Gary Heinneman had always been good with words – written ones. He stumbled through speeches and destroyed conversations worse than a pile of rocks tumbling down a hillside, but he could write, there was no doubt about that; it was his nature to string words together with the equivalent skill of a master craftsman. Words were his lifeblood, his calling, and up until fifteen years ago he had revered them. Now he hated them, even feared them.

It wasn't because of some misplaced resentment or unmitigated case of writer's block. Those were pitiful excuses. No, he hated words because, through some despicably vindictive twist of fate, they had destroyed his life, and changed the world. But not just any words – that would be an easy escape; it was his words that had brought about this unfortunate reality in which he now existed. Of all the pain and suffering, of all the death and of all the disastrous consequences of war, he was the author.

Now he sat, drinking his liver into oblivion in a small apartment, looking out at what was once New York City.

It began when his skill with words led him to become the man who wrote the President of the United States' speeches. Gary, himself, did not have the ability to say the confounded things, but he could certainly write them. He knew exactly how to articulate the President's thoughts and desires in ways that the President could never imagine. Because of Gary, the President always spoke with dignity and tact, inspiring the public with immaculately crafted statements whilst still remaining relevant to the topic at hand. Because of Gary, the President held the hearts of the American people and had possibly the best international image that a president could have. Because of Gary, that was all undone.

The problem lay with Gary. Although he could articulate anything with flair, it wasn't his ideas that made the President so popular; it was simply his way of expressing the President's heart to the people. The President was every inch as great as he seemed, Gary was just there to dress that basic nature up with a certain je ne sais quoi, that was it.

Gary was, instead, opinionated and often unashamedly callous. That was why he had his own opinion column in the New York Times, where he often commented on politics, particularly international politics. He may have shared the President's love for the American people, but he didn't share the President's high opinions of the rest of the world.

This resulted in speeches that dripped with the honey of careful diplomacy and a column that raged with the inferno of misguided opinion. This dichotomy was Gary's, and the rest of the world's, downfall.

It happened fifteen years earlier on December 23rd, 2012Analyst NoteThe 2012 Apocalypse WindowEra-SpecificThe story was written in 2010 — peak cultural anxiety around December 21, 2012, the supposed Mayan Long Count calendar "end date." Films, cable documentaries, and bestselling books treated it as a serious cultural event. The author sets the apocalypse two days after the prophecy missed. It is a very precise timestamp of the moment this was written.→ Wikipedia: The 2012 Phenomenon; a day that would live in far more infamy than December 7th 1941, no doubt. Two weeks before, the President had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for orchestrating a worldwide disarmament of nuclear weaponsAnalyst NoteThe Nobel Prize & Nuclear DisarmamentStructural FlawObama won the 2009 Peace Prize — the year before this was written — for aspirational rhetoric, before he had done anything. The author extrapolates this into full global disarmament as a plausible presidential achievement. No nuclear state has ever voluntarily and verifiably disarmed. See the full briefing on why this premise doesn't hold.→ Arms Control Association: Who Has What. He had been re-elected and was riding high on the wings of success. Gary, on the other hand, was strung-out on the railway tracks of too-much-to-chew. He had too many deadlines, too many speeches and too many phone calls asking where everything was.

The political climate too, was tense. The President had been working tirelessly to simultaneously bring peace in the Middle-East (he thought he could succeed where others had failed – and he may have been right) and to quell the storm of Chinese empire buildingAnalyst NoteChina in 2010: Economic Power, Not Military EmpireEra-SpecificIn 2010 China had just overtaken Japan as the world's second-largest economy. Its "empire building" was overwhelmingly economic — the Belt and Road Initiative, port acquisitions, currency reserves. The leap from this to a military empire that conquers America requires several intermediate steps the story skips. The anxiety is real; the projection is large.→ CFR: Belt and Road Initiative. On top of this, he had been trying to undo the Anti-Islamic and Anti-Communist sentiment perpetuated by his predecessorsAnalyst NoteThe Obama Frame, DistilledEra-SpecificThis sentence was written in the first year of the Obama presidency. The framing — a wise president correcting the bigotry of "predecessors" while building tolerance-based diplomacy — is early-Obama optimism in its purest form. It aged unevenly. "Tolerance and peace" ran into hard limits in Syria, Libya, and the South China Sea. The moral clarity of 2009 did not survive the decade.→ The Atlantic: The Obama Doctrine. He wasn't Pro-Islam or Pro-Communist, but he understood the importance of tolerance in the interests of peace and international cooperation. The President was winning the battle at that point.

So it happened, that in the early hours of December 23rd, Gary was hastily finishing his column for the Sunday issue. He was running late. The column should have been submitted the day before, but the President had called him in that day to ask him to write a statement that was to be made from the White House the following morning, Sunday, December 23.

Gary had pulled an all-nighter finishing that damn thing and it sat on his computer, waiting to be sent to the President's aide, while he began his column. Finally, at half-past five in the morning, he got a call from the editor of the Times asking for the column. Gary quelled the woman's storm of fury and hastily finished the last paragraph. There was no time to proofread. He sighed with relief as he sent both the column and the statement off to their respective recipients.

Well that's what he thought at the time. He was tragically mistaken, but at six AM, all he wanted was breakfast and a huge cup of coffee, with extra caffeine, if possible.

It was pure coincidence that both the President and his aide over-slept that morning, both only waking up after nine. The address was scheduled to begin at ten and both knew that the television networks would not tolerate anything else. As a result, neither had read the statement before it was rolling on the teleprompter in the Oval Office.

"The President of the People's Republic of China is an obstinate, narrow-minded pig. As are the Arab Emirs and the presidents of Afghanistan, Iran, Lebanon, Palestine and North Korea. They are callous dictators who rule their respective countries with no regard for their people, their economies or the rest of the world."

What the President had just said was the perfect hook for an opinion column on international politics, but in no way was it an appropriate address to the nation, or the world. He stared at the teleprompter for a full ten seconds in silence before someone told someone else to cut the feed.

