The Citizens’ Revolution

By 802 CE, the rule of the Sejanian dynasty had become increasingly decadent and corrupt. Huge portions of the imperial treasury were spent on luxury items, and the imperial army was regularly sent on raids into the Outland to enrich the emperor’s coffers. This tense situation led to a series of serious Oustsider invasions, as the scattered groups temporarily united under strong leaders. The incursion of 799 reached nearly to the City itself before being repulsed, and much of the Farmlands was laid waste in reprisal.

This led to a critical food shortage; importing foodstuffs from Outsiders was impossible thanks to the border raids, and the large imperial army needed an immense supply to continue its campaigns. Though gunpowder and musketry had been rediscovered, this technological advantage was offset by increasingly inept military leadership. For instance, the Battle of Stedman’s Farm in 799 resulted in the annihilation of an entire army after the emperor’s brother led it into a trap, but the reins of the armies remained firmly in imperial hands.

802 saw food riots in the city and fresh Outsider incursions along the frontier. Emperor Marcian II ineptly left the situation in the hands of his family members, and the result was the Canal Street Massacre, in which nearly 200 unarmed and starving citizens were gunned down by troops from the Citadel. Two days later, news arrived in the capital of imperial defeats at Marcus’ Mill and Caleb’s Ford. Though these defeats were nowhere near as serious as Stedman’s Farm, the effect was to galvanize the City into open revolt. Many members of the imperial army joined the citizens as they stormed the Citadel under heavy fire, and Marcian was forced to flee the City.

A council of citizens formed a provisional government, seizing imperial weapons and supplies while accepting the allegiance of many units bound for the front lines. Marcian and his court retreated to the imperial army encampment in the Farmlands, and immediately began planning an assault to retake the City. The resulting fighting, which pitted royalists against revolutionaries, lasted until 808, and was utterly ruinous, with opportunistic Outside invasions and bitter campaigning in and around the City itself. The last imperial forces surrendered after the decisive Battle of the Bay, and Marcian was executed by a kangaroo court along with most of the remaining nobility.

The Citizens’ Republic

Taking inspiration from then-radical political philosophy, the new provisional government declared itself a democracy, and elected the first Mayor in late 809. Mayor Quinn, a veteran of the Citizens’ Revolution, moved vigorously to restore order. The remaining Outsiders were expelled, and the imperial treasury was emptied in reconstruction efforts. By 815, when Quinn left office, the Citizens’ Republic was secure.

The Farmlands were the site of one of the new government’s most controversial programs. Outsider prisoners of war were forced to labor on the farms, whose native population had been decimated by the fighting. Eventually, the manpower shortage–coupled with the recovering City’s growing needs–forced regular, government sanctioned raids for more laborers. Though, according to the City Charter, the Outlanders were eligible for citizenship, in practice local laws and hardened attitudes left over from the Revolution meant that the laborers were little more than chattel.

Despite this, the young Citizens’ Republic underwent a cultural and technological renaissance, with many works of art and new ideas forming a potent and diverse cultural mélange. The stagnation that had dogged the city in the last years of the monarchy had finally been dispelled.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

First she donned the inner liner, designed to keep her circulation constant no matter the pressure on the other side of the airlock. A liquid cooling and ventilation garment was next, to combat the terrifyingly low and high temperatures to be expected outside. A pressure bladder over both formed a temporary seal in case of a puncture, and a restraint layer plus a liner kept it in place. Outside of that was an airtight aluminized insulation layer and an external layer designed to resist micro-meteor impacts.

She could survive with just that, but a hard-shell suit of metal and composites formed the final layer nonetheless. Her eyes were visible behind layers of multiplex for a moment before she swung the tinted visor down to screen out radiation.

“Going out to town for a bit, Pa!” she cried through the intercom.

“Don’t forget them batteries.”

The airlock cycled, and she stepped out onto the surface of the Earth.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“You know these little settlements, these ditchwater colonies. They don’t even have the ships and pilots to escape if there’s trouble, much less fix their own damn satellites.”

“So that means I get a bonus then, does it?” Stanwicke said. He swiveled his suit’s thrusters to get a better angle on the communications relay satellite. The planet yawned dizzyingly above–or below–him.

