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    Ebook595 pages9 hours

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    By William Jones

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    It’s 2026 and Iran’s nuclear threat has reached the point to where it’s highly believed they intend to launch a missile strike against Israel before years end; an ultra-aggressive action, and one that would no doubt mark the beginning of World War III.
    US intelligence, in anticipation of this threat, has constructed an interplanetary transport capable of travelling through time. The objective is to send the transport back to 1945 (post World War II America) and convince the Truman Administration of the need to destroy all remaining nuclear weapons; as well as any archived records related to their construction.
    However, should the warning from the future not be enough to dissuade Truman and his administration from continued production of said weapons, the decision would be made for him through swift and decisive military action using weaponry unimagined in 1945.
    As the project dubbed Armageddon seems to be moving along according to plan, a coup engineered by the racially biased head of the CIA takes the transport back to the US Civil war, and changes its outcome instead.
    As we flash forward to 2026(post Armageddon) the coup proves to have been a success, as what was formally known as the USA has become the Confederate States of America. A unilaterally governed society split into two separate classes: Ruling and Sub. Slavery has been altered to a form of indentured servitude, with the former slaves making up the majority of the subclass.
    With no true democratic process, comes zero hope for a civil rights movement. That is until some dissension arises amongst the ruling class. Persons previously on board with the coup align themselves with a subclass underground group of united rebels hell bent on undoing the gross injustice perpetrated upon humanity.
    Together they devise a plan to combat the newly reformed Confederacy. And though it will take almost two centuries, and several generations of sacrifice, they prove that with determination and the ability to travel through time, 160 years of history can be altered in a matter of weeks.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilliam Jones
    Release dateJan 23, 2015
    ISBN9781507571132
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    Author

    William Jones

    William Jones is a research associate professor at the University of Washington, Seattle, where he manages the Keeping Found Things Found project. Dr. Jones contributed chapters on personal information management (PIM) to the Annual Review of Information Science and Technology, the Handbook of Applied Cognition, and the Encyclopedia of Library and Information Science. He has presented numerous tutorials and courses on PIM, co-edited a book on PIM, and organized two PIM workshops, including an invitational sponsored by the National Science Foundation. Dr. Jones has published articles on basic research in cognitive psychology and more applied research in PIM, information retrieval, and human–computer interaction. Dr. Jones holds several patents relating to search and PIM. He received his doctorate in cognitive psychology from Carnegie-Mellon University.

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      Book preview

      Reset - William Jones

      RESET

      William R. Jones

      Copyright © 2014 William Jones

      Cover design by "Ebook Cover Design by www.ebooklaunch.com

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      Copyright © 2014 William Jones

      All rights reserved.

      ISBN-10: 1507571135

      ISBN-13: 978-1507571132

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      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Part One:

      1. 2026 Post-Armageddon ...................... Confederate States of America - The Ruling class

      2. 2026 Post-Armageddon ...................... The Subclass

      3. 2026 Post-Armageddon ...................... Opposite Sides of the Potomac

      4. 2026 Post-Armageddon ...................... Dissension

      5. 2026 Pre-Armageddon .................. January - United States of America

      6. 2026 Pre-Armageddon .................. January - Old World Plots and Sacrifices

      7. 2012 Pre-Armageddon .................. Road of Good Intentions

      8. 2021 Pre-Armageddon ...................Soul Mates and Alliances

      9. 2024 Pre-Armageddon ...................Lucky 13

      10. 2025 Pre-Armageddon .................. Testing Prototypes

      11. 2026 Pre-Armageddon ................... May - The Last spring

      12. 2026 Armageddon .................. August 10th - Changing of the Guard

      Part Two:

      13. 1863 Armageddon to a New Order

      14. Recruit the Family

      15. Educate the Flock

      16. Select the Deliverer

      17. Escalate the Threat

      18. Translate the Message

      19. RESET

      20. Epilogue

      -1-

      2026 Post-Armageddon - Confederate States of America - The Ruling Class

      Weather-wise you couldn't have asked for a better day in Washington, D.C. On this day, the sun’s rays sparkled like diamonds on the Potomac River as it calmly flowed south, down the western edge of the city. The White House, in its celestial presence, reigned supreme as the main tourist attraction in the world's most powerful city. The Pentagon stood proud as the symbolic gatekeeper; an intimidating sight to anyone navigating the Henry G. Shirley Memorial Highway onto the 14th Street Bridge heading into downtown D.C. Other landmarks, such as the Washington Monument, the Smithsonian, and the never to be overlooked, domed Capitol Building shined especially bright on this glorious day. Being a Saturday, the lack of well-dressed businessmen coming and going in masses of Step-ford like drones (barely acknowledging each other's existence, except to avoid walking into one another) came as no surprise. Automobile traffic, while somewhat heavy, was nonetheless controlled; all due to the mechanical obedience mandated by the perfectly timed cadence of the traffic lights.

      Yes, it was just another gorgeous Saturday in the Nation's capital; if you lived under a rock, that is. Although the weather offered no promise of having any history-making significance, this day was indeed a special one. It was July 4, 2026 and it marked the 250th anniversary of the birth of our great Nation. It was the country's very own, QUARTER MILLENNIUM INDEPENDENCE HOLIDAY. And in so far as the Julian and Gregorian calendar eras went, the present day was followed with P.A. for Post-Armageddon. Where unlike the prior A.D. and B.C. calendar designates, the P.A. was indicative of the re-establishment of American society dating back to the end of the Civil War.