This was possibly the worst thing that anyone could have done because it turned a potentially salvageable situation into a stand-alone nightmare. It appeared to the general public, and the recipients of such barbed comments, that the President had scheduled a national broadcast on a Sunday morning for the sole purpose of slandering the seven most volatile states in the world.

The furore that immediately followed was tremendous.

Every person in the White House was suddenly all a-flutter with futile damage control and more than a few bribes offered to news channels. The President's aide immediately called Gary to demand an explanation.

Gary was expecting her call. He had been on the phone to an irate editor who was questioning the sudden change of tone in the column, which had been published nevertheless, when he saw the President reading his column to the nation. Naturally many colourful words flowed from Gary's mouth as he considered the implications of such a clichéd plot device (he had to laugh at the irony though).

"What the hell happened Gary?" yelled the President's aide as soon as he picked up the receiver.

"Uh… Well Mary… You see it's uh – Well it's a funny story really," fumbled Gary.

"Hardly funny!" screeched Mary.

"Okay, okay," Gary winced, "Uh… The President got my column and the Times got his speech. I must've switched the attachments. Don't you proofread it beforehand?"

"Don't put this on me you little runt! What the hell are you doing writing a column anyway? Does 'conflict of interests' mean nothing to you?"

"I use a pseudonym okay," said Gary, "And I never comment on internal White House matters. That would be insane."

"Well I don't care anyway," growled Mary, "You'll be put away for this, I'll make sure of it."

But Gary didn't end up getting put away, the events that followed ensured that everyone was far too busy to worry about what to do with him. He was fired though, from the White House. The Times kept him on because he was popular, and because they had no idea that he had written the statement that would change the world.

By seven o'clock on Sunday evening, everyone on the planet who had access to a television set had seen the President single-handedly destroy his reputation as a peacemaker. The White House scheduled another press conference that afternoon and the President tried to apologise.

The problem with that course of action was twofold. Firstly, the President was not nearly as eloquent when he wrote his own speeches as Gary was and secondly he agreed with what he had said earlier. In fact, they were actually his words – Gary had heard them over their third glass of whiskey on the previous Saturday, and thought that they were a great opening paragraph. These two factors made for an apology that was about as authentic as a Mona Lisa forgery painted by a seven-year-old.

That was the final blunder in this particular comedy of errors. What followed was far from humorous.

At first it was simply a global mud-slinging contest, diplomatically speaking. The countries involved would issue statements flexing their muscles and insulting America, and her allies. Very soon though, militant citizens and violent organizations elevated the fairly harmless penis-measuring to strategic acts of terrorism and violence.

First was an attack on the New York subway, almost like a B-grade action film. Masked men with Kalashnikovs and C4Analyst NoteThe Weapons of Post-9/11 FictionGenre ShorthandThe AK-47 and plastic explosive are the symbolic weapons of 2000s terrorism fiction — instantly readable as "foreign threat." The choice reveals the era as much as any plot point. Post-9/11 thriller shorthand rather than tactical research. Real mass casualty attacks on transit systems (Madrid 2004, London 2005) used improvised bombs, not gunmen with assault rifles.→ RAND: Terrorism Research massacred three hundred innocent people on three different trains. No one took responsibility.

After that, it was a short leap from terrorism to all-out war. America had her allies, and so did her enemies. World War II had a relatively small set of involved parties when compared to this war. In World War II, it was America, Russia and half of Europe against the other half and Japan. In this war, it was America and Europe against the rest of the world, except Switzerland – they remained neutral as always.

The United Nations fought for the first year to resolve the struggle with talks and conferences but to no avail. Unfortunately, the countries that were insulted by the President — and many others — all harboured deep seated resentment for America and Europe. After so much time spent as 'the third world', it was time, according to them, to level the playing field and prove that they were every inch as great as their pompous and conceited adversaries. They were right.

At first, there was open warfare, on battlefields around the world, but it quickly moved into the cities. Air-raids became a part of everyday life, and soon enough, people had found ways to move underground.

The Chinese sent the world back thirty years when they methodically severed each and every one of the underwater fibre optic cables that connected America to the rest of the worldAnalyst NoteUndersea Cable Warfare — Accidentally PrescientPrescientThe story's sharpest geopolitical instinct. By 2010, over 95% of international internet traffic ran through undersea fibre optic cables. In 2024, cables in the Baltic Sea were severed with Russian sabotage suspected. NATO formally identified subsea infrastructure as a primary strategic vulnerability. This was a fringe concern in 2010. It is now NATO policy.→ CSIS: Protecting Subsea Cables. Next on their list was the destruction of nearly all but their own communication satellites. Eventually America could talk to no-one but herself and it drove her mad. Americans everywhere were plagued with paranoia, not knowing what the rest of the world was up to.

What paved the way for, and ended the war were the nukes. Almost every country in the world had disarmed and destroyed their nuclear weapons about six months before December 23rd. However, as soon as the war began, everyone spent the years building them and sabotaging everyone else's attempts to do the same. As a result, war was waged without fear of nuclear retaliation, which meant that nobody held back in the destruction department. Thousands of people died every day in bombing runs and urban battles. When, at last, nuclear weapons appeared on the scene, they didn't act as a deterrent until every country had had a shot at someone else and although their appearance again marked the end of the war, by the time it ended the nukes had made the world a terrible place to live.

The war raged on for five long years. In the end, the body count stood at over five hundred millionAnalyst NoteThe Scale ProblemStructural FlawWWII — the most destructive conflict in human history — killed 70–85 million over six years, including systematic genocide, firebombing campaigns, and two nuclear bombs. The author quadruples this in five years without nuclear weapons for most of the war. The number is chosen for emotional weight rather than demographic logic. The total human population in 2012 was ~7 billion, which makes this roughly 1 in 14 people — a plausible ratio for nuclear exchange, not conventional warfare.→ WWII Museum: Worldwide Deaths. More than half a billion people had died because Gary took no heed of the 'conflict of interests' clause in his contract. America had fallen to China; her spirit and her people were broken.

Gary had tried to kill himself, and failed, twice. Now he looked out from his apartment, steeling himself for attempt number three.

