn’t a big enough asshole to wear spurs. During interstate coordination training, Daniel had meet a Texan para who wore spurs on his drops. But then, Texas.
“Oh, you know.” Maxwell leaned back, stretching one way, then the other. “On my way to the powder my nose. Don’t want to have to ask the fucking Yankees where the can is when I hit the drop zone, huh?” He actually twirled his blond mustache, that ridiculous affectation. Daniel was only mostly certain the comment wasn’t a veiled reference to cocaine. Maxwell had a fondness for recreational chemistry, and being who he was - one of those Maxwells, the Raleigh Maxwells - he certainly had the means to pursue his hobbies. But that couldn’t be what he meant, he was just being a prick. Maxwell took shooting Yankees too seriously. Plus, there was no white in his moustache.
“You’re probably going to get in late, Danny Boy.” Maxwell peeped over his aviator glasses. “They didn’t want to upset your vapors with the rigor of combat. So after we make all the bad men go bye-bye, you can come pick me up when we win. I’ll be the one on a pile of nigger corpses.”
“Okay, Maxwell, that’s great. I’m leaving now.”
Maxwell yelled down the hall after him. “Say hello to my daddy for me at Stone Mountain!”
But Daniel was already out the door.
===
Quintus hung up his jumpsuit, took out his home clothes, and closed his locker quietly before resting his head against the cool door. The overtime since Christmas had been crushing, and he was bone tired. But the company wanted more bullets and bombs, and what was he going to do? Take a vacation?
Ha ha.
He plodded through the locker room past other men changing, hoping to get a spot near the front of the line. No luck. He waited for fifteen minutes as the overseers searched every man in front of him for smuggled out product. Like he really wanted a pocketful of bullets for a heavy machine gun, but since the Charleston Six the overseers had actually been doing their jobs. It was an unpleasant change, Quintus thought as dressed after the search.
Outside, the setting sun sparkled beautifully off the razor wire surrounding the workers’ exit. The wire probably would have been there regardless - with the crisis, security was tight all over the factory these days - but Quintus was glad it was there now. The mob outside rattled the high fence and yelled, a sea of angry white faces.
“These are white jobs! Get out of here, nigger!”
“Go back to Africa!”
“Fucking Yankee spies!”
They’d been there for weeks. “Taking white jobs” was an old claim, but one that was usually confined to angry mutters and the second page of newspaper editorials. It just didn’t make sense to have white workers in high-security manufacturing. White employees didn’t live in company apartment blocks, so they couldn’t have their homes searched for stolen goods at any time. They couldn’t have their phones and bank accounts monitored without cause. And without a bondsman’s barcoded passbook, how would you even keep track of where a white employee was going when off work, or what he was buying at the store? And of course, it was obviously harder for a black infiltrator than a white one - there were far more Union whites than blacks, and white spies didn’t have to deal with the world of passbooks and bondsmen's careful social positioning.
That was the argument until the Charleston Six, anyway. Until the whole country had seen - or in Quintus’s case, heard on the radio - six black Union spies tried, convicted, and executed. After that and Christmas, it seemed like the lid had come off, and now these people were here every day.
He walked slowly down the path to the bus, passbook already out, avoiding eye contact with the mob. Pliny and Cato were beside him - Pliny as jovial as ever, Cato dour. Cato had been at the factory little more than a month; as far as he knew, this was the way it always was. Pliny, on the other hand, acted as if the white mob was no more than a feature of the weather.
“Woo boy, busy day, huh?” Pliny lit a handrolled cigarette. “I been working hard on all this overtime, think I’m in line for a promotion to overseer!” He elbowed Cato and grinned at the obvious absurdity. The other man just grunted.
“I’d spend that promotion bonus quick if I were you,” said Quintus. “I’m not so sure there’ll be much to spend it on before long.”
“Son, you listen to that radio too much. Gonna put lines on your face worrying about that shit. All the white people gonna blow theyselves up? I think I may just cry myself to sleep over that.” His voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as he spoke.