      In 2026 P.A.'s District of Columbia, a Confederate flag flew above the White House. At the north end of Confederacy Park, just east of the reflecting pool and west of the Washington Monument, stood the Robert E. Lee Memorial. And to the north of that, just below Constitution Avenue was the Stonewall Jackson Observatory. Then, if you travelled to the south end of Constitution Garden's Pond, west of the reflecting pool, you'd come upon the crown jewel of the D.C. mall: the meticulously preserved Armageddon One Time Transport. It is an eight-story orb, which from its exterior was the spitting image of the old Spaceship Earth Attraction at Disney's Epcot Center from pre-Armageddon Orlando, Florida.

      As it was a national holiday--not to mention the beginning of summer-- schools would normally have been closed. However, due to the magnitude associated with a 250-year anniversary, the schools were open for special observances. In fact, all the schools throughout the Nation were open for this special occasion. The fact that the school year had officially ended over a week ago was irrelevant. If you were an American student, you were at a school to commemorate this monumental observance. This united celebration of the Nation's independence was the World Series, the Super Bowl and the World Cup all rolled up into one ode of acknowledgement. School auditoriums were filled to the hilt with students, faculty and loved ones. And even though this observation meant the rearrangement of family vacations on a continental scale, the importance of the day made those inconveniences a small afterthought. It would be another 250 years before the next Quarter Millennium Independence Day; a day that no one attending this QMID would ever dream of seeing. And holding the observances in schools was symbolic of the fact that the importance of the day was as fundamental as basic reading and writing.

      In auditoriums from New York to Los Angeles, and from North Dakota to Texas, students sat with their attention focused on giant screens video streaming the town hall-style ceremony that was unfolding in Washington. For those unable or unwilling to crowd into the nearest school auditoriums, all public television programming had been preempted and tuned into this national event. It was just before noon Eastern Time and every television screen in the country displayed a live shot of an empty podium bearing the Presidential Seal of the Confederate States of America: AKA the good ole CFA.

      About a quarter mile from the White House, at Nathan Bedford Falls Elementary School, the students were particularly excited about the day. After all, the entire Nation was tuned in to an event being aired live from their school. When they grew up and had children of their own, they could proudly convey how they'd been actual attendees of the most renowned historical event of their era. This was ground zero of the QMID observation.

      Sharing the stage with the empty podium was the D.C. National Choir who sang: "God Bless America" with the soul and grace that could bring the hardest of criminals to tears. They were joined by a small color guard carrying three flags: the flag of the Confederacy; the original Union flag; and the District of Columbia state flag. As the choir finished singing, additional members of the color guard began to make their way down the center aisle of the Bradford Falls auditorium. Outfitted in Confederate dress uniforms were a flutist, a snare drummer, and a bugler. They played Dixie and marched in step to the cadence of the drummer's beat, with the crowd acting as human metronomes; clapping in tempo to the popular Confederate fight song.

      At the same time, the flag bearers made their way down the side steps of the stage, and met up with the musical trio at the center aisle below the stage.

      As the flag bearers turned to face the audience, the trio of musicians ceased with the Dixie song and the snare drummer set into a crisp drum roll. As if rehearsed a thousand times, the drum roll ended with a solid rim shot, to which the flag bearers presented arms. The snare drummer then quickly ripped off another drum roll, ending with a second rim shot. This one prompted the audience to rise in unison, and place their right hands over their hearts. The uniformity of it was awe-inspiring to say the least.

      The same act of civil obedience was mimicked throughout the Nation's auditoriums linked via video streaming.

      With the opening fanfare complete, the 50-something year old principal of Bedford Falls Elementary made his way to the podium and tapped on the microphone.

      Auditoriums around the Nation focused on the big screens above their respective stages as the balding, bespectacled principal spoke: Please join me in the reciting of our pledge of allegiance. With the principal’s nod, the audiences began:

      I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE...TO THE FLAG...OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA....AND TO THE REPUBLIC FOR WHICH IT STANDS...ONE NATION...UNDER GOD...INDIVISIBLE...WITH JUSTICE BY FEDERAL DIRECTION FOR ALL!!!

      The snare drummer followed the pledge with a third drum roll. It commenced with a final rim shot, at which the audiences sat with the precision of trained dogs performing for treats.

      Though the uniformity with which the crowds performed their rituals of respect could easily have led one to believe these were military schools, the only thing actually uniformed about these auditoriums was the race of the participants. Each and every person could've aptly been categorized as being of white, Anglo-Saxon descent.

      In this post-Armageddon CS of A (250 years after its inception) the educational system was just another one of the government's controlled subsidies; and as such, who went to what school was based on the Federal direction, so aptly eluded to in the Pledge of allegiance. So there was no call or necessity for private, military, or any other varied social or religious factions in the educational system. Your social status was your uniform. And as America was (by far) the richest and most powerful Nation on the planet, admission to its educational establishments (grade school to higher learning) was as simple as being drafted into the armed services. No one needed a scholarship, or the ancestry of a wealthy family, to afford an education. And if by chance the standardized curriculum didn't come as easy for some as it did for others, top of the line tutoring was provided for those intellectually challenged individuals at no cost.