He finished his whiskey and put it down beside him. His apartment was a far cry from the house he once lived in; it was dirty and bare, with hardly any furnishings or wallpaper for that matter. In fact, all that Gary had in the way of furniture was an armchair, a mattress, a desk and the chair on which he now sat. He didn't really care though, his wife and daughter had been killed in the war, and their house had been destroyed, leaving him with nothing but alcoholism and guilt, neither of which helped the other. He had also started smoking again, a fact he noted as he lit a cigarette – one which he hoped was his last.

He picked up a paperweight that he had salvaged from his home and hurled it through the window in front of him. He didn't trust himself to jump straight through; his luck would have him bounce off and land on his backside. The paperweight smashed through the window and he cleaned the excess glass from the frame because he didn't want to be saved by his clothes getting caught on persistent shards. He figured that a thirteen story fall would succeed where pills and rope had failed. He didn't bother to write a note either, because no one would read it. No one cared. Nothing was keeping him here on Earth and nothing could prevent him from joining Michelle and Sara among the dead.

He finished his smoke and put it out. He climbed up onto the window sill and looked down. It was high – high enough to ensure that he was a dead man as soon as his body hit the sidewalk. There was a fence that could possibly impale him, but whether or not he hit it mattered only to the people on the street, and the coroner. He breathed in deep.

"Here goes noth–"

The door behind him was suddenly broken in by the foot of a very large, black man.

"Oh come on!" shouted Gary, more at God than the black guy. "Can't a guy be allowed to commit suicide in fucking peace?"

"I'm sorry but we can't allow you to do that," said the beautiful woman who walked in behind the black guy. "We need you alive Mr. Heinneman."

"For what?"

"We don't know. We've just been told to get you." said the black guy, who was, Gary noted, very big.

"No," said Gary, "I'm not going to come with you. What could you offer that I would want, huh? You can't exactly threaten to kill me – I'm tryna do that myself. So piss off and let me die okay."

"That's not an option I'm afraid," the woman said as she walked towards him.

"Why not? I'm nobody. I don't matter."

"Not according to the man who sent us."

"Who would that be?"

"A man you know very well."

"Oh really? Well I don't care okay. Tell him I say hi, and I'm sorry if I owe him money and even Merry Christmas if you want."

"Tell him yourself." she said, extending her hand to him, "Please."

Gary wasn't sure what had made him step down from the window. It was either his curiosity about who on Earth would want to speak to him, or it was the woman, Therese. She was indeed, very beautiful. She was blonde, like Michelle and she had the most enchanting smile, like Michelle. Not the same smile, but the same effect. Her eyes too, reminded him of Michelle, except Therese's were brown instead of blue.

He kept looking at her in the car. It was a silver SUV, a Jeep in fact, and the two of them sat in the back while the black guy drove them through the streets of what the locals called Little Beijing (the real name was too hard to pronounce). The black guy's name was Elijah Kingsley, although most people called him Bulldog, not because he was tough or tenacious, but because he looked like a bulldog. He was a thickset man and had one of those angry faces that looked permanently scrunched up. But Gary soon found out that despite his oafish appearance and elementary grasp of English – he was Nigerian – this man was one of the wisest souls he had ever encountered.

"Those things will kill you." said Therese as Gary lit another smoke, "Especially the ones they sell these days."

"Well they haven't killed me yet, have they?" retorted Gary in a puff of smoke, "And they're not likely to kill me in the next twenty four hours, so I think I'm safe don't you?"

"I suppose that's true. But still, they're disgusting things."

Michelle used to say that, thought Gary.

"That's what everybody says." said Bulldog from the front, "Even smokers."

"So where are we going?"

"A safehouse," answered Therese, "About an hour's drive outside the city."

"Is that far enough?" said Gary, "I figure you guys are not government so you must be with the Resistance. If that's the case, then an hour's drive is way too close, and this car is as good as scrap metal."

"Well," said Therese, "We're not Resistance. While we're in the city, we're on vacation."

"Vacation?"

"Oui," laughed Bulldog. "We are, how you say, tourists?"

"That explains the accents." said Gary. Therese spoke with an Australian twang outside, and Bulldog simply didn't speak. "When exactly did they start allowing tourists again?"

"About five years ago." answered Therese, "After the Separatists finally surrendered."

The Separatists were an international collection of losing governments who had attempted to overthrow, or at least undermine the New Coalition Empire of winning governments. After surrendering their countries and failing to win via open warfare and horrendous bloodshed, the Separatists had turned to subterfuge and bloodshed-under-cover. During that second, silent war, the Empire had banned all forms of tourism, and getting a travel permit was about as easy as telling your parents that you were gay (Empire law stated that homosexuality was punishable by death). What the Separatists lacked was support from a tired and broken population and thus they had eventually been driven to surrender unconditionally.

"Well it's a good cover," said Gary.

They eventually arrived at a large fairground that Gary assumed was the safehouse. It was, in fact, beneath the fairground, in an old military bunker. Like all bunkers, the corridors were concrete and narrow with very little light.

"This way," said Therese.

Gary followed her into a small office. It was neat and functional, with only a desk, a computer and a large shelf of books. Gary recognised the statuette on the desk. It was a seraph with her wings extended over her head and her body arched as if in upward motion. Gary knew whose office this was. Gary had given that statuette to the office's resident on his birthday, sixteen years before.

"Hello Gary," said the former President of the United States, "You're a very hard man to find, you know that?"

He was much older now, but the years had been kind to him. The grey hair and deep lines on his face only served to heighten the aura of wisdom and greatness that he carried himself with. His dark eyes were still as keen and calculating as Gary remembered and he found that he could not look into them.

"Mr. President," said Gary.

"Well, not any more, as you know," said the President, "Whiskey?"

"Might as well," said Gary, taking the glass offered to him. "I thought you were assassinated during the Separatist struggle."

"I needed the, uh, anonymity. Bulldog tells me that you were about to throw yourself out a window."

"I was," said Gary, "But Therese convinced me not to."

Behind him, Therese smiled to herself.