“That shit’s nothing to joke about.” Cato had finally been roused from whatever he was grousing about today. “They drop them bombs all on the city, all out in the country, who do you think ain’t getting help? Who you think ain’t getting food? ‘Cause I’m thinking that shit describes you and me, my friends.” Cato had a strange way of speaking, like it was always a little rehearsed. He sounded like the black preachers Quintus listened to over the radio on Sundays.
“Shit, I ain’t worried,” said Pliny. “If you think -” then something happened, and Pliny collapsed into the dirt.
“Shit!” Quintus dropped to his knees and threw up a protective arm. A thrown rock had smashed into the side of Pliny’s head. He couldn’t tell how bad the damage was, but the man was out cold.
“Hey! Come on!” The white security guard smacked his club against the fence. “Come on, folks, really. Go home.” He sounded annoyed and bored. “Get him out of here,” he said, waving at Quintus and Cato with the club.
They hauled Pliny up and moved in a fast, low walk towards the bus. When they arrived both men awkwardly held their passes up with their free hands while the driver scanned them. They moved to pull Pliny on the bus, but the driver stopped them.
“Him too.”
“The man’s out, he can’t get his pass.”
“You get it, then.” Quintus looked at Cato, and they lowered Pliny to the ground and began to rifle his pockets.
The driver had a snide grin. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
===
Mary was in the sitting room now, watching the television. It was still nothing but patriotic music and pictures, but she enjoyed it. Franklin had gone to the porch, and was talking with old Mr. Durmont from next door.
Then the music stopped. “This is Martin Hubbard.” Pause. “Ladies and gentlemen...”
“Franklin!”
“Franklin, something’s happening!”
===
“Do you hear that?”
The drums and zither of the driver’s obnoxious stutterkid music was blaring. Quintus could hardly hear Cato. He strained his ears over the radio. A siren? He couldn’t see any firetrucks or police. The music suddenly cut off.
“This is the Confederal Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test. This is not a test. Seek shelter immediately. This is the Confederal Emergency Broadcast System.”
But that wasn’t important. With the music gone, Quintus could hear the outside world, and he recognized the sound. Everyone who had been alive in Charlotte in the 1950s knew that sound.
It was air raid sirens.
===
“I picked you because they said you were fast, son.”
“Sir, this is as fast as I can safely go at this altitude at night.”
The Kestrel was whipping low over the trees on its way back to Bragg Airbase. Daniel hadn’t been allowed in the meeting, obviously, but he had seen plenty of military men and politicians in a hurry today. He had even seen Senator Maxwell; he hadn’t said hello.
“Son, I think safety is just about out the window at this point, don’t you?”
“...sir.”
The craft sped, just as the lights of Charlotte were growing over the horizon. The State General didn’t return to his seat, but stood hunched over Daniel, peering out the window.
“It looks beautiful like this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I spent my whole life in Charlotte, Airman. Well, except in the ‘50s. When they drove us back in when it was all over, we went past the First Presbyterian Church. It took a bomb dead center. The steeple was still lying in the courtyard.” He paused and looked out the window. “Got hit right during services. With the war, it was a full house, even though they told people not to get together in public places. They were doing a baptism that day, when it got hit. It was my son’s.” He smiled at Daniel sadly. “My wife was worried something would happen before he could be baptised.”
Daniel didn’t know if he should say something.
Finally, the State General continued. “I’m no coward, son. But I spent thirty years trying to make sure no one else’s family died for no reason. I just don’t see any god-damned reason those fools want to play this kinda game, when everybody will lose.” Daniel knew why the State General had stormed out of the conference at Stone Mountain, now.
The Kestrel’s cockpit was silent then, until the State General spoke again. “What the hell -” There were lights in the sky. Tracers. Lots of tracers.
“It looks like an air battle, sir. You should use your harness, for safety.”
“Fuck the harness!” Suddenly, searchlights exploded to life in the city below, illuminating tiny specks in the sky, spitting fire at each other. Coming from the north, a pack of specks seemed to be protecting one of their number, while the opposing specks were trying to get at it. Daniel recognized that flight formation. They were protecting a bomber. The State General watched silently as Daniel tried to monitor the Kestrel’s flightpath.