      Yes, a first-class education was a gift in the CSA. It was like Christmas, five days a week, nine months a year. And the only prerequisite to obtaining that gift was being fortunate enough to have been spawned from the womb of a member of the American ruling class.

      With the audience now silent, and with the confidence of a preacher giving a sermon, the principal again took to the microphone: At this time, on this very special day in our Nation's history, I proudly present to you, the President of the Confederate States of America! The audiences rose and the cheering began, virtually drowning out the principal’s voice. Smiling, and no worse for the wear, he continued, The honorable George Aronson.

      At that, Hail to the Chief blared from the PA system.

      Proudly strutting to the tempo of his musical intro, the President emerged from the side of the stage sporting an ear-to-ear smile as he waved to the ecstatic crowd. President George Aronson was your typical good-looking white man in his early 50s. He had a full head of hair, with just enough gray to infuse wisdom, but not so much as to arouse the senility associated with old age. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a red tie; no doubt a stylish gesture intended to equate him with a walking flag.

      Following a few steps behind were his lovely wife and their two, blonde-haired, all-American, middle school-aged children. Having made his way to the podium, the smiling President waited patiently for the enthusiastic cheering to subside. He turned to his wife and humbly shrugged as the non-stop cheering continued. Not to be outdone by the audience, the dutiful first family smiled and clapped along as well.

      After what seemed like a fortnight, the cheering finally diminished to a few scattered claps. The devoted audiences in school auditoriums around the Nation were anxiously waiting for the President to feed their minds and spirits with the magnificence and effervescent wisdom of his Independence Day speech.

      Not to disappoint, President Aronson placed his hands firmly on the podium, cleared his throat and began his national address with the resolve of a reverend addressing a loyal congregation, My fellow Americans, it is with pride and honor that I stand here before you on this 250th anniversary of the forming of our great Nation.

      In a huge community room located in the sublevel of Nathan Bedford Falls Elementary School sat hordes of students in fold-up chairs. And though the chairs were neatly situated in rows, with well-positioned aisles affording mobility from the back of the room to the front, the mere lack of being bolted to the floor's foundation seemed to project a semblance of disconnect. As if them not being an integral piece of the structure as a whole, but just temporary devices that could be folded up and stored away; only to be unfolded and used again when irregular circumstances warranted. In these (nonessential) chairs sat elementary-aged students of varying races and subcultures. The makeup was predominantly Black, with the remainder comprised of Latino and an even lesser scattered variation of minorities, essentially Asian and Middle Eastern. These were students whose ancestors had no doubt found passage to the CS via illegal transport. They were stowaways on a vessel who came here with the hope of someday being accepted by the ruling class. Also amongst this group was a small trace of white descendants of the original indentured servants who'd been phased out a few years after the American Civil War. And while many of them made it into the ranks of the ruling class over the decades --mainly through marriage-- some just couldn't find their way over the hump and ended up in society's basement. Ruling class members often referred to them as white trash, as a means of separating themselves from these social parasites, who were trying to blend into the mainstream.

      This motley bunch of social misfits was officially indentified as the Nation's subclass. They originated from slavery at the end of the Civil War in 1863, in what President Jefferson Davis declared to be a sovereign show of goodwill. The official system of slavery was abolished and converted to a form of indentured servitude, whereby former slaves were granted certain freedoms. They were no longer considered private property, but were now official wards of the government. Their former owners received tax credits as compensation for their property losses, and the indentured servants continued to work for them for an allotted period of time. At the end of that time allotment, the indentured servants received minimum wages (set by the government) and were approved for certain civil service type occupations; also determined by the government. These subclass citizens no longer lived on the property of their former owners, but in government-built homes in designated areas, separate from the ruling class. They received an education --subpar to that of the ruling class-- and were not permitted to attend any institutions of higher learning beyond high school.

      Aside from the Elite Guardsmen (dark uniform wearing, adequately armed Gestapo types) stationed at every exit, even the faculty and chaperones who lined the walls consisted of members of the Nation's subclass.

      At the front of the community room was a giant screen similar to all the others. It, too, was broadcasting the same presidential speech the rest of the country was viewing. And while the congregation of mixed race students and faculty seemed to lack the exuberance of the crowd upstairs, they were no less focused on what the President had to say. Or at least their show of interest was enough so as not to arouse any suspicion of dissent among the ranks to the steely eyed guardsmen surveying the room.

      Sublevel setups identical to this one were present around the rest of the country as well. Yet unlike the upper auditoriums, where students donned the personal attire of their choice, the lower level audiences were dressed in school uniforms. The males wore grey shirts and blue slacks with the females dressed in similar-colored blouses and knee-length skirts in lieu of slacks. Granted, not your basic zebra striped scrubs or orange jumpsuits, but government mandated school attire nonetheless

      The President's address was well underway; he'd gotten past the opening acknowledgements and obligatory dedications. By now he was deep into the sacrifices endured by the forefathers of our Nation to establish the infrastructure for what is today. How even though the War of 1812 was viewed by many as a defeat, our quest for continued independence and self-rule persevered, and provided the strength and determination necessary to propel us to the greatest victory in our Nation's history some 50 years later. How through divine intervention, the advanced technology employed --via the Armageddon One transport that stands in Confederate Park to this very day-- ensured our overwhelming victory at the tide-turning Battle of Gettysburg; which for all intents and purposes led to a Confederate victory in that Nation defining war. It was a victory that eventually culminated with the surrender, court-marshal, and execution of the greatest enemy of the Confederacy, Mr. Abraham Lincoln.