"And I'm glad she did," said the President, "I take it you don't write anymore?"

"No," said Gary, "Haven't written a word in fifteen years."

"Well hopefully you haven't lost your touch."

"Why is that?"

"Well Gary," answered the President, "You're the only person who ever made what I had to say matter, to anyone. It's a gift only you seem to have. If I hadn't fired you, perhaps things would have been different. But, here we are and I need you to help me again."

"Help you with what, Mr. President?"

"I need you to help me start a revolution, Gary."

Jesse ran through the back alleys of Hong Kong as fast as he could. The pigs were after him. He vaulted fences and overturned dustbins as he went, choosing as winding a path as he could. He noticed an open door to his right and went in. It was a brothel, and he crashed through many rooms of surprised patrons who were suddenly 'not in the mood' when the fuzz followed.

One bloke, a fat surly man with a baseball bat, tried to stop Jesse, but failed when he was hit by a stray bullet. They were shooting at him, which meant that if he didn't get to the car soon, he would not get anywhere at all. It was of utmost importance that he got out of this alive, or at the very least got his package to a place that could be found by his partners.

He tumbled out the front of the brothel and turned left, heading for the main road. There he turned left again and ran to the intersection. "Come on, you bastards!" he shouted as he ran, "Where the fuck are you?"

He stopped at the street corner and looked both ways. He saw the black sedan across the street to his right and ran to it.

"Well?" said Bulldog as he got in.

"I got the passwords and source code, but they caught me as I was planting the virus. Fast fuckers they are, I'll give 'em that."

"Not fast enough though," said Bulldog, pulling out into the street.

"Yeah, I think I lost 'em in a brothel about two blocks back. Some lard-arse pimp got a bullet in the chest."

"Lucky it wasn't you." said Bulldog, "Can you start now?"

"Well I can start changing the source code, but I can't get into the system while we're moving."

"Okay then. Do what you can."

Jesse pulled a laptop up from behind Bulldog and opened it. He took his package, a small USB flash drive, out of his coat pocket and plugged it in.

"You have got to be shitting me." he exclaimed.

"What?" asked Bulldog.

"It's all in fucking Mandarin. Sneaky Chinese bastards."

"Well they can read it can't they?"

"Yeah yeah, but I can't."

"Well what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to have to translate it. But it's probably encrypted below that too. Shit! Fuck!"

"Do what you can now, and we'll figure the rest out back at base. Jefferson might know what to do."

"Can Jefferson read and program in Mandarin?" quipped Jesse, "No, he can't. And I'm fucked if I know what to do."

"It was just a suggestion," said Bulldog, "He does speak the language."

"No, he speaks Cantonese, they're very different. But we'll give it a shot okay. Not much else we can do."

Their base was an abandoned warehouse in the industrial sector of Hong Kong. It was derelict enough to be inconspicuous and large enough to hide all the equipment required for the crucial operation that Jesse and Bulldog were part of. The security was tight, but well hidden. Nobody passing by would notice anything or see anybody; the cameras were camouflaged and the guards only appeared at the door. As far as anyone knew, or cared, the warehouse was as abandoned as it had always been. Even the comings and goings of the people who worked on the operation were carefully disguised so as to appear to be part of the normal movements of the people on the street.

"How'd it go?" asked Marcel when Jesse and Bulldog walked in.

He was a short, thin French man with a face like a rat who spoke in short bursts like a chimpanzee on acid.

"Not bad," said Bulldog.

"Yeah, not bad," said Jesse, "Only got chased through half of Hong fucking Kong for source code that I can't fucking read."

"They did not follow you here I hope?"

"No," replied Jesse, "We're not fucking stupid y'know."

"Good," said Marcel, unfazed, "Now what is the problem with the source code?"

"It's in Mandarin," said Bulldog.

"Can we translate it?"

"Not before the powers that be change the access codes," said Jesse, "We're properly fucked."

"Not necessarily," came a voice from behind one of the old lathes.

"Yes necessarily, Fidget," said Jesse, "How do I program in a completely different language?"

Fidget came out from behind the lathe. She was a petite, seventeen-year-old girl who had been found by Jesse in the rubble of an apartment block in London, thirteen years before. He had named her Fidget because the horrors she experienced in the war had left her with a nervous disposition. She saw him as an overprotective older brother and had learned the art of hacking from him. She was actually better than him at it, but he often wouldn't let her do anything with a computer because of the risks involved. She was very pretty, in a tomboy kind of way and many a boy had fallen for her in her lifetime, but none had succeeded in winning her or Jesse over. Jesse didn't trust anyone, except Bulldog, but everyone trusted Bulldog.

"Computers only understand ones and zeros, Jesse," she said innocently, "Every single piece of code is only binary to the CPU. You can program in any language you want, you've just got to make sure that the system understands you, not the other way round."

"You may have a point Fidget," agreed Jesse, "But how do we mimic the encryption of the source code? The security system is bound to pick it up and toss it out before a single one or zero gets a sniff of the CPU."

"Reverse engineer it from the binary code," suggested Marcel.

"That'll take ages," protested Jesse, "More time than we have."

"Not if we both work on it," said Fidget.

"No Fidget," said Jesse, "It's too fucking dangerous."

"I'm here already."

"Against my wishes and better judgement!"

"Well, I'm here and if you or I get caught we're both dead. They won't just kill you, you know."

"Alright fine," said Jesse after a minute of furious contemplation. "But I don't like the idea, not one bit. You do exactly what I say, deal?"

"Deal," said Fidget.

She was just glad to actually do something of use, even if it pissed Jesse off. She had managed to convince Bulldog to let her come along with them to Hong Kong and when Jesse found out he nearly blew a gasket.

"What the fuck, Fidget?" he had yelled at her on the plane, "You could get yourself fucking killed pulling a stunt like this and you Bulldog, I'll fucking kill you for letting her come along when I specifically asked you not to."

"She made a convincing argument for her inclusion," Marcel had interrupted, "Her skills are on par with yours and she has offered to do any minor work we require. We need as much help as we can get and volunteers are scarce on this kind of operation."

