With the San Diego arc now safely behind us, I went on a 4000-word tear this weekend, esp after Mass, when I was gifted the last few scenes. So, we find our characters a few hundred miles north in a town which anchors the DMZ between the Russians and Mexicans, policed by legionaries following a treaty forced on them by a Texan, Kali. God’s agent.

But immediately, they realized things are amiss. Graf and Pai try to play “nice” but are overtaken by events. Well, they are overtaken by someone. This is a 4-way political mess. I just hope there’s no killing in this arc.

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Redding, far to the north, was administered by the imperium.  It formed the main town at the southern edge of the DMZ between the Russian Empire and Mexico’s Special Region of Alta California.  Knowing they had neither reactionless motors nor fission and fusion weapons, the Mexicans quietly welcomed the separation the legionaries provided.  For now, the Russians were content to watch.  And wait.

“But that means we do not have to use subterfuge,” Pai explained, as she used her mind to guide their ship to a soft landing in a parking lot of the city’s center, just south of the Sacramento River.  “Caper is imperium property and I am potentially contentious as a Russian, but a few words from Aurie to the local prefect made sure there was no trouble.”

“How are your hands?” Graf asked, more to the point as he saw it.  She held them up for him to see.

“No infections.  They hurt but I simply ignore those signals.” She lowered them and beckoned him to the side hatch.  “There will be a tiny ceremony of greetings with the prefect, but I think we can duck out rather quickly.  You had nothing in the way of a breakfast so I’ll treat you to a nice lunch.  There’s a footbridge with a glass walkway we can look at after…oh dear!”

Stepping out behind her, Graf looked up at the oversized flag.  Not the Empress’ Standard or even the local cohorts, this was yellow with a green border.  And two blue angel wings in the middle of it.

“Here, too?” he asked.  “This is imperial territory.  How can Aurelia not know this?”

“We’re about to find out.  Get your game face on, husband,” she whispered as they walked to the small stage which had been erected to receive them.

Prefect Simmons said a few words to the tiny crowd, theirs was not a diplomatic mission, after all, before letting Graf speak, who did very little, excusing himself as not a subject of the Empress.  Pai pitched her voice to carry, first complimenting her husband, then Aurelia.  The latter with a pointed look over her shoulder at the yellow flag.  She said nothing about her nationality or her mother.

“Noticed that, did you?” Simmons coughed a little nervously, moving them off the stage.  The crowd broke up.  Only two of his, a man and woman, stayed close.  “We had a visitor some months ago.  She, has, ah, an interest in the lands here.”

“These are designated by treaty as policed by the imperium,” Pai instantly countered, “not Rus or Mex.  What outsider wants to interfere with a situation negotiated by God’s Agent, Kalí?”

There was a scuffing of boots on the ground behind them.  The prefect looked as if he wanted to run away.  Graf and Pai turned about.

Muddy green boots, too large for her feet.  Shorts that must be cold with the mountains just to their north.  A yellow rain jacket.  A cross, crucifix, and Rosary.  All under the battle rifle of a make Graf didn’t know on a tactical sling across her chest.  Some sort of walking stick was slung over her back.  She pushed her yellow hood back, exposing blue eyes, blue hair.

And a white halo.