      With that renowned declaration by the President, the ruling class crowds in the auditoriums erupted in cheers of boisterous pride.

      The crowds in the sublevels, on the other hand, politely applauded as a show of respect; it was a social mandate for persons representing their place in society.

      The President continued by running down the list of technological advancements the world owed to the industry titans of the Confederate States: radio, television, computer science, the automotive industry, aviation, and not to mention just about every significant engineering and technology-based patent of the 20th century. He praised the accomplishments of our medical pioneers for discovering cures, or at least lifesaving vaccinations, for threatening diseases like, polio, typhus, small pox, the Spanish flu, malaria, cholera and others that could run for pages if listed. He segued to the insurmountable strength of our military, which through its guidance and global presence, made the CSA what it was known as internationally: Protectors of the planet and chief ally to all of its Nation's.

      Standing in the hallway adjacent to the Bedford Falls auditorium was President Aronson's Chief of Staff, Horace Manson. He is an intimidating man in his late 40s. He was the type with an emotionless gaze, so rigid the running joke in underground circles was that he refused to smile for fear his face would crack and turn to dust.

      With the President's address nearing its end he stood anxiously in the company of a slew of equally intimidating looking gentlemen in dark suits, accompanied by a handful of uniformed Elite Guards. These high-ranking militia types were the crème de la crème of national security; their sole purpose being the enforcement of ruling class law and the personal protection of upper level members of said class.

      Cheering echoed from the auditorium as smiling teachers and faculty walked the hall leading up to Manson's entourage. Their smiles quickly gave way to hollow gapes of fear when they made eye contact with several members of the Elite Guard in passing. Without need of further explanation, the unspoken message conveyed that their ruling class status meant nothing in this particular circumstance. Loitering would by no means be permitted, so long as the President was on stage and just a few feet beyond the door being manned by the guard. Acknowledging receipt of the message, they abandoned the area without looking back.

      A mid-level lieutenant entered the hallway from a street exit, and made his way through the small army of guardsmen separating him from Manson. Skipping any courtesy based formalities, Horace confronted him. So, what do we got?

      It's true, said Lieutenant Darius Green, a white man in his mid-20s. He, by all accounts, appeared to be a little young to garner such a high level position in the Elite Guard. Add that to his flawlessly even tan, and it was easy to see why he was the envy of his peers. There was an explosion at the uranium site just outside Bethesda.

      Goddammit! He looked left and right amongst his entourage, as if this mishap was somehow due to their incompetence. Damage?"

      Not much. Just the gate and the security check booth.

      Casualties?

      Just one. The guard who was manning the booth. Infra-red trackers didn't pick up any movements beyond the point of impact, so nobody got beyond the checkpoint.

      Are you sure? The last thing we need is missing uranium.

      One hundred percent, sir. We did an immediate inventory and locked down all production quadrants. We also scanned all on-site personnel and checked for any unusual absences.

      And? Not quite satisfied.

      None, sir

      Wonderful! Horace replied, sarcastically.

      It's probably just a bunch of radicals trying to stir up some media attention on the fourth, said Darius, unsuccessfully attempting to put the unflinching Manson at ease.

      You think I don't know that, Lieutenant? His condescending tone emphasized his displeasure with an Elite Guardsman stating the obvious.

      Sorry, sir

      At the same time, we can't just write it off to vandalism. Last time we did that those fucking United Rebels almost leveled the orientation center. Why can't those pricks just blow up a police station or a subway platform, like normal terrorists?

      Darius knew better than to respond -no matter how ridiculous Manson's statement was- the last thing he needed to do was say something that might set the Chief of Staff off further.

      After several moments of staring into space, Horace sighed. Alright, organize another area sweep. Make sure to cover at least a 10-mile radius of the plant--. He checked his watch. --It's going to cost us a fortune in overtime, but better safe than sorry.

      Yes sir, Darius replied and immediately left the building.

      The cheering from the audience reached a fever pitch as the stage door opened to President Aronson emerging with his entourage in tow. Flashing cameras, miniature flags waving, red, white and blue helium-filled balloons ascending to the high ceilinged auditorium, served as confirmation that the speech achieved its highly anticipated objective. The President's Secret Service detail ensured no one else beyond the first family left the stage and immediately closed the door behind them. Aronson couldn't help but smile, because although he'd been Commander in Chief for several years now, the ego stroking thrill of an appreciative audience still managed to make his day. He wore that smile like a badge of honor until he noticed the stiff-faced Horace Manson, who joined him stride for stride as he headed down the corridor towards the building's exit.

      You know, sometimes I think it's true what they say about you, Horace, said Aronson, looking straight ahead. Cracking a smile might truly prove to be fatal for you one day.... What now?