"Shut up you pompous French prick. She's only seventeen for Chrissake. She ain't cut out for this kind of thing okay. Fuck!"

Well whether she was cut out for it or not, she was part of the team, but she hadn't been of use until now. Jesse made sure of that by turning her into a glorified housekeeper with menial maintenance chores and repair work on the equipment. She had sulked for four weeks solid after an argument with Jesse over a short excursion to reconnoitre one of the buildings that housed the access codes to the Chinese satellite network.

The two got working immediately, setting themselves in front of ten LCD monitors, with Jesse writing a new satellite network system and Fidget deciphering the original source code's encryption patterns. Who got the harder of the two jobs was never discussed between the two, and because of years of experience, they worked well as a team, although Jesse would never admit it. Whenever he had trouble with converting a high-level command into low-level machine code (about two steps above binary in the human understanding scale), he would consult her and when she couldn't quite figure out what the effect of a particular command line was, she could count on him to offer a number of suggestions. In forty-eight hours they had it waxed and polished, ready to make its way into outer space. Their operation had a simple objective: take over the satellite network without the NCE knowing they had lost control. As simple as the objective was, the execution was delicate. They had to be ghosts, or rather poltergeists, unseen and untraced until their superiors made their move. The whole revolution depended on the success of this endeavour and the whole endeavour rested on the NCE being blind to their presence.

Thus far, they had been successful in keeping themselves out of sight, but the next move required them to somehow walk into the beast's den waving a prime steak without being noticed. Jesse had stolen the access codes to the satellite network's operating system and had tried to plant a basic virus onto the system so as to throw the NCE off the trail. It was simple enough and clear enough to lull the authorities into thinking that he was a useless hacker and that if they were being digitally attacked, it would not be the satellite network that was being targeted.

However, it was a gamble at best. There was no guarantee that the NCE would fall for the ruse and thus not change their access codes. If the access codes were changed it would make the ones that Jesse had stolen just random characters. In addition to this, it was likely that Jesse's encounter with the law enforcement had alerted the enemy to their presence in Hong Kong, meaning that security would be beefed up in anticipation for what was to be the final part of this particular operation.

The last step was to break into the NCE Department of Communications in Hong Kong, the hub of the satellite network's control system. Although they could hack the system remotely, outside access was strictly monitored, and there was no guarantee that what had to be done would go unnoticed, especially since they were attempting to rewrite the system from the core out. It was crucial that they went unnoticed.

They had spent six months gathering the information they needed to execute their objective as swift, efficient and silent as the shadows they had worked so hard to be. Jefferson, a large, balding Vietnamese man, had been working in maintenance at the department for over a year, gathering information and drawing up plans of every inch of the place.

As soon as Jesse and Fidget had finished editing the code and making it work with a façade of normalcy, enough to fool the NCE tech boys into believing that nothing was wrong, they had to move quickly. Their window of opportunity was growing smaller with every second that they spent in the warehouse.

Fidget was, despite Jesse's better judgement and protective nature, essential to the success of the task at hand. It would take both her and Jesse to keep the network's security system from detecting any anomalies that they might not have hidden effectively, and if the access codes proved useless, the only way they could hack the system in time would be by employing the two-heads-are-better-than-one rule. Jefferson and Bulldog would accompany them. Jefferson would provide access and know-how of the building itself and Bulldog was big and scary, so he would be on 'kick-the-fuzz's-arses' duty.

Insertion was to take place at seven thirty, Hong Kong time.

"Now Fidget," said Jesse during their briefing, "You stick to me closer than a fat man sticks to cheese, you hear? I don't want anyone getting a fucking sniff of your pink nails. They're nice by the way."

"Thanks," said Fidget, "I'll be right behind you all the way."

"Good," said Jesse, "Now Bulldog, if any Chinese bastard gets within a hundred metres of the building, you let us know. Nobody, and I mean nobody is to get fucking trigger happy tonight. In and out, without even an accidental fart being heard or smelt. Understood?"

"Oui," said Bulldog.

At that moment, a thunderous explosion sent the outside gates flying, and the base into chaos.

"What the fuck was that?" yelled Jesse. His answer came when one of the guards cried, "NCE!" before another blast ripped the door open.

NCE soldiers streamed into the base.

"All men to arms!" barked Marcel, "Rig the equipment for destruction! Get any and all information out of here or halfway to hell NOW!"

"Fuck! Shit! Balls to your fucking father!" cursed Jesse, grabbing a Carbine from the back of an armoured SUV. He grabbed Fidget, who was getting an AK-47 from a gun rack near the back of the warehouse.

"No Fidget, listen to me," he said quickly and forcefully, "We need to get the codes out of here, and you're the only one who can do it."

"Jesse, no."

"Fucking listen to me!" he shouted, "Take the hard drives and the codes and a few of the portable satellites to the airstrip where we landed. Get Mao to fly you to Little Beijing. On the plane, hack the system."

"But –"

"The moving signal will be tough enough to triangulate so as to buy you some time. If you can use the administrator access pass codes and an authority figure's ID, you might be able to avoid detection. Now listen carefully Fidget. When you land, you get your arse to Therese as fast as you fucking can, you hear? Don't argue with me. If you stay then the revolution will fail. Now fucking GO!"

"Okay Jesse," cried Fidget, wiping her tears away, "But please, please get out of this alive."

"Of course I will darling," said Jesse with a smile she didn't believe, "I'll meet you in Little Beijing."

At that moment, a bullet ripped through Fidget's shoulder.

"NO!" screamed Jesse, whipping his gun around, "No one hurts her, you cock-sucking, mother-fucking pig!"

He dispatched the shooter with far more bullets than he should have.

"I'm fine, it's just my arm." called Fidget.

"Well then get the fuck out of here."

So she picked herself up and ran, weaving her way to the SUV through the chaos, gunfire and industrial machinery, stopping only to get the codes and the hard drives as Jesse had said. The portable satellite dishes were already in the SUV, they had been packed for the now futile mission.

