Perdition: The New Confederacy, #1

By Marella Sands

The Union ambassador is missing. 

More than a hundred years after the McClellan-Davis Accords ended the Civil War, tensions are still high between the Union and the Confederacy. But recent trade agreements and personnel exchanges have made both sides hope that good relations can be restored. That is, until the Union ambassador vanishes one night from the embassy in Perdition. 

Two agents are sent to investigate his disappearance. Delilah Thorn, a video surveillance analyst with zero field experience, has no idea why she's been sent on this operation, but her unshakeable faith in the Union convinces her that she must somehow have the right skills for the job. Her new partner, Dane Rook, is a seasoned veteran with a mysterious background—and a whole lot of skepticism about what their assignment entails. 

They've barely crossed into the Confederacy when the whole mission goes to hell. Separated, trapped in a hostile nation with no weapons or supplies, they slowly learn a terrible secret about the government just across their own border. Their lives depend on separating friend from foe and discovering the limits of their own endurance. Can they figure out not only how to survive, but also how to become agents of change in a brutal society that the world has left behind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Nov 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888601389

Book preview

1

THORN

Here’s one delusion: that we can escape slavery. We can’t. Its scars will never fade.

Colson Whitehead, The Underground Railroad

The tourist obviously hadn’t been through too many checkpoints.

The red badges had set up their tables on the corner of Water and Whitehall, just a block from the war memorials along Minuit Plaza, and stretched rolls of razor wire right out into the street. They’d been there a lot lately. Whether it was because there was some real threat to the tourist area, or a perceived threat to the Citadel that loomed over the smaller buildings in the Battery, Delilah Thorn did not know. It could all be for show. There was nothing wrong with that. It helped to remind people that the city was on alert. It was always on alert. Being on alert was good. Being alert was safe.

Up at the front of the line, a couple of speakers had been planted on tripods to either side of the checkpoint and a recording repeated a greeting that included the words For your own security and Please surrender all… but most of the message was lost in the background noise of the city’s rush hour. It didn’t matter. Everyone understood the drill: be quiet, open your bags, wait your turn.

That is, everyone but the tourist. Thorn could see the woman was going to be a problem even before she stepped out of line. She kept fidgeting. Kept craning her neck, trying to see past the guards. Kept lifting her wrist to check the time.

And eventually the woman did it. She stepped right out, strode briskly past the older man in front of her, and approached the checkpoint as if she owned it.

Thorn groaned and shook her head. Normally, she would have merely been amused by what came next—the tourist agency the woman had used should have done a better job briefing their client on how to cooperate with Aegis checkpoints—but tensions had been high this week and no one quite knew why. Security was tighter than ever, and that was saying something. Thorn couldn’t afford delays.

The tourist had not taken three steps before one of the guards was moving her way. The hard, metallic clack of his rifle bolt being slapped into place was clearly audible above the scratchy drone of the unintelligible recording. Even the tourist could not miss the meaning of that sound. She stopped, still a dozen feet short of the wire barrier and the agents at the table, both of whom paused their current searches and let their hands hover near the pistols on their belts.

The tourist took a step back. Then looked at the line, as if she were thinking of getting back in. The other people studiously did not look back. The red-badged guard came up at a trot, his rifle held firmly against his shoulder. Rank and number, he demanded.

The woman looked at him blankly. What? I—

Rank and number!

Thorn sighed and stepped out of line. Immediately, the rifle turned her way, but she had already pulled her badge case from the top pocket of her overcoat. She flipped it open now, angling the silver oval with the single slashing black stripe so that both the red badge and the other people waiting in line could see. A man ahead of her started to look angry as she passed him by, but when Thorn looked his way, the man pressed his lips together, lowered his eyes, and let her pass without comment.

Problem, solider? she asked pleasantly as she neared the guard and the suddenly frozen woman.

The guard was young, and his flat sided helmet rode so low on his skull that the brim threatened to block his sight. He drew himself up and nodded at Thorn. Supervisor, he said. She stepped out of line.

Thorn nodded back at him. Yes, I saw.