      Completely unfazed by the comment, Horace checked over his shoulder to make sure no civilians were within hearing range. There was an explosion at the Bethesda uranium plant.

      You've got to be kidding me. I don't suppose there's any chance it was accidental? Manson's what do you think stare was all the President needed to see to know the answer. Nonetheless, Aronson managed to mask his concern with a presidential smile as he passed the few enthusiastic members of the school faculty lining the corridor walls leading to the exit. Damage?

      Minimal. Just a blown gate and a dead security guard. Probably just some attention seekers trying to disrupt the holiday, but I ordered a 10-mile sweep of the site just to be on the safe side.

      The President continued to smile as they exited the building and approached his awaiting motorcade steps from the entrance. He waved to the huge crowd gathered beyond the velvet rope barriers on either side of the red carpet leading to the presidential limo. He took this last chance to pad his approval ratings by turning and acknowledging his family, who also waved and sported ear-to-ear smiles while being whisked into the back seat of the armored car.

      You'll keep me informed? Aronson said out the side of his face while continuing to wave.

      As always, Mr. President Manson confirmed.

      Goddamn United Rebels. They're always fucking up my photo ops. Don't those bottom feeders ever take a break?

      No sir, Mr. President.

      Aronson gave Manson a quick glance up and down before entering the limo. It was a rhetorical question, Horace. Jesus Christ. Learn how to smile, will you. You make me nervous.

      It's my job to make you nervous, sir. You're less likely to take things for granted.

      Well, you're doing a hell of a job. And forgive me if that wasn't a complement. As Aronson ducked into the limo, a Secret Service agent quickly shut the door and signaled the all clear to proceed.

      The limo slowly pulled away with four agents --two on either side-- jogging along to its pace.

      Manson, with his Scrooge like demeanor, instinctively scanned the happy crowd before heading back into the school.

      -2-

      2026 Post-Armageddon - The Subclass

      Within hours of the Independence Day bombing at a high security uranium plant, the federally mandated subclass lockdown was in full effect in all neighborhoods that fell within a 10-square mile radius of the Washington, D.C area. A lockdown was basically a government-enforced curfew, whereby all members of the subclass were required to be at home and prepared for random home inspections by members of the Elite Guard.

      Lockdowns occurred sporadically throughout the Nation and were extremely well monitored. They were administered so routinely that the average subclass resident could anticipate two to three lockdown inspections per year. More if there was any kind of perceived threat to national security. Today's plant bombing constituted one of those perceived threats.

      The lockdown covered all homes from as far south as the Capitol area and north to Bethesda. It went as far west as the Potomac River and east to College Park. In a lockdown zone you could find helicopters hovering overhead, blaring military sirens, and last but definitely not least, the Elite Guard pounding on a resident's door if they were unfortunate enough to be randomly selected for an inspection.

      The inspections varied in intensity; some were mere formalities where a guard would enter the premises, account for the home's occupants, do a quick room-to-room scan (which was nothing more than popping his head in each room for a nanosecond) and leaving. On the other end of the scale, a thorough inspection was the kind most dreaded by the occupants. These took longer and involved a complete tossing of the premises. Furniture was disarranged (at times destroyed), clothes thrown about, drawers ransacked, books and family mementos knocked from shelves; basically anything and everything that could be done to instill fear and obedience into the home's occupants. Thorough inspections were rare and usually only occurred when there was an uprising of some sort; or a situation where an inspection team was led by an Elite Guardsman with an axe to grind: primarily a dislike or personal bias against the residents involved. Yes, even with the subclass under complete dominance, you still had your occasional bigot who hated just for the hell of it.

      As far as uprisings went, the only source of concern came from an anonymous group of hooligans referred to as The United Rebels. They were a secret society of radicals known to have formed sometime within the past decade. They began by vandalizing public landmarks (schools, libraries, parks) with spray paintings basically calling for people to seek the truth about the Nation's history. At first, the acts were shrugged off as nothing more than bored youth --possibly even spoiled ruling class adolescents-- who were out drunk, with nothing better to do than deface public property for a laugh.

      It wasn't until fliers and pamphlets questioning the truth about the prior 150 years mysteriously started showing up around town that the authorities gave in to the prospect of an actual movement on the rise. These tracts were intended to peak the curiosity of the masses with a series of questions, unsubstantiated revelations, and bold-face accusations directed at the ruling class. Was indentured servitude really a happy end to slavery? Abraham Lincoln was a hero to mankind, not a traitor: The Armageddon One transport was used to control us, not free us.

      Obviously these tracts were thrown away when they found their way under the windshield wipers of ruling class member cars, or strewn amongst circulars in their mail boxes, or posted on bulletin boards that should normally have been reserved for yard sale notices and such. However, when subclass individuals started (albeit in small numbers) to show certain levels of disrespect to ruling class individuals, eyebrows began to rise. I don't work for you, you put your own Goddamned groceries in your car! And I don't care what class you from, I was here first and I ain't moving!

      Of course, these blatant shows of disrespect had occurred in the past. This usually amounted to a couple of weeks in the local lockup for the culprits, followed by a series of thorough inspections for several weeks after their release. However, the frequency and the intensity of the levels of disrespect tended to rise substantially with the inception of the United Rebel Movement. There was no longer writing it off as a minor nuisance. It was a cancer that had to be cut out, or at the very least, controlled until a cure could be discovered.

