Season 1, Episode 4 - The Microwave XXVII - "The Secret Origin of the New York Minute, Part 2"
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His sister did die like that. No war came.
The funeral took place on a sunny day in April. Dressed in all black, Finley felt rather hot. He wiped his brow and tugged at the collar of his suit, a hand-me-down from an older brother that just barely fit him.
“You can leave,” Maxwell said quietly, standing next to him. Maxwell, Finley, each of their parents, and several other family members and friends stood solemnly around the grave, fresh earth burying his sister for all of eternity. “You don’t have to be here.”
“And let you handle this alone?” Finley questioned. “Through thick and thin, that’s what friends are here for. And this is certainly a thick time.”
Maxwell didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t say anything for the rest of the funeral.
An unknown amount of time later, probably only an hour but what felt like a lifetime, only Maxwell and Finley were left at the grave. Maxwell’s parents had returned to their car with his younger sister; having grieved with Maxwell the whole time, they decided to give him some alone time, and perhaps they needed some of their own as well.
“The sun’s starting to set,” Finley said gently.
The change in light only served to let Maxwell see the grave in a new way. His sister would never see the sunset again; there was no reason why Maxwell should be allowed to, either. He didn’t deserve it.
“Hey, Maxwell,” Finley whispered.
Maxwell kept his eyes lowered on the gravestone.
“What do you want?” Finley asked, his voice guarded. Maxwell didn’t understand why his friend sounded so aggressive; Maxwell wanted a lot of things at the moment, or perhaps just one, something obvious, standing at that grave.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” a deep voice answered.
Maxwell slightly shifted his eyes. He saw a tall man with a brown beard, also dressed in a black suit of mourning.
Maxwell didn’t say anything.
“My name is Dermot,” the man introduced himself. “I already know you two. Students at Whitepot Academy. Rddhi users.”
“And what about it?” Finley stepped to Maxwell’s other side, separating his friend from this Dermot.
“I mean you no harm,” Dermot answered. His voice sounded calm and serious. “My job is to know things like that. I work for the Caribbean Expeditionary Force.”
“The CEF?” Finley repeated. “You mean the outcasts?”
“I feel pride at such a remark.” From the sound of his voice, perhaps he very well did. “We were only exiled for doing what we felt was right. To strike back at an enemy that has taken so much from us. Our government gave that enemy a gentle peace...now look at the consequences.”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the gravestone before him.
MARISSA HAYWELL. 2192-2216.
“The CEF was ready to return home and lead the way into New England’s heartland,” Dermot explained, looking at the name on the grave, perhaps imagining another grave particular to him and his heart. “Instead, we appeased them. The government claimed our military wasn’t ready for another conflict, that our ‘civilian’ economy can’t handle it. That’s their mistake, and they continually make us pay for it.”
Dermot watched a flock of birds fly by across the sunset. “Do you want to know the truth about this ‘Fort Edward Incident’, as they’re calling it in New England?”
Finley raised a hand. “I think you spoke enough-”
“Tell me the truth.” Maxwell didn’t raise his head, but he spoke firmly.
Dermot revealed just the tiniest hint of a smile. “This assassin, Erskine...it’s true that he had family members murdered in the Tri-Village Massacre, which, of course, comes nowhere close to any of the casualties of New England’s aerial bombing and chemical warfare campaigns, but I digress. This Erskine...in addition to his manifesto, the Fort Edward Police found instructions and funding from that New England Army battalion that launched the massacre.”
Maxwell’s eyes instantly widened. He spun around and grabbed the bigger man’s collar, pulling him to eye level. “Are you serious?”
Dermot offered no resistance. “The CEF has eyes and ears everywhere. That battalion wanted a war and used Erskine to get the ball rolling for them. But our government ordered that part covered up, to prevent calls for war...they don’t want war, no matter how justified it is, because it threatens their positions of power. A soft government is threatening to turn us into a soft people.”
“New England handed that battalion’s commander over,” Finley countered. “They acknowledged the legitimacy of our trial and hanging of him. They even gave us financial compensation."
Dermot gestured at the grave. “Does money bring back the dead?”
Finley bit his lip and went quiet.
Maxwell spoke. “You said you’re from the CEF. What can you guys do, all the way down in the Caribbean?”
Dermot’s grin grew wider. “Lots of things. That’s why I’m here, after all. As I’ve said, we have eyes and ears everywhere. And all we want...is for you to join us.”
Maxwell’s grip on his collar, once so tight, now loosened, and he stepped away. He looked back at the grave. “And what happens if I join you?”
Finley raised a hand. “Maxwell-”
“Let him speak,” Maxwell interjected.
Dermot reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a note. “For the time being, continue to work hard in your studies and training. Every once in a while, we’ll be in touch. A pamphlet here, a meeting there, maybe even a newsletter once in a great while. Once you graduate, join us. We can get you transferred to the Caribbean. There, your real work can begin. And then, when the time is right...we establish the peace that should’ve been established eleven years ago.”