“I put the paperwork through, like you asked, but you’re not gonna like it,” continued Ralston in Stanwicke’s ear. “It’s a 417.”

“Charity case,” Stanwicke hissed. “Damn.” Section 417 of the Code stipulated that skilled technicians were required to donate their time to colonists or vessels in distress, at the risk of losing their operating license from the UNSC.

“They can still tip you, you know, and that’s not bound by the union pay scale,” said Ralston, clearly trying to be optimistic. He wasn’t winning the Oscar for acting anytime soon.

“Oh yes, like the time I was tipped with a chicken by that hippie colony,” groused Stanwicke, his complaints lightly fogging his faceplate for a moment. “Or the time that town passed the hat for me and I came up with a whopping seventeen. I did the math on that, you know: it was .000001% of what I needed to cover my expenses.”

Ralston didn’t say anything; Stanwicke could all but see him settling into his chair with a deep sigh. It wasn’t his fault, but that wasn’t enough to keep Stanwicke out of a foul mood.

“There, done.” Stanwicke made the last few plasma welds and connected the power source. A few diagnostics later, and the satellite was working perfectly, re-establishing communications with the ground-based settlement. The triple-thrusters on his suit rotated again, and began to bear the repairman back to his ship.

“Are you sure?” There was a note in Ralston’s voice that Stanwicke didn’t like.

“Yes, and if you’ll give me half a minute, I can get back to the beacon and complain at you in person.”

“Stan, I’m not getting any comm traffic from the colony. None.”

Stanwicke would have shrugged if his suit wasn’t a hard and unyielding shell. “Well they can call anytime they want to.”

“You know what this means, a 417 with no ground contact.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stanwicke sighed. “I have to go down there.”

“That’s not all,” said Ralston. “I’ve been analyzing the imagery you sent, and…well, it looks like the satellite was deliberately disabled. Sabotaged.”

Inspired by this.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“What shall we do today, Goldilocks?”

Lutea’s fish, swimming idly in her bowl, did not reply.

“Fine then, I’ll think of something myself.”

Lutea paced back and forth on her tiled floor, each tile handmade and unique. She stared at her walls, covered in green wallpaper of her own design and accented with beautifully painted fruits (because why not?). There were so many possibilities, a paralyzing panoply of possibilities in point of fact.

Perhaps arts and crafts? Lutea examined her last project, an umbrella with the same sorts of fruits that covered her wall. She lounged on the wooden bench that doubled as bed and couch, chair and china cabinet. Well, quadrupled as those things anyhow. There were so many unfinished art projects on and underneath it that she’d have to do a mighty clearing the next time she wanted to sleep.

Perhaps best not to start anything new, then.

“Goldilocks, you’re usually so helpful when I can’t decide what to do today,” Lutea said, pouting slightly.

The fish swam about her bowl, blithely fanning her tiny gills.

“All right, I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” said Lutea. “You’re not a silly fish. The walking stick was a very good idea, I just felt like modifying it a little bit since there’s nowhere to walk and you never know when it might rain.”

“That’s better,” the goldfish said, her sweet voice warbled by the waters in which she swam. “Is a simple apology so hard?”

“Harder before you’ve done it than after,” laughed Lutea. “Now let’s hear your idea for today. I can see in your eyes that you’ve got one.”

“We should make some more tiles, Lutea. It may not be as fun as other things, but we can make the place bigger! Maybe even find someplace new!”

It was a simple suggestion, perhaps, but–as always–a good one. Lutea sat on her bench, stretched out her arms, and concentrated. After a moment, the thin outline of a tile, more like a washed-out photograph than anything, began to appear. Following a little more mental effort, the dust of the universe coalesced into something firm enough to be held.

“What do you think for colors, Goldilocks?”

“Raspberry and vanilla swirl!”

“Oooh! You always know just what will work.” Lutea swirled her hands, and as she did so vibrant colors blossomed forth across the plain surface, following the every motion of her hands like a viscous liquid. When the pattern caught her fancy, she froze it and held the completed tile up. Goldilocks flipped her tail in approval, and Lutea laid the tile in a gap at the edge of her place.

One more square looking into the infinite starry void that surrounded them filled up. Lutea looked out over the endless expanse thoughtfully, picking out a few minor bits of debris and a great void-whale to which she waved before turning back.