      Nothing made the Union Rebel threat more authentic to the government than when the first aggressive act had occurred some five years earlier. A pipe bomb exploded at the entrance of the Armageddon One Transport Museum. Luckily it was about 30 minutes prior to its opening, as upwards of 10,000 people took a tour of the transport on any given day. Transport tours were a particular favorite for history teachers taking their students on field trips. On that day, a bomb blew off the entrance doors and left a gaping 20-foot hole in the aluminum shell at the base of the atrium. Financially, the repair costs were in the millions and the museum was declared off-limits for months. The damage surveyors determined that had the blast occurred an hour later, the death toll would've been in the hundreds. Confirmation of the United Rebels involvement was established during the clean-up process, when Seek the Truth fliers were found strewn about the entire blast area.

      Over the following years, though more and more bombings occurred at Confederate honoring monuments, the fact that they occurred when the possibility for human casualties was at a minimum offered a small sense of relief. In fact, it helped the government to label the bombings as random acts of vandalism, so as not to draw too much attention to the movement itself.

      A convoy of six black SUVs pulled into Friendship Cove, which is a subdivision in Friendship Heights, Maryland. Like many of the federally owned housing complexes, Friendship Cove sat on a cul-de-sac, and consisted of a series of extremely modest, well-kept homes. The aluminum-sided properties were two-story and painted red, grey or yellow. Although the street lights remained lit, aside from the feint light creeping from the edges of drawn window shades, the cove resembled a ghost town. It was proof of a lockdown, as well as the seriousness of its enforcement.

      The SUV's came to a stop in the middle of the complex. This rehearsed action permitted easy access to all the houses in the cul-de-sac within a matter of seconds. There were four armed guardsmen in each of the vehicles: Team leader, Lieutenant Darius Green road shotgun in the first. With the exception of Darius, who wore a dark suit and carried a holstered firearm, all the other guardsmen wore militia gear and carried submachine guns. The weapons were more for show and intimidation than necessity.

      Darius sat punching data requests into a dashboard mounted computer. Within seconds, it brought up all the information he needed to run a quick (or thorough) inspection of the complex. The type of inspection that was about to occur would pretty much depend upon his mood this evening.

      With his free hand, he picked up the dashboard microphone and addressed the other units in his team. Okay, elite team 7-2-6 we have 24 units in Friendship Cove subdivision C. These are single family, two-level homes with basements. He temporarily released the transmission button on the microphone and turned to his driver, Sergeant David Smith: I should live so well. Having been to Darius's home in the past, Smith and the two guardsmen in the back seat laughed at the irony of his declaration. Darius re-clicked the transmission button, As usual, one officer per unit, top to bottom sweep, confirm all occupants...I want all communication devices set to this frequency with 'all clear' acknowledgments upon exiting of said units. He checked his watch. It's now twenty O' three. I'd like to be done no later than twenty forty five. He received a bunch of 'roger that's' from the crackling transmissions. Let's be thorough... but respectful. Remember, these are peoples’ homes. Let's go gentlemen.

      Darius's teams exited their vehicles, and were at the doorsteps of all the targeted homes within a matter of seconds. Each home had a small front yard with a porch, and was separated from its neighboring home by a narrow walkway that led to an even smaller fenced in back yard.

      Didn't we sweep this place about a month ago? asked Smith, as Darius and he approached the first two homes at the base of the cul-de-sac.

      Highly observant of you, Mr. Smith, Darius replied in good humor. Third time this year to be exact.

      Same complex three times in one year? What gives? He scanned the area. You think something's up?

      Darius smiled deviously. You mean besides the rack on the old man's daughter?

      Smith laughed. Don't suppose you'd like to swap houses on this one, sir? he asked, once they'd reached their respective front doors.

      You suppose right, sergeant. Carry on.

      Darius gave him a quick wink and rang the doorbell.

      The doorway led to a cheaply carpeted living room that was just as meekly furnished. There was a sofa covered in crushed velvet with two equally hideous recliners, which faced an entertainment unit that housed a television and a stereo system. Just beyond the sofa, against a wall that provided an open view to the kitchen, was a dining table suitable for four. The high-backed dining chairs provided modest cushioning in the seat and back areas. Family pictures adorned the walls and a bookcase made of cherry-stained press-wood displayed books and family mementos. A wall adjacent to the kitchen doorway divided the living room from the staircase, which led to the upstairs bedrooms. There was also a door leading to the basement below the staircase.

      In one of the recliners sat a black man in his mid-40s. Aaron Woods, still wearing his jumpsuit (like a lot of the subclass performing manual labor jobs, he was an auto-mechanic) was reading the Washington Gazette when the doorbell rang. His wife Justine, a pretty black woman also in her 40s, was clearing away the dinner table when she simultaneously looked up at Aaron. As they had watched the news like everyone else in the neighborhood, they didn't need a crystal ball to determine who was on the other side of the door.