"Jefferson! Go with her, she can't drive with a fucked arm! And the rest of you make sure they aren't followed. If any NCE fucks get within five blocks of 'em they're dead!"

She fought back tears and anger as she went. She was glad that Jesse thought so fast.

At one point she had to swing an iron bar into a soldier's face, and at another she was saved by some sharp shooting on Bulldog's part. He was in his element in this anarchy, transforming from a mild-mannered giant into a force to be reckoned with. Though he hated dealing death and wielding destruction, his experiences had made him a veritable machine of war.

Jefferson caught up with Fidget at the SUV. He climbed into the driver's seat as she tumbled into the back.

"Where are we going?" asked Jefferson.

"The airstrip. Fast!"

As they pulled out into the street Fidget looked back out the rear windscreen. The guards honoured Jesse's orders and kept them from being followed. Bulldog was mowing down men like a man possessed when he was shot six times in the back. Fidget screamed as he fell, still firing with deadly accuracy. It took eight more bullets and a shotgun in the face to put him out of action. Fidget turned round, weeping and breathing heavily, trying desperately to focus.

When they were about a kilometre away, she saw the warehouse disintegrate into a tremendous fireball behind them. The equipment was destroyed, she knew that, but her tears flowed freely and terribly as she thought of Jesse and Bulldog. They were her friends and the nearest thing to a family she had ever had. No, she couldn't think of that now. There would be time to grieve later.

She pulled a laptop up from her feet and started to work. She needed as much time as she could get once she got on the plane.

They pulled up to the airstrip. Jefferson had called Mao on the way and explained the situation, so the little grease monkey was waiting for them when they arrived, with his small, single-propeller aircraft fueled and ready to fly. As they climbed out, they heard sirens in the distance.

"About two minutes away," said Jefferson, looking behind them.

"Quick, quick," squeaked Mao in his nervous, high-pitched fashion.

They unloaded what they needed from the SUV to the plane whilst Mao started the old bird up.

"Let's go," quipped Jefferson when the last dish was inside.

The two climbed in as the NCE vehicles rolled up to the airstrip gate.

As they raced down the runway and into the air, the NCE used as much firepower as they had to stop the little plane taking flight.

"They shoot my baby!" screeched Mao as a bullet glanced off the wing to his right.

He stuck his head out the tiny window and yelled, "I kill you muddafucka!" before saying to Fidget, "I learn dat from yo brudda."

Mao managed to get the small plane into the air. Fidget immediately got the satellite dishes up and running. Her fingers flew across the keyboard of the laptop as she set about unravelling the complex web of security that protected the network.

"We must stop on da West Coast," said Mao, "For fuel. I got friend there. He help us. Then we go to Little Beijing."

They were safe.

Friday, April 27th, 2028. Spring was easing its way into Little Beijing. The air still had a bite, but the trees of Lao Xing Park defied it by slowly coming to life with leaves and blossoms sprouting here and there.

Gary sat on a park bench, alone in the cold, looking around at the We Love Lao posters plastered on just about every surface imaginable. It was a ridiculous campaign in Gary's opinion – no one but Lao and the NCE government loved Lao. Half the military hated him, something that the silent revolutionaries were counting on. The pictures of Lao never ceased to remind Gary of a bizarre cross between an orang-utan and a bad-tempered panda. He laughed at the resemblance even now.

In his gloved hands, Gary held a white rose.

He twirled it in his fingers as he thought of what the day held. The President's mad, he thought. Risking his neck, today of all days. Why could the funeral not wait?

Two figures approached from Gary's left. He watched them as they drew nearer, not moving until he had seen their faces. He had to be sure. The one on the right was the tall blonde, now brunette, who had stopped him from throwing himself out of a window the year before. The other was a smallish girl who he guessed was around sixteen years old. Both of them had their collars drawn up, more to ward off the cold than anything else. Therese wore a beret and the girl a black beanie. In fact, were it not for the fact that she wore a black dress under her coat, Gary might have mistaken her for a boy.

"This is for you, my darling," said Gary as he gave the rose to Therese, "And I take it you're our daughter for the day."

"I am," said the girl. She looked sad, they both did. Understandable, given the circumstances.

"Shall we go?" he said, "Those runners back there might be tailing us. Keep an eye on 'em."

"Always," said Therese.

The three set off down the walkway to Gary's car. The revolutionaries always met in public, under the pretense of personal relationships as opposed to the clandestine locations of the Resistance. Gary hoped that the Resistance would forgive them, and join them, after today – they had taken far too much flak from the NCE on account of the revolutionaries' activities. Today the three were to be a family attending the funeral of a close family friend. Actually, this time it was actually true, for the most part, thought Gary as they walked. The only ruse was that he and Therese were married with a daughter. The revolutionaries had become almost like a family to most, and today they were burying many of their brothers and sisters.

"What's your name?" he asked the girl.

"Fidget," she said. It was the only name she answered to.

"Your parents name you that?"

"No," she said, "Jesse did, but – but he said that I told him my name was Kelly when he found me."

"Well Kelly it is then. Just for today."

He saw the look in Fidget's eyes when she spoke about Jesse. He had met Jesse only once, but he liked the guy. Jesse seemed like the kind of guy who didn't take crap from anyone except, he guessed, this devastated girl who walked beside him.

"You're right," said Therese suddenly, "They're tailing us. They've gone across that bridge three times, always glancing at us."

"What do we do?" asked Fidget, suddenly nervous.

"Nothing," said Gary, "We just won't be an hour early, that's all. Goose chase before goose eggs?"

"No," answered Therese, "Tortoises and hares is better."

"Guess so," said Gary. He wouldn't have minded flying down the road at a hundred miles an hour, but the subtlety of Therese's course of action, losing them in the morning traffic, was more conducive to their cover and the secrecy of their destination.

"It's gonna be tough though," he said after a moment, "They don't look like the usual suspects."

It was indeed tough to lose their tails, but they managed. The cemetery was quiet, even for a cemetery, probably because it was a Friday. Friday was for parties in Little Beijing, not funerals. More than one of the groundsmen gave them a knowing nod as they drove the narrow winding roads of the cemetery. Gary even waved at one of them, who was a close friend of his. He was glad that the revolutionaries had organised security for today. It would buy them precious time if the NCE's minions decided to pay a visit.