“If you can concentrate a bit harder, Lutea, we can make more than one at once,” said Goldilocks. “Then we could blaze a bath and see what’s out there, away from our little patch.”

“Someday, Goldilocks. Someday.”

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Moriko, daughter of Kaito the miller, was famously beautiful and wise throughout her province. Everyone, from the daimyō’s son to the lowly woodcutters who worked Kaito’s lands, sought her hand in marriage. Kaito, who had no other child and whose wife was long-dead, was very sentimentally fond of Moriko, and would suffer no suitor that his daughter, his light, did not fully approve. Nor would he, like so many in that era and even today, call on her filial piety to force a match.

Eventually, the daimyō grew tired of his son’s preoccupation with the girl. A member of the Fujiwara clan, he called upon his great-uncle, the imperial regent for the young Shāngmǐn Emperor, to force the issue. A retainer was duly dispatched to Kaito’s mill with an imperial decree that Moriko would marry her daimyō’s son unless she chose a worthier match in the intervening year. The daimyō had hoped that the girl might choose an honorable death or a suitor closer to her station (and thus more “worthy”); she might even be useful as a bargaining chip over a wayward and dissolute son.

But fate was to have other plans.

Moriko was a great lover of nature and the natural world, and she enjoyed nothing more than long walks in the Shizukesa Forest near her home to commune with the spirits of her ancestors and of the natural world. The forest had a consciousness, a gestalt of all its component parts, just as every other part of the world does. And, like every other entity that encountered her, it found itself enchanted by Moriko’s poise, intelligence, and beauty.

Her long walks soon became the equivalent of a courtship, with the Shizukesa Forest penning love poems in the shape of autumn leaves and songs in the form of clear running waters. She responded in kind with songs and poems of her own as she wandered beneath the forest’s sheltering boughs. The Shizukesa presented Moriko with a ring of woven sakura buds as a token of their bond.

The daimyō, alarmed, claimed that the use of a chrysanthemum token was a usurpation of the Shāngmǐn Emperor’s imperial prerogatives.

His response would lead to tragedy.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Gnorw Yaw. It seemed like the name of a fairy or a gnome, and to see it prominently displayed on a red sign highwayside had perplexed Sean to no end when he’d first seen it in his rearview mirror. But he had shrugged it off as some tomfoolery by the local college students.

It was only six weeks later, when he had awoken from the medically induced coma, that Sean realized the true meaning of hat mysterious fairy sign:

WRONG WAY.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The Founding

The City was founded–and the modern calendar begins–in 1 CD. Sejan, the de facto leader of the refugees, established a settlement overlooking the bay. The ships were stripped and scuttled offshore to prevent the invaders from easily identifying the site, and a fortified citadel was constructed of hewn stone to protect the citizens. This construction used up the limited resources that the refugees had brought, and they soon found themselves at the same technological level as the surrounding Outsiders.

While the expected attack by the invaders never came—indeed, they vanish from the historical record altogether—the nascent City soon had to contend with Outsider attacks. While poorly organized, the lack of a technological edge meant that these early battles were hard-fought, and the Outsiders—as has been the case in every subsequent conflict—outnumbered the defenders.

In the face of this onslaught, Sejan and the surviving Sepulcher clergy devised the foundations for their new society—renewed technological emphasis and territorial expansion to secure a buffer zone against the Outsiders. By allying with several loose groups of Outsiders, Sejan was able to take a considerable area of fertile land surrounding the city. Once the frontiers had been established, the Citizens turned on their Outsider allies and expelled most of them, while others were kept as slaves to work the new land.

By the time of his death in 44 CD, Sejan had conquered the core area of the modern City and Farmlands. He had overseen the establishment of all the trappings of a new society, invigorated research with the aim of re-establishing the technology of the Precursor City, re-founded the Sepulcher and laid the cornerstone for its basilica, and created the ancestor of the modern Citizens Armed Forces. For these achievements, Sejan was the only ruler of the City ever to receive the moniker of “the Great.”

The Imperial City

Though Sejan himself had not used a title, his son Valer was awarded the title of king by the leading citizens upon his father’s death; this began what later became known as the Imperial Period. Though initially intended as a temporary measure, Valer and his successors rapidly consolidated their power, and within a century the City’s government had become a hereditary monarchy. The early kings were generally able rulers who continued Sejan’s focus on technology (though the people had regressed to an Iron Age level since their arrival) and built a powerful military to expand and protect the Farmlands’ frontiers.