      Besides being invasive and aggravating, random inspections could also be borderline terrifying, if you got the wrong inspector. Aaron could sense Justine's rising agitation as they looked at each other, so as he often had before prior inspections, he calmly raised his hands and simulated a slow exhale in an effort to calm her. After a couple of slowly executed breaths, she regained her composure and nodded the okay. Aaron got up from the recliner and headed for the door. He closed his eyes and took another relaxing breath before opening it.

      He opened the door to see Darius standing before him holding his badge up for identification -- as if anything other than a white man knocking on your door during a lockdown wasn't enough-- Good evening, Mr. --- Darius checked a notepad he was carrying Aaron Woods?

      Yes, Sir, that's me, Aaron replied, courteously. History dictated that the nicer you attempted to be the less likely you were to evoke a painfully thorough inspection.

      My name is Darius Green, I'm a lieutenant with the CS federal guard, and I'm here to conduct an inspection of your unit this evening.

      Yes, Sir. Do come right in. After stepping aside and allowing Darius to enter, he closed the door and stood quietly. Justine leaned against the dinner table and remained silent as well.

      Darius eyed Justine momentarily then headed for the window adjacent to the front door, facing the street. He used his index and middle fingers to separate the closed blinds enough to peer outside at the front of the property.

      After releasing the blinds, he turned to Aaron and they smiled at one another. Hey, Dad, said Darius, before the men embraced in a bear hug.

      Justine, no longer able to contain her composure, ran over and joined in. Darius stepped back to get a better look at her. How are you, Justine?

      I'm fine, baby, said his teary-eyed stepmother.

      Darius looked around the room: Where's Jasmine?

      Just then, a gorgeous black woman in her early 20s sprinted down the stairs wearing a huge smile. The buxom beauty nearly tackled Darius as she lunged into his arms, kissed him on the cheek, and hugged him again.

      Aaron laughed. Okay, Jazz. Let your brother breathe now. We won't pass inspection if you suffocate him.

      They all laughed as Jasmine stepped back with a face full of tears.

      How much time you got? Justine asked as she headed for the kitchen. "I can fix you a plate if you're hungry?

      No thanks, I've only got about a half hour. He thought for a moment. "But if you have any of that sweet potato pie?'

      Justine almost cut him off: I put it in the oven soon as I heard about the lockdown.

      How'd you know you'd get me?

      I didn't. But I remembered what you told me before. 'Always be prepared.' She jerked her head to the side and sashayed into the kitchen.

      Darius turned to Jasmine: "So what's up, butt-head?

      Nothing much, dragon-breath! She plopped down on the couch.

      You still top branch on the ugly tree, or what?

      She fought a smile while trying to think of an equally abusive response.

      No, she's got a boyfriend now. Aaron cut in.

      Dad! said his blushing and slightly embarrassed daughter. I told you. He's not my boyfriend. She went to the window and mimicked Darius' two finger blind-check. A routine she instinctively followed whenever he was able to sneak in for a visit. He's just somebody I let buy me lunch sometimes. After confirming things were okay out front, she headed back to the couch.

      Darius put his hand over his heart, feigning a heart attack. Oh my God. Where is he? Chained up in the basement?

      She sucked her teeth: Shut up, ass wipe.

      You know, he said, squinting. "I knew there was something different about you when you came running down the stairs. At first I just thought it was that your head got bigger."

      Ha, ha, ha, she blurted sarcastically. Ain't you double parked or something?

      Justine returned to the living room with a huge slice of sweet potato pie and a glass of lemonade. Alright you two, she said, placing them on the table. You want a piece Marcus? she asked Aaron, who's middle name was Marcus, but only used when they were alone or around people they trusted.

      No, I'm good, Marcus replied.

      Darius's eyes lit up as he took a seat and dove in. "Now this is what truly makes a lockdown worth it."

      In the neighboring unit being swept by David Smith, the inspection proceedings weren't as jovial. In fact, the tension could be cut with a knife in this living room. On their government issued sofa, a black man and woman (both in their late 30s) sat in silence. Their young toddler, wearing only a diaper, sat at their feet playing with a Jack in the box, completely oblivious to what was going on around him.

      The couple nervously followed Smith's movements with their eyes. Books and photos once neatly displayed on their wall unit had been strewn onto the floor. Both of the reclining chairs adjacent to the sofa had been overturned and checked for contraband or --more likely with your average inspector-- for loose change.

      Unsatisfied, Smith scanned the room intensely; half expecting some sort of incriminating evidence to jump out at him. He was the type that prided himself on having the senses of a wolf, and something about this place just didn't smell right. He stared at the frightened couple for what seemed like an eternity before speaking. Would you two get off the couch please.

      As the couple stood, the mother picked up the baby, not knowing what to expect next.

      Smith head motioned towards the kitchen entrance. Over there. The couple complied and Smith pulled the cushions off the sofa, tossing them on the floor. He ran his hand down the crevasse between the seat frame and the back support. He looked to the ceiling like a magician trying to envision what's in his hand without actually seeing it, before pulling out a small rubber duck. He frowned, tossed it over his shoulder, and continued to dig deep into the bowels of the sofa.

      The flying duck managed to stir the interest of the toddler, who pointed at it while mumbling something understandable only to himself.