The tourist, whose muddy brown hair was cut in a severe bob that only accentuated her gangly features, stared at Thorn, then at the soldier, then back at Thorn. Her eyes looked up at Thorn’s badge but she clearly didn’t have a clue where this combination of silver and black fell in the complex strata of Union officials. Or, more likely, she didn’t care. Thorn didn’t give a lot of thought to other countries’ security processes, knowing only that they weren’t nearly as thorough as the Union’s. But she knew it was rare for tourists to be familiar with U.S. security institutions and procedures.

I have a friend inside, the tourist said before anyone could ask. And…I have a pass! She raised her small purse, which caused the rifle to again swing toward her head. Thorn waved the soldier off as the woman fumbled inside the leather bag to produce a thick plastic coin.

Thorn took the little disk from the woman’s fingers and flipped it back and forth in her hand. It was about the size of a quarter, bright yellow, and coded with both the date and the bunched M and P logo that indicated it was good for the public areas of the plaza. It looked genuine, and probably was. The fact that some terrorist groups had managed to counterfeit these wasn’t common knowledge, and the counterfeiting was difficult. There was almost no chance this woman had a bad disk, or had anything untoward in mind.

But almost no chance was not the same as no chance at all. Security was a serious business. Absolutely serious, as her boss liked to say. Safety was what the Union did best.

Where did you buy this? asked Thorn, wondering now how late this was going to make her. She had, of course, left her home in time to accommodate at least one or two checkpoints along the way, but she hadn’t planned for this tourist.

The Intertourist kiosk in Times Square, said the woman. Producing the pass had apparently restored her confidence. She raised her chin and looked at Thorn down the considerable length of her nose. Really, is this how you treat visitors to your country? It’s appalling.

Visitors are treated with the same respect with which they treat our procedures, said Thorn smoothly. She handed the disk to the soldier. Please take this woman to Hanover station and…discuss her itinerary in our city.

The red badge flipped his hand up in a palm-out salute, then slung his rifle over one shoulder and began to drag the woman by the collar of her wool coat.

Enjoy your stay in New York, Thorn called after them. She walked back and resumed her place in line. She could have gone to the front; no one would have confronted a silver badge after she’d helped the reds handle the situation, but she was no line-jumper.

Please surrender all… said the recording. The line shuffled forward.

When she reached the wire and the table, the red badge checked Thorn’s badge and identification papers, surveyed the contents of her bag, and patted down the pockets of her long coat.

Safety first. That was the motto of the badges, no matter the color. The United States would protect its citizens to the best of its ability. There was no room for error or cutting corners. Everything was secure, or nothing was.

Past the barrier, Thorn crossed Minuit with only a glance toward the plaza and the brooding marble sepulcher where the marble shape of Weeping Lincoln waited in the shadows. Then it was down one of the many narrow paths that cut across Battery Park to where the Citadel loomed up against the ocean beyond.

Thorn never tired of looking at it, a tall spike of glass and steel that pointed toward the sky. It was taller than anything else in the city; you could see it from almost anywhere in the five boroughs if the atmosphere were smog-free.

The Citadel’s lobby was a huge atrium, five stories tall, all stainless steel and glass. The only color in the Citadel itself came from the huge flag hanging from the ceiling. The thirteen red and white stripes, the blue field sporting one brilliant white star for each of the twenty-nine states. No matter how many times she looked at it, Thorn felt a lump in her throat when she thought of what that flag represented. It was Valley Forge and Antietam. It was the Great War. It was Union.

As she got in line and waited her turn for building security, she glimpsed the clock in the lobby and sighed. Already five minutes late.

Tourists.

Thorn sat down at her desk and logged in to her account. Normally, she’d grab a coffee but she needed to get started on the backlog of video she had to go through since several of her co-workers were either on vacation or had been transferred to other departments. Now she had several jobs to do and only one shift to do them in. Coffee would have to wait a few minutes, but then she’d be free to grab a cup. She could already smell it; her mouth watered in anticipation. Working in the Citadel might not be as luxurious as it looked in the recruiting ads, but the purchasing department did stock excellent coffee in the break rooms.

But first, she needed to cut down what was in her inbox, at least a little, and get some time logged in to the system.