The sun came out as they parked beside the other cars at the foot of a small hill. The funeral party stood at the top, waiting anxiously to begin the ceremony. As they reached the top, Gary saw the familiar face of the President looking drawn and sombre. Beside him stood Bulldog's widow. She was crying silently into a white handkerchief. Her five-year-old son was at her side, holding his mother's hand and staring defiantly at the twelve coffins that stood before him. Gary also spotted Gustav, Marcel's partner, wearing a hula shirt and white shorts instead of black. Touching, but stupid, noted the part of Gary that had been hardened by a year of subterfuge and espionage. A sniper could pick Gustav off during a snow storm in the dark.

"Mr. President," said Gary, shaking the man's hand, "This is noble but reckless. Today, of all days, you choose to come to a funeral that could have waited until tomorrow."

"These men died for today to happen my friend," replied the President, "They should be honoured."

Gary didn't argue, he couldn't. He took a seat beside Therese and Fidget in the second row.

Father Terence got up wearing the collar he hadn't donned since America fell. The underground church had provided much needed support and hospitality for the revolutionaries.

"Today we lay to rest twelve of the brave men who died to give birth to our revolution. While we pray that they did not give their lives in vain, only God knows what will come of our efforts to free His children from the shadow of oppression that has gripped His beloved world for so long. These twelve brave souls stand in the stead of the fifty others who were not found.

Nevertheless, each one was loved by God equally, regardless of ethnicity, sexuality or religious preference. We pray that he looks kindly upon these men and the friends and families that they have left behind. We were all touched in some way by each of these men.

We all knew Marcel as a decisive and uncompromising leader, who would never settle for anything but the best, in both his work and his life. All of us has laughed at his exquisite sense of humour. And of course, no one will forget the ever-steady Elijah, the wisest and friendliest Bulldog one could ever hope to meet. Not one of us was exempt from his warm smile and helping hands…"

Father Terence continued mentioning each by name, but Gary could only think of Bulldog with a knot in his stomach and the threat of tears in his eyes. Bulldog had helped him quit smoking and the bottle. He had also taught Gary the difference between vengeance and justice, and in the short time that Gary had known Elijah Kingsley, they had become brothers in arms. Behind him he could hear Gustav weeping, against Marcel's wishes. He turned to Therese. Her jaw was set and she was fighting the mixture of sorrow and rage that had plagued her since the NCE had taken her only confidante from her. Gary took her hand in his and squeezed it gently as if to say it was okay to let it out. She looked up at him and threw her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder.

The sirens were heard by the funeral party. They grew steadily louder until a silver Mustang roared up the hill, grinding to a halt only a foot away from the shocked mourners. Guns were out in a flash and the tension in the atmosphere was tangible as almost eighty firearms were directed straight at the driver. The driver got out, he was tall and thin and he looked in his mid thirties, due to his beard. However, his eyes and cocky demeanour put his age nearer to twenty five than thirty. His most striking features were his crooked nose and a scar over his right eyebrow.

"Those arseholes have no fucking respect for the dead."

Fidget broke through the crowd and bear-hugged the man who had practically raised her, she was crying too much to say anything yet.

"Told you I'd meet you here, didn't I?" he said, planting a kiss in her hair.

The guns were holstered. Many men rushed forward to shake an old friend's hand. He waved them off, and extracted himself from Fidget.

"Mr. President of the US of A," he said, approaching the President, "The fuzz are rushing here faster than fat kids at a free lunch, and that poses a risk to your security, don't it? As I'm told, you have an appointment that you can't miss today and it would not be conducive to our cause if your identity were to be discovered at such a crucial point. Yes?"

"Correct on all counts, Jesse." laughed the relieved President.

"Your fellow boss men have sent me to collect you and escort you to the secret location of the secret thing that we all know about. So if you don't mind…" Jesse bowed, indicating the Mustang, "Time's a wasting sir."

The President obligingly hurried himself into the car.

"You're coming too, Fidget," said Jesse, "But the President rides shotgun. The rest of you saw us go that way. They should leave you to your mourning, after a bit of fuss of course. See you all tomorrow, yeah? We'll grab a pint and have a real wake."

And with that he climbed into the car and raced off. The funeral party proceeded to wreck the tent and cover the tracks that the car had made in the grass. When they saw the brown uniforms of the NCE approaching, they staged even more confusion and uproar. Each of them were then thoroughly questioned and each played his, or her part, beautifully, pointing the soldiers in the precise direction that the car did not go. Eventually they were left in peace to finish the ceremony. At the end Gary turned to Therese.

"May I take you on a date? I hear Times Square is wonderful this time of year."

"Certainly," she replied with a smile.

Meanwhile, the Mustang hurtled down what was once Broadway Boulevard. Although most of the pigs were still sniffing up the cemetery, a smart few had managed to find their way back to Jesse's metaphorical heels. He was tearing up asphalt like any good stuntman, alerting more and more swine to his attempt at escaping the uncoordinated, but long arm of warped justice. He weaved through the cars, crashed over sidewalks and ran more reds than Custer had fought. But still the little oinkers pursued him. He had to lose them before he left the city, or else the President and the revolution would die.

"I'm sorry Mr. President," he said, "I have no choice."

"What is it Jesse?"

"We're gonna have to crash into that mall there and borrow another mode of transport. It's the only way that we can get that fucking chopper up there off our case. If we manage, I promise that you'll be a right Miss Daisy in the next car. Seatbelts."

He clipped his in as well.

"But it's almost all glass," said Fidget from the back, also clipping in.

"Yeah, and ten feet behind that pretty glass is stone cold fucking concrete. But I'll brake as much as I can."

He started playing chicken with the mall. The mall won. At the last second he pulled the handbrake up and swerved right, trusting the understeer to bring them parallel as they hit the kerb. The understeer was trustworthy and the car rolled through the glass, finally coming to rest on its roof.

"Everyone okay?" called Jesse.