      With searchable couch getting smaller by the micro-second, Smith suddenly hit pay dirt. He pulled a crumbled piece of paper from the crevasse and unfolded it as he rose to his feet. He read the flier and smiled slyly at the terrified couple standing in the doorway. Beads of sweat began to form on the husband’s forehead.

      What's this? Smith asked, holding the flier up.

      Back at the Woods' home, Darius and Marcus had convened to the workshop in the basement. The walls were cluttered with tools hanging from caulk board. Manmade shelves extending from floor to ceiling were lined up like bookshelves in a library. The metal units stored everything from nails to homegrown peppers.

      They sat at the woodshop table where Marcus sifted through a toolbox full of medical supplies. Inside were syringes, swabs, gauze, a fair amount of small-bottled liquids used to fill the syringes, and just about anything else one might find in a doctor's medical bag on a house call. Definitely not something you'd expect to see in the home of an auto-mechanic.

      Darius removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeve while Marcus filled a syringe with the liquid from one of the bottles.

      So, Jazz has a boyfriend huh? Darius asked.

      Yeah, can't keep 'em locked up forever. Marcus finger flicked the syringe to test the density as he prepared to inject Darius in the shoulder. Alright, hold still now.

      Aye, aye, Dr. Woods. He looked away. So, who is this guy?

      Marcus injected him with a pigment enhancer designed to lighten his overall skin tone. Being of mixed race parents, Darius would never be completely white or black. But the injections offered enough pigmentation manipulation for him to pass as a ruling class man; so long as they were taken regularly. Any extended lapse would cause his skin to return to its natural hue.

      Some Spanish kid she met over at the auto plant.

      Spanish? Darius seemed surprised. That's a first.

      Who you telling?

      Is it serious?

      Marcus frowned. When have you ever known your sister to be serious about anybody?

      True. He rolled down his sleeve. But in retrospect, she never really had much of a choice.

      Marcus pulled a couple of bottles and syringes from the tool kit and placed them on the table before closing it up. She had just as much choice as anybody else around here.

      Come on, Dad. He buttoned his cuff. You know what I mean.

      Marcus shrugged.

      Darius put the bottles and syringes in his jacket pockets before putting it on and straightening his tie. I just wonder if we did the right thing by telling her.

      You think it would've made a difference if we didn't?

      Maybe.

      Nope. She was too curious and way too smart for that. She knew by the time she was 13 years old something didn't add up.

      I guess. Not completely convinced.

      Believe me, Darius. No matter how many time machines we build. He pulled the tool kit from the table. "There's still but so much you can change about your past. Even if you do have the future to help you out."

      "That some poetic way of saying hindsight is 20/20?"

      In a nutshell. I don't know if it classifies as poetic, but she had no past, so she saw no future.

      He nodded. Still sucks though.

      Yeah, I know. He slid past Darius with the tool kit in tow. But then again, a lot of things suck. That's why we're here, right? Marcus could see the disappointment in his eyes. Hey. Don't be so glum. Remember, I'm just a middle- aged man with a hypothetical opinion like anybody else. He put his hand on Darius's shoulder. What's that your mom always calls me?

      Darius finally smiled. Overly practical.

      Overly practical. He nodded. I used to kid her about using oxymorons; but deep down, I knew what she was getting at. Fate has the answer to all our questions. And that includes your sister. He gave Darius two quick reassuring taps on the on the back and turned away. Speaking of which, how is your mother? He casually blurted over his shoulder.

      Darius checked his watch. Wow, took 20 whole minutes this time. You're slacking.

      Don't be an ass. Elite Guard or not, I can still put my foot where the sun don't shine.

      She's doing alright. He sighed. If it makes you feel any better, she asks about you, too.

      The silence prodded Darius to turn and look at Marcus, who was staring into space.

      Hey, Dad. You know I'm gonna make good on this, right? What you and mom gave up. He shook his head. It won't be for nothing. That's a promise.

      Marcus broke from his reflective gaze. I know, son. I know. He looked proudly at Darius. How you doing on the pigment enhancers? You need more? He started to open his medical kit but Darius stopped him.

      You just gave me three bottles. Besides, I have plenty at home. He frowned. The only reason I let you inject me in the first place was because I knew you wouldn't let me out of here if I didn't.

      Yeah, but you're looking a little more tanned than usual.

      Well, I'm no scientist, but it might have something to do with the fact that I just got back from Florida.

      Marcus nodded, skeptically. And you're definitely keeping up with your injections?

      Darius rolled his eyes. Yes! Junkies shoot up less than I do.

      Mmm. Okay Mr. I got jokes. It's about time you get outta here before your buddies get suspicious.

      Buddies? Now who's making jokes?

      What can I say, I learned from you. Marcus took the medical kit to a wall adjacent to the water heater. He knelt down and pulled some loose cinderblocks away from the wall, exposing a hollowed out hiding space. Hidden inside was a laptop computer, along with a bunch of disks and USB flash drives. He slid the medical kit into the exposed space, and pulled out a set of car keys, before meticulously replacing the cinderblocks and recreating the illusion of an unaltered wall.

      Here. He handed Darius the keys.

      Did you put the turbo thrusters in like I asked?

      Marcus laughed. You really do have jokes, kid. Darius pocketed the keys. It's behind the old lumber yard in the highlands.

      What color is it?

      "White. But if you need a better clue,

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