In 592 CE, King Aurel V proclaimed that the City would henceforth be ruled as an empire. Declaring himself Emperor Aurel I, the monarch moved swiftly against the City’s nobility in a brief but sharp civil war. Many of the City’s nobles were executed, and those that remained were reduced to landowners with hollow titles. Aurel oversaw the creation of a unitary state in which nearly all power was centralized in the hands of the emperor. While this led to short-term stability for Aurel and his successors, it had dire consequences for the rest of the population.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

AWC #269630 was by far one of the most popular destinations in the Alternate World Catalog. The entire planet, save for the occasional oasis or polar cap, was essentially the same as Monument Valley on AWC #000001: gigantic, picturesque mesas sculpted by wind and a long-ago wet period. The air was breathable thanks to rampant microbes and super-cactus, and vacationing families who came through the transdimensional gate at Wooster Station often had weeks of camp-out related fun with a rented 4×4 and trailer.

Assuming, of course, that they paid for them.

“Go, go, go!” Brian Mowan cried from the luggage rack atop a rental truck-and-trailer. He slapped the side furiously, which his counterpart at the wheel, Mako Yun, took as the signal to floor it.

“Hey! Stop them!” the camper-rental employee called. When no aid was forthcoming, he ducked into his shack and emerged bearing the most advanced theft-deterrent system on the planet: an old Ithaca 37 loaded with hyper-velocity Element 234 double-aught buckshot.

One corner of the 4×4’s truck bed disintegrated as the stolen vehicles took a sharp turn out of the lot. The third member of the team, “Ace” Motown, leaned out a back window with his Ruger GP100 .357 magnum. It was loaded with “hot poppers,” which made a lot of noise but not much else–no sense getting slapped with a murder charge when all they wanted was a clean getaway.

The Ithaca barked once more and Swiss cheese holes appeared in the far wall of the trailer–far from Ace or the others–before the shotgun’s owner hit the dirt. There was nothing between the three and the Wooster Station gate.

Their way cleared, the trailer thieves set off, headed for the wilderness…and adventure.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Silver shone the humblersuate, and the crempole was waxing edialic.

Paulo had fled the mother country with the court of João VI, but he realized a curious thing: the further he traveled from his home in the Algarves, the further he grew from language and reality as he had known them. Thus the port at Rio de Janiero was aglow with a ructinsor that the other maltharld refugees could not tivene.

Paulo founs himself unable to go about the rochinfar of his old court position, because what was a rochinfar, after all? It was not the role of a page which he had sculneurried in Lisbon. No; the duties seemed the same, he seemed the same, but language forbade–it obvilled–any true similarity. The hellish humid bertic of Rio de Janiero, the maddening reversal of equinox and qualuator, the strange terminanice with which the locals rolled and spat their Portuguese and Galacian…for Paulo it might as well be the inrize of the moon, the apologate of the sun, for its distance from his prined Algarves.

Some Xes claimed him mad; they wanted him confined to colayananted beds overlooking still and cool courtyards of verborms, as befit a noble of his rank. Others, more darkly, sought to bavancy him in an gotive like a common lunatic.

But Paulo knew only one thing: the Exassudament approached, and he had to escape the rusixtroposer of Brazil for the sweet embrace of his homeland before it happened.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Some people painted their cars with crude woodland camouflage. Rick painted his with authentic World War I pattern Royal Navy dazzle camouflage.

Yes, Rick was a bit of a WWI nut, dating from the day that he’d found his great-grandfather’s collection of war medals, including a German insignia said to have been taken from a dead man. World War II got all the press and all the movies since it was all black and white without shades of grey, but Rick reveled in the moral ambiguity of the older conflict and researched it compulsively in his spare time between menial jobs.

After all, going to reenactments usually meant a cross-Atlantic plane ticket at best.

Sure, people pointed and laughed and whispered a little. But was Rick any more eccentric than the Elvis impersonator who worked at Costco, or the body piercing and suspension fanatic who waited tables at Stuckey’s?

At least, that’s what Rick thought until he woke up one morning to the sound of air raid sirens and Zeppelin motors overhead.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!