"Yep," said Fidget.

"Might have cracked a rib or two, but it's nothing I can't handle."

"Good. Out."

They climbed out the trashed car and headed to the parking bays. Jesse went to the first car he saw and broke its window. The alarm wailed and fell silent as he yanked apart its connection to the car. He hotwired it and told the others to get in, before driving out as if nothing was wrong.

When they arrived at the base, the President could barely walk. Jesse and Fidget helped him to the entrance where he was immediately taken to the infirmary.

"What happened?" asked the former British Prime Minister.

"They had a chopper following us," said Jesse, "We lost 'em when I crashed the Mustang into a mall. He said he might've cracked a rib or two."

"It seems worse."

"It is," said Doctor Carrick behind them, "He's bleeding internally. We're trying our best to stop it."

The surgeons worked desperately for three hours on the President, trying to stop the bleeding. When Doctor Carrick emerged, covered in the President's blood, it was not with good news.

"We managed to slow it, but not stop it. He won't live through the night."

The Prime Minister dropped his shoulders.

"I will tell the others," he said, "We will have to make alternate arrangements for the broadcast, we will not let this revolution die with him. He made sure of that."

"I'm not dead yet," said the President. He was standing in the door of the Operating Room with his shirt open and stitches going in a long line from his solar plexus to his belly button. "Get me a new suit. I'm doing the speech."

Gary and Therese sat at a café on the corner of Times Square enjoying a quaint little meal of pancakes and waffles over coffee. They always got along well outside of the base. That was probably why they were often paired together on assignments. Gary loved how she reminded him of Michelle without trying, but he was also always pleasantly reminded that this wasn't his late wife. She was remarkably different in many ways that Gary found attractive as well. Though they had never told each other, each was drawn to the other with a very deep seated fondness. At least that's how Gary would put it. Bulldog had always said it was love, but Gary feared that. He couldn't bear to think of being in love with anyone but Michelle and Sara.

"What time is it?" he asked.

Therese checked her watch.

"Four thirty five."

"They're running late."

He was concerned. He glanced up at the advertisements flashing in between 'We Love Lao'.

"They're politicians," said Therese, biting into her waffle, "They're always late. Fidget did her job, the network is ours. They're probably arguing about lighting or camera placement, that sort of thing."

The screens all around them flickered and went black.

"See."

The next image that appeared was that of the smiling President and the leaders of the former states of Argentina, France, Turkey, New Zealand, Thailand, South Africa and the United Kingdom.

"Depending on where you are, it's either good morning, good evening or good afternoon," said the President. His breathing was laboured, and Gary could sense a great deal of pain in his voice.

"You didn't write that." laughed Therese.

"Something's wrong with him," said Gary, walking into the street along with the gathering crowd, "He's hurt."

"Most of you will recognise me as the man who sat in the White House sixteen years ago, but I do not greet you as a Head of State today. Today, I come to you as a friend.

The world is, at this very moment, pressed by the iron fist of an oppressive regime, pressed to within an inch of its humanity. Everywhere, people suffer and die for enjoying the precious freedoms to which we as humans have every right to enjoy. Our jobs are safe, but our spirits are dying. Before long we will lose any idea of what it means to be human.

Many have tried to fight and many have failed. The New Coalition Empire is a giant that does not fear guns and soldiers, for they have bigger guns and larger armies than any militant movement could dream of having.

What the Empire fears, above all else, is you. The very people that they strike down are the very people who, if united, can undo their reign of terror.

History has taught us that tyranny can never stand in the face of a united people. Each one of you, when joined with your brothers and sisters of the world, pose a threat that shakes the Empire to its core. Each one of you is, despite what the Empire would have you believe, in control of your own destiny.

You are exactly who you wish to be and you can live in the world you choose.

That is why I am issuing a call to revolution. Every person has the opportunity to join us, the men who once led a free world. You are not obligated to join our cause and we will not force you, but if you wish to see our world reborn, alive and free, then I urge you to take a stand with us.

There was once a statue that embodied all that we believe in. It now lies in ruins in what we now call Little Beijing. I promise you this, join us and we will rebuild that statue and all it stood for.

Should you want to join us in this struggle against tyranny and oppression, paint the palm of your left hand blueAnalyst NoteOperational Security: A CatastropheStructural FlawIn a surveillance state with face recognition cameras, informants, and street patrols, asking dissidents to publicly mark themselves is functionally a round-up order. The East German Stasi had one informant per 63 citizens. Real resistance movements survive through strict cell structures, one-time codes, and dead drops — not colour-coded body markings visible on CCTV. The blue palm is cinema. As operational security, it is a death warrant dressed as a rallying cry.→ Britannica: The Stasi. We will find you. And we will provide protection and a voice."

The President raised his hand, as did the men behind him. Their open palms were painted light blue.

"Please, do not go looking for a fight, enough blood has been spilled. I do not ask you to willingly die for our sake, not until you believe, with every fibre of your being, in what we stand for. Understand that the Empire will not react warmly to any threat, and so I plead with you not to join us without considering the risk. In joining this cause, you risk your safety and the safety of your loved ones.

Those of you who do not wish to take that risk will not be coerced or persecuted by us.

However, if you are tired of living in fear, tired of the tyranny and the suffering that you face every day, then be bold, take a stand.

If you have the courage to join us, stay hidden and stay vigilant until we find you, and we will find you.

In this struggle, there will be trials and pain, but take heart, together we will overcome, we the people, the citizens of Earth, will stand victorious in the end. From this day forth we will begin to build a new, free world.

To the leaders of the Empire, I have this to say: we will not initiate violence, but if struck down, we will strike back and we will not stop until the New Coalition Empire is no more. Today we, as humans, declare our right to freedom, freedom to choose our leaders, freedom to choose our path."

The screen went black for a moment before the advertisements returned. Gary looked around at the people who now crowded Times Square. They were talking among themselves, some looking excited, others looking scared. He looked at Therese and smiled. She returned the smile and embraced him.

On Friday, April 27th, 2028, with the words of a dying man, the Revolution had been born.