Every day, Thorn watched video of various checkpoints, looking at body language or actual actions to determine if someone required further scrutiny. If she flagged someone, a second set of watchers on the next floor up from hers would take a closer look. Non-Americans often required special surveillance since their body language didn’t always match up to what Thorn and her compatriots were looking for. But then, foreigners were always due more scrutiny in any case.

It was Thorn’s job to try to catch the smaller fish. Con men, grifters, the occasional thief. With only one black stripe on her silver badge, she might rate the title Supervisor, but she was still very low on the chain of command within the Citadel itself. To get two stripes, she’d need to increase her skill set or get phenomenally lucky and flag someone who turned out to be a true national-level threat.

Luck was not something Thorn preferred to count on. For that reason, she’d been studying accents and working to improve her knowledge of lip-reading and body language so that she could pass the test and become Senior Supervisor and have that second black stripe. She was already nearly perfect in New England regional accents and proficient in Midwestern accents. But she hadn’t even started studying the regional differences in the far western states of Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakotas yet.

The next test was only two months away; she hoped she’d be able to study enough in that time to pass. Otherwise, she’d have to wait until next summer when the next series of exams were scheduled.

Supervisor Thorn, said a clipped voice from behind her. A Connecticut native for sure.

Yes? Thorn turned around to see a tall woman, hair tightly pulled back away from her face, wearing a blue badge edged in gold. One of the Undersecretary’s own personal staff. Thorn sat up straighter, heart pounding. The Undersecretary’s staff wouldn’t care about her one-time lack of punctuality. This had to be about something far more important. Ma’am?

You have an appointment with Director Kavanaugh, said the woman.

I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware, said Thorn, palms sweating. Could she have forgotten such an important meeting? That seemed unlikely, but then, so did the presence of a member of the Undersecretary’s staff at her desk.

The meeting was just scheduled. I was sent to fetch you. The disdain in the woman’s voice clearly indicated how she felt about being sent on a mission to fetch a silver badge.

Oh. Of course. I’m at the Director’s disposal. Thorn felt like a babbling idiot, but she’d never been summoned to an ad hoc meeting before. She grabbed a notepad.

You don’t need to bring anything, said the woman. This meeting is classified.

Classified? Another kind of meeting Thorn had never been part of. Now she felt sweat trickling down her back despite the chill in the perfectly air conditioned atmosphere of the Citadel. Secure meetings, sure, because every meeting in the Citadel rated that. But classified was another layer of secrecy altogether.

Thorn nodded and got up, at a loss for words. The man at the desk next to hers gave her a brief sideways glance but then was right back to watching videos on his own monitor. Thorn was headed toward a meeting that would likely make or break her career in video surveillance, and none of her coworkers would want to draw attention to themselves if it turned out to be the latter. Being noticed by the people on the top floor wasn’t always a good thing.

Thorn followed the woman to the elevators and stood as calmly as she could while the woman used a key to access one of the building’s highest levels. Thorn worked on Floor 23; the ride to the top tier of the building was the longest elevator trip of her life.

By the time the doors opened, Thorn’s knees were shaking. She only hoped she could hold herself together for the length of the meeting. What could Director Kavanaugh possibly want to talk to her about? She hadn’t flagged anyone terribly suspicious in months, and the only true criminal she’d ever discovered had turned out to be a runaway husband from Italy who was wanted for lack of child support payments.

Thorn walked on the plush robin’s egg blue carpet, noting how every surface on this level was soft and comforting, from the carpet, to the textured wallpaper and the cloth-covered cubicle walls. A hush lay over the entire floor, even though Thorn could see, over the half-walls of the cubes, the tops of dozens of heads bent over their tasks. She thought about the old adage about being able to hear a pin drop, which she could have done, providing one could find a hard surface to drop the pin onto.

Her escort finally stopped at a dark paneled door and knocked very softly. After only a moment, she opened the door and gestured for Thorn to enter. Thorn walked through briskly—no point in showing any nervousness now—and was disquieted to find herself the only one in the room.

The Director will be here shortly, the woman announced in a properly modulated, almost silent voice before closing the door.