Above, a victory for the defending specks. Several of the other specks had gone down, and the bomber had been hit. It wasn’t gone, but it was going, and Daniel could see tiny tongues of flame as it pitched downward. Then a larger burst - but it hadn’t exploded. Something had exploded out of it.
“Shit,” said the State General.
Then, everything exploded.
Rain (Things Change)
February 3, 1984
It was February, but there were no decorations. No bonfires and barbecues for Independence Day. But the Stars and Bars still stood bravely against the cold, grey sky.
Franklin Barringer fiddled with the television antennae. The old set required a diamond-cutter's precision to pick up anything. Finally, an image coalesced in the electric fog.
“This is Martin Hubbard, for the Confederate News Service.” The CNS studio looked as ever, but Hubbard, the man who had seen the country through the worst of three decades, looked … gray. “Tensions remain high between the United States and the Confederacy today, as disagreements simmering since the Christmas Crisis have erupted once more.” Stock footage of Confederate boots marching, Confederate warcars rolling. “Union soldiers have massed along the border, and President Vance has ordered Confederate Sky Command on red alert. The Confederal Army has been deployed, and armored cavalry are facing down the Union aggression. More reports as they arrive. God bless the Confederacy. I’m Martin Hubbard.”
And then a picture of an Independence Day parade past appeared, and the fucking Bonnie Blue Flag came on again. “Jesus,” Franklin slapped the side of the heavy set, and the music dissolved in a squeal of static. “They’re not telling us anything! Mary! They’re not saying anything! There are soldiers at the border? That’s not news, that’s every other Tuesday!”
“It’s Friday.” Mary was in the kitchen, wiping a baking dish. She had woken at her usual time, dressed normally, and proceeded to the kitchen to prepare for tomorrow’s party. The turkey was almost ready to put in the oven.
“Mary,” Franklin stepped into the kitchen, “What’s wrong? Why won’t you acknowledge what’s going on here?”
“I’m very busy.” She put the dish down. “You told Clea to go home, and I have to do everything myself.” Franklin didn’t want to keep the colored maid here during … all this. Honestly, he hadn’t thought there would be anything for her to do. Now, this.
“Honey.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “There’s not going to be a party.”
Still facing away from him, she looked silently out the window. Then, barely audible, “Oh, Franklin. Daniel is out there.”
“Everything’s going to be …”
"Fine? You can’t tell me everything’s going to be fine." They looked out the widow at the row of flags, snapping in the cold wind.
===
“Barringer! You're going with the State General.”
“I - sir?”
“State General Conners is going to Stone Mountain to meet with the President and ranking State and Confederal officers. You will take the State General and his military guard to Stone Mountain, and return with him here as soon as possible.”
“Sir, I’m combat qualified, I don’t -”
“This is more important than one more bomber, Airman, and your team is down one. You drew the short straw.” Garrett’s leg had been crushed under a jeep during the rush to mobilization, just hours before. He was still doped to the gills on painkillers.
“Yes. Sir.”
“The State General is going to be ready in ten minutes. They’re prepping a Kestrel now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You get him there and back fast, boy.”
“Sir.” He saluted, and the Sky Marshall stalked off.
“Shiiiiit.” Daniel put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Fucking Garrett. He waited through all the war games to fuck them all over now? Shit.
“Uh oh, busted to babysitter duty!” For Christ’s sake. Daniel didn’t even open his eyes.
“What are you even fucking doing here, Maxwell?”
The paratrooper jingled as he strutted down the hall - just the harnesses and copient ammunition. Even Maxwell wasn’t a big enough asshole to wear spurs. During interstate coordination training, Daniel had meet a Texan para who wore spurs on his drops. But then, Texas.
“Oh, you know.” Maxwell leaned back, stretching one way, then the other. “On my way to the powder my nose. Don’t want to have to ask the fucking Yankees where the can is when I hit the drop zone, huh?” He actually twirled his blond mustache, that ridiculous affectation. Daniel was only mostly certain the comment wasn’t a veiled reference to cocaine. Maxwell had a fondness for recreational chemistry, and being who he was - one of those Maxwells, the Raleigh Maxwells - he certainly had the means to pursue his hobbies. But that couldn’t be what he meant, he was just being a prick. Maxwell took shooting Yankees too seriously. Plus, there was no white in his moustache.
“You’re probably going to get in late, Danny Boy.” Maxwell peeped over his aviator glasses. “They didn’t want to upset your vapors with the rigor of combat. So after we make all the bad men go bye-bye, you can come pick me up when we win. I’ll be the one on a pile of nigger corpses.”
“Okay, Maxwell, that’s great. I’m leaving now.”
Maxwell yelled down the hall after him. “Say hello to my daddy for me at Stone Mountain!”
But Daniel was already out the door.
===
Quintus hung up his jumpsuit, took out his home clothes, and closed his locker quietly before resting his head against the cool door. The overtime since Christmas had been crushing, and he was bone tired. But the company wanted more bullets and bombs, and what was he going to do? Take a vacation?
Ha ha.
He plodded through the locker room past other men changing, hoping to get a spot near the front of the line. No luck. He waited for fifteen minutes as the overseers searched every man in front of him for smuggled out product. Like he really wanted a pocketful of bullets for a heavy machine gun, but since the Charleston Six the overseers had actually been doing their jobs. It was an unpleasant change, Quintus thought as dressed after the search.
Outside, the setting sun sparkled beautifully off the razor wire surrounding the workers’ exit. The wire probably would have been there regardless - with the crisis, security was tight all over the factory these days - but Quintus was glad it was there now. The mob outside rattled the high fence and yelled, a sea of angry white faces.
“These are white jobs! Get out of here, nigger!”
“Go back to Africa!”
“Fucking Yankee spies!”
They’d been there for weeks. “Taking white jobs” was an old claim, but one that was usually confined to angry mutters and the second page of newspaper editorials. It just didn’t make sense to have white workers in high-security manufacturing. White employees didn’t live in company apartment blocks, so they couldn’t have their homes searched for stolen goods at any time. They couldn’t have their phones and bank accounts monitored without cause. And without a bondsman’s barcoded passbook, how would you even keep track of where a white employee was going when off work, or what he was buying at the store? And of course, it was obviously harder for a black infiltrator than a white one - there were far more Union whites than blacks, and white spies didn’t have to deal with the world of passbooks and bondsmen's careful social positioning.
That was the argument until the Charleston Six, anyway. Until the whole country had seen - or in Quintus’s case, heard on the radio - six black Union spies tried, convicted, and executed. After that and Christmas, it seemed like the lid had come off, and now these people were here every day.
He walked slowly down the path to the bus, passbook already out, avoiding eye contact with the mob. Pliny and Cato were beside him - Pliny as jovial as ever, Cato dour. Cato had been at the factory little more than a month; as far as he knew, this was the way it always was. Pliny, on the other hand, acted as if the white mob was no more than a feature of the weather.
“Woo boy, busy day, huh?” Pliny lit a handrolled cigarette. “I been working hard on all this overtime, think I’m in line for a promotion to overseer!” He elbowed Cato and grinned at the obvious absurdity. The other man just grunted.
“I’d spend that promotion bonus quick if I were you,” said Quintus. “I’m not so sure there’ll be much to spend it on before long.”
“Son, you listen to that radio too much. Gonna put lines on your face worrying about that shit. All the white people gonna blow theyselves up? I think I may just cry myself to sleep over that.” His voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as he spoke.
“That shit’s nothing to joke about.” Cato had finally been roused from whatever he was grousing about today. “They drop them bombs all on the city, all out in the country, who do you think ain’t getting help? Who you think ain’t getting food? ‘Cause I’m thinking that shit describes you and me, my friends.” Cato had a strange way of speaking, like it was always a little rehearsed. He sounded like the black preachers Quintus listened to over the radio on Sundays.
“Shit, I ain’t worried,” said Pliny. “If you think -” then something happened, and Pliny collapsed into the dirt.
“Shit!” Quintus dropped to his knees and threw up a protective arm. A thrown rock had smashed into the side of Pliny’s head. He couldn’t tell how bad the damage was, but the man was out cold.
“Hey! Come on!” The white security guard smacked his club against the fence. “Come on, folks, really. Go home.” He sounded annoyed and bored. “Get him out of here,” he said, waving at Quintus and Cato with the club.
They hauled Pliny up and moved in a fast, low walk towards the bus. When they arrived both men awkwardly held their passes up with their free hands while the driver scanned them. They moved to pull Pliny on the bus, but the driver stopped them.
“Him too.”
“The man’s out, he can’t get his pass.”
“You get it, then.” Quintus looked at Cato, and they lowered Pliny to the ground and began to rifle his pockets.
The driver had a snide grin. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
===
Mary was in the sitting room now, watching the television. It was still nothing but patriotic music and pictures, but she enjoyed it. Franklin had gone to the porch, and was talking with old Mr. Durmont from next door.
Then the music stopped. “This is Martin Hubbard.” Pause. “Ladies and gentlemen...”
“Franklin!”
“Franklin, something’s happening!”
===
“Do you hear that?”
The drums and zither of the driver’s obnoxious stutterkid music was blaring. Quintus could hardly hear Cato. He strained his ears over the radio. A siren? He couldn’t see any firetrucks or police. The music suddenly cut off.
“This is the Confederal Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test. This is not a test. Seek shelter immediately. This is the Confederal Emergency Broadcast System.”
But that wasn’t important. With the music gone, Quintus could hear the outside world, and he recognized the sound. Everyone who had been alive in Charlotte in the 1950s knew that sound.
It was air raid sirens.
===
“I picked you because they said you were fast, son.”
“Sir, this is as fast as I can safely go at this altitude at night.”
The Kestrel was whipping low over the trees on its way back to Bragg Airbase. Daniel hadn’t been allowed in the meeting, obviously, but he had seen plenty of military men and politicians in a hurry today. He had even seen Senator Maxwell; he hadn’t said hello.
“Son, I think safety is just about out the window at this point, don’t you?”
“...sir.”
The craft sped, just as the lights of Charlotte were growing over the horizon. The State General didn’t return to his seat, but stood hunched over Daniel, peering out the window.
“It looks beautiful like this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I spent my whole life in Charlotte, Airman. Well, except in the ‘50s. When they drove us back in when it was all over, we went past the First Presbyterian Church. It took a bomb dead center. The steeple was still lying in the courtyard.” He paused and looked out the window. “Got hit right during services. With the war, it was a full house, even though they told people not to get together in public places. They were doing a baptism that day, when it got hit. It was my son’s.” He smiled at Daniel sadly. “My wife was worried something would happen before he could be baptised.”
Daniel didn’t know if he should say something.
Finally, the State General continued. “I’m no coward, son. But I spent thirty years trying to make sure no one else’s family died for no reason. I just don’t see any god-damned reason those fools want to play this kinda game, when everybody will lose.” Daniel knew why the State General had stormed out of the conference at Stone Mountain, now.
The Kestrel’s cockpit was silent then, until the State General spoke again. “What the hell -” There were lights in the sky. Tracers. Lots of tracers.
“It looks like an air battle, sir. You should use your harness, for safety.”
“Fuck the harness!” Suddenly, searchlights exploded to life in the city below, illuminating tiny specks in the sky, spitting fire at each other. Coming from the north, a pack of specks seemed to be protecting one of their number, while the opposing specks were trying to get at it. Daniel recognized that flight formation. They were protecting a bomber. The State General watched silently as Daniel tried to monitor the Kestrel’s flightpath.
Above, a victory for the defending specks. Several of the other specks had gone down, and the bomber had been hit. It wasn’t gone, but it was going, and Daniel could see tiny tongues of flame as it pitched downward. Then a larger burst - but it hadn’t exploded. Something had exploded out of it.
“Shit,” said the State General.
Then, everything exploded.
