"Senator Clay's great Indenture Solution of 1849 was not really a compromise. At first denounced by Southrons as virtual Abolition -- Representative Davis of Mississippi called it 'the most damnable of Iniquities yet visited upon Southern honor' -- it was soon embraced by them, and left many in the North feeling cheated and abused. These ardent Abolitionists, however, were in a distinct minority; as President Webster signed the bill, he declared to an aide, 'As a Massachusetts man, I am reluctant; as a Union man, I rejoice.'

"Perhaps an even more profound impact of the Solution was that it provided the American government's greatest real act of social engineering. Not only did it resolve a crisis that might well have torn the Union apart within a decade; it completely disarmed Abolitionism, which was not to resurface as a meaningful part of American society for well over a century, and not to achieve its final triumph, of course, for considerably longer.

"There were those Southrons who understood, even in victory, that Clay's great compromise could not be a truly lasting solution. In a more reflective moment, Davis wrote in his journal, 'I fear we have caged the tiger, not killed it. The Quakers and their kind speak mildly, but the beast behind their words is a strong and hungry one, and may well grow, not weaker, but more ferocious for every day it is confined ...'"

-- James M. McPherson,
Heralding the Storm: The
Historical Roots of the
Second Great War
(University of Angel
City Press, 1998)

The two were out of place in the dancehall, two well-fed, well-dressed, relatively light-skinned men in their thirties near the back of a press of thin, dark, whirling figures in brightly colored rags. King lit a cigarette and watched the singer, an emaciated dervish with the skin of a new-caught and cheekbones sharp enough to cut and an almost ridiculously deep, full voice: "And does it feel like eight-teen-for-ty-nine ..."

"Well, you know, he's right," Evers said in a voice that would have been a shout outside but that reached his companion's ears like quiet conversation.

"And he has a sense of history," the other replied. "Let's go outside."

They left through the tiny inner door and ascended the cramped staircase to emerge in the muggy heat of a Washington summer night. As soon as the outer door shut behind them, the music which had been blaring inside disappeared except for an elusive sensation, as much felt as heard, of booming drums. They probably would not have been aware of that much had their ears not become accustomed to hearing it inside.

King looked down Pennsylvania Avenue, his eyes traveling the length from this district of tenements and tiny shops and underground nightclubs essentially unchanged since their speakfree days, past the point where the slums gave way to houses and the shops became more prosperous, to the government buildings and monuments and at last at the Capitol dome rising above the city. In the other direction, by a slightly more convoluted route, he could have seen the same thing happening as the street approached the White House. He flipped his cigarette into the gutter. "You think Bobby will make a difference?"

Evers laughed. "Bobby -- if he's elected -- will make pretty speeches and perhaps, given the years, stack the Supreme Court; maybe our children will know the difference." He shrugged. "If I'