Finley’s eyes pleaded with him not to. But Maxwell took another look at Marissa’s grave.
If I do nothing, she’ll remain just a body in a grave, forever like that. There’s only one way to preserve her memory and make things right.
Maxwell took the note. He then gazed at the sunset, the note in his hand fluttering in an eastward breeze.
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Two years later.
Jackson yawned, laying in a grass field in Vlissingen. He had nothing better to do today, so he decided to accompany his fellow agent, Panama, when they went to check out a high school graduate Rddhi user seeking to join the New York Army, with the caveat of being stationed with the CEF. Well, it was more like Jackson had nothing better to do today, so he decided not to put up a fight when Panama, his nominal equal, ordered him to attend the recruiting session. Panama had such a forceful way of thinking and speaking that made it difficult for Jackson to not say yes, not that Jackson considered saying no anyway. A recruiting visit was something to do, after all.
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General Asenov, commander of the CEF, needed extra funds. New England had many buyers. Panama and Jackson, nominally back in their home country for administrative work, had just finished some negotiations with a group of centripetalists in the ruined tunnels below Narragansett. The Second Restorationists, they called themselves. Panama didn't like the feeling he got from them, but the Restorationists were a powerful group that could sell Asenov's products quickly and smoothly. A deal was struck, and Panama and Jackson, sometime in the future, would be permanently rotated back to New York for long-term administrative duty. In reality, that meant overseeing several of the smuggling routes.
Jackson wasn't exactly excited about it, but it was better than nothing. It was something to do, after all.
“You guys almost done yet?” Jackson called out, scratching the stubble on his chin.
“You got somewhere to be?” Panama yelled back, kneeling with the recruit as they worked on something in the grass.
“Not particularly,” Jackson answered. He placed his arms behind his head and watched clouds go by. He could hear the conversation between Panama and the recruit, their faces flush, voices passionate as they discussed all the injustices in the world.
Panama lost a girl particular to him at Fort Edward. The recruit lost a sister there, too. Dermot lost his wife to the long-term effects of New England mustard gas. Jackson himself lost a brother.
But that didn’t mean any of them needed to wage the holy war against New England that General Asenov always encouraged. Jackson folded one leg over the other.
People die. That’s just how it is.
He reached a hand toward the clouds. Everything in this floating life is destined. We simply don’t know.
“Jackson, we’re ready,” Panama called out. “Send someone over here.”
Jackson nodded and Rddhi flowed through his raised hand. An illusionary Jackson appeared, standing in field, yawning just as the real one did.
“What do you got for me?” the fake one asked, strolling over to Panama and Maxwell.
Panama raised a strong hand. “Hold on. Don’t get too close yet.”
Both fake and real Jackson’s shrugged and resumed their cloud-watching.
Panama rested a hand on his younger companion’s shoulder. “You ready?”
Maxwell nodded. “The traps should be ready as soon as I finished planting them.”
Panama looked in the distance, northward, where Fort Edward lied beyond the horizon. “Remember who we’re doing this for.”
Maxwell nodded.
“Alright, Jackson, walk toward us.”
Fake Jackson nodded and resumed his saunter. He noticed something seemed a little off with the upcoming section of grass – a little misplaced dirt here, a little gash in the ground there, not to mention he felt a whole lot of Rddhi running through it – but it is what it is.
Fake Jackson stepped onto the odd part of grass-
The grass below him immediately shined with a red light. Eight individual circles appeared in the grass; a beam of Rddhi appeared at the farthest circle and snaked its way across to each circle, forming a spiral with Fake Jackson in the center. When the beam reached the center of the spiral, the ground below exploded, covering Fake Jackson in a liquid that felt like syrup, hardening the illusion until it couldn’t move.
“If I wanted to, I could phase through this,” the real Jackson proclaimed from the grass, his illusion’s mouth currently frozen by the viscous liquid.
“And how many Rddhi users could do that?” Panama called out, clearly impressed with Maxwell’s work.
Jackson chuckled and broke the illusion. The liquid fell to the floor and seeped across the ground slowly.
“So, the kid lays traps,” Jackson surmised. “Once someone uses Rddhi, the trap activates. And said trap is a second user’s power.” He grinned. “I think you got a future with us.”
Maxwell rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I still got a long way to go.”
Panama reduced the liquid’s viscosity, turning it back into normal water so that it might seep into the soil and help the grass grow. “Life itself is just a long way to go.” He gave Maxwell an inviting look. “You’ll make great strides in the CEF. Joining us is the only way you can gain vengeance. We need strong users like you.”
Maxwell nodded, eager to keep training.
A few hours later, Jackson finally stood up and stretched. “Our ride’s here, Panama,” he said, pointing at a black military vehicle pulling into the parking lot. He then spoke to Maxwell. “And it looks like your ride's here as well.”