Thorn glanced at the long wooden table in the center of the room. It could seat at least twenty and matched the room’s trim and the door. The walls were the same light blue as the carpet. Would there be a meeting in here with twenty people? Just what was Thorn in for?

The door opened and Thorn turned back to see who was joining her. A man sauntered in, clad in dark blue jeans and a denim jacket. His short black hair matched his dark eyes. But what really grabbed Thorn’s attention was his badge.

He wasn’t wearing one.

How did you get in here? she asked as the man sat down.

He shrugged. They’ll let anybody in these days. His voice was low and oddly accented, but Thorn was too concerned by his lack of a badge to worry about that at the moment. How could anyone be anywhere near the Undersecretary and his staff, such as Director Kavanaugh—hell, how could anybody be inside the Citadel itself—and not have a badge?

Where are you from? she asked.

I’m from Illinois, he said.

She’d meant what department are you from, but the man had either misunderstood or had decided not to answer her true question. And his answer had been a lie. That accent…she didn’t know what it was, but it was most definitely not any part of Illinois with which she was most familiar from her study materials.

Still, she’d had studied some. Assuming he wasn’t simply lying, Thorn guessed the man was from somewhere Downstate. Somewhere near enough to the Occupied Territories of Kentucky and Tennessee to have tinged his speech.

Thorn relaxed slightly. The Undersecretary of Occupied Territorial Affairs and the directors, like Kavanaugh, who were underneath him would obviously would have agents from the borderlands. That didn’t explain the lack of a badge inside the Citadel, but it gave Thorn some idea of why the man was here. Something had to be up in Tennessee or Kentucky. The big question was, what did it have to do with Thorn?

Delilah Thorn, she said.

The man nodded. Thorn waited a few moments for a reply, but the man merely glanced at the view of the New York City skyline beyond the windows of the room.

Thorn gritted her teeth together and refused to ask the man his name, as he so clearly was trying to rile her. Instead, she walked to the window and looked down over the shorter buildings nearby to the spires of Trinity Church and the ordered blocks beyond. Near the old City Hall, some massive and disorderly neo-classical behemoth was being leveled to make space for a series of strong, standardized and efficient steel cubes. Truly, the capital of the United States was an awe-inspiring city.

Thorn had visited Washington D. C. once, on a research trip to examine some notes still residing in the old Library of Congress. She had found the whole place sad. The dome of the old Capitol Building, still incomplete after a hundred and sixty years, was edged with an ugly mix of soot and lichens. So many buildings were cracked and spalled. So many windows boarded or dark.

After the war, when the Union and the Confederacy had gone their separate ways, Washington had still been the capital. But leaving the Union capital there, on the banks of the Potomac, in range of the increasingly powerful artillery installations dug into the hills around Arlington, had seemed foolish. For a few years, while the issue was debated, President McClellan had run the nation from the same Philadelphia halls where the United States had been founded. But in the end, Congress had decided on New York.

Thorn was very glad of the choice. The rows of gleaming new buildings, the long avenues lined with steel. The flags that hung from poles at the beginning, middle, and end of each block until they seemed to form a continuous stream of waving colors. The city was strong and modern and displayed an authentic patriotism that filled any citizen with joy at the sight.

It was hard to understand patriotism sometimes. The emotions, the thoughts, the swelling of pride. The sense of being an important part of something greater than yourself. I am part of the Union. I am the Union.

Thorn raised her chin and looked far to the south. She couldn’t see more than few blocks, of course—the brown fog off the Brooklyn generating plants made sure of that. But she could still imagine that down there, past the Bay and Staten Island, past Philadelphia and Baltimore, was the Eastern Confederacy, which had recently changed its name to The Free States of America, usually now called the FSA. Farther west was the rest of the Confederacy, still sometimes referred to as the West. And beyond that, the Indian Territories, Texas, Mexico, the Mormon state of Deseret, and the Pacific Coast which the Japanese Empire ruled. Thorn wondered sometimes what would have happened if the Union had managed to stay together, if McClellan had lost the 1864 presidential election to Lincoln, and Lincoln had won the war. Perhaps the Union would stretch all the way to the Pacific.

Or perhaps not. It was pointless to wonder.

The door opened. Thorn