Maxwell saw Finley leaning against the brick wall of the park’s public bathroom, his arms crossed.
Before he left, Jackson shook Maxwell’s hand. “I liked what I saw today. Panama here will only tell you about holy war this and that, but I’m here to tell you there’s more to the CEF than a never-ending struggle for survival. CEF pays well...or rather, there are opportunities, shall we say, for good payment. And intangible payments as well. You’ll make many connections with people from all over the world. And have you ever tried Arroz con Gandules? You’ll never find anything up here. And that's not even mentioning some of the girls down there.”
Jackson grinned. Maxwell felt a little confused, however. “I understand why Panama and Dermot joined. And it seems like the same thing happened to your loved one as well. So why’d you join?”
Clouds rolled behind Jackson. He shrugged. “Don’t quite know myself. Guess it was just something to do.”
Panama ushered him away. It was his turn to shake Maxwell’s hand. “Jackson over here is an odd case. For some people, such as him, the CEF is an unconventional and therefore exciting path. Duty down in the Caribbean is much more unusual than working on the New England border or the bureaucracy, wouldn’t you agree?”
Panama’s handshake was strong. “But for many people, like you and me, the CEF offers the straightest path to our destination. No distractions, no meddling bureaucrats, spineless politicians, or a clueless public. We have more room and freedom to operate down there, and you’re surrounded with like-minded people who all want to reach that same destination. And you know what it is?”
Maxwell nodded, his handshake just as strong. “The Presidential Administration itself, the Golden Dome in Narragansett.”
Panama grinned. “We’ll keep in touch.”
Jackson and Panama took off, heading for the car. Maxwell headed in a different direction, Finley waiting at the wall. As he got closer, Maxwell saw a distant, maybe even disappointed, look in his eyes.
Still, Finley displayed a soft smile as Maxwell approached. “So, this is what a private training session with the CEF looks like?”
Maxwell nodded. “They’re great. Really strong, too. They gave me some tips on how to improve my traps.”
“That’s good.”
An awkward silence emerged between them. A breeze blew through the grass field. “Is this what Marissa would’ve wanted?” Finley finally asked.
Maxwell narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t seen me since graduation, and this is the first thing you say to me?”
Finley rose from the wall. “More like you haven’t seen me.” His voice grew softer. “You’ve changed, Maxwell. Even before graduation, you were growing distant. Quieter.”
“Of course I changed, they found my sister in a mass grave!”
“I know! But still...you think she would’ve wanted you to join the exiles like this?” Finley shook his head. “These soldiers...General Asenov tried to use the Tri-Village Massacre to start a war.”
“Because he knew that if he didn’t try to start a war, New England would only get stronger until it was too late!”
“So that’s the solution to problems with peace? Killing civilians?”
Maxwell pounded his fist on the wall. “He killed civilians because New England killed our civilians first! The aerial campaigns, the chemical weapons, the Edward Winslow Gun!”
“Did we not do the same to them by the end of the war?”
“Only because they did it first!”
“We were the ones who started in the war in the first place!”
“That’s because New England attacked us first in the War of 2189!”
Finley groaned. “Don’t you see? It’s all just a cycle. We go back and forth killing each other, over and over. How does it end?”
“By finally putting them in their place, once and for all.”
Finley saw the fire in Maxwell’s eyes and sighed. “Alright, I get what you’re saying. But there’s a right way to do that. Asenov and the CEF want to enslave New England. Sure, that might end the cycle, but that would actually make us even worse than them. If we fight a just war, treat the population kindly, and set up a better government, one less prone to dictatorship, and make them our friend, that’s how we end the cycle. It’s happened before in history. That’s how Senator Colfax-”
“Yeah, yeah, Colfax this and that.” Maxwell crossed his arms. “I assume he was your ticket into Lenape University?”
“I'll admit that he helped, but I did most of that on my own!” Finley clenched his fists. “Marissa was important to me, too! Her death made me study harder. I got better grades, which led to me working with Colfax on his senatorial campaign, and helped me get into Lenape.” Finley pointed a finger at him. “All you’ve done since her death is sulk around and plan ways to kill people!”
Maxwell shoved him into the wall. He gripped Finley by the collar with both hands. “You don’t know anything. I’m going to save the world, Finley. Establish a global peace not seen since the Golden Age. It all starts with putting down New England for good.”
Finley knocked his arms away. “So, that’s your decision, then?”
Maxwell nodded. “Those two users I trained with, they have connections. They can get me assigned to the CEF. And then the real work begins.”
Finley ran a hand through his hair and his tone quieted. “That’s that, then.” He gave Maxwell one last look then walked away. “Take care, Maxwell. I hope I don’t see you on the television one day for shooting the mayor of a New England border city.”
Maxwell slammed another fist against the brick wall. “You don’t know anything! You’ll see! I’m working to bring peace to the world!”
Finley kept walking away.
Maxwell yelled out after him. "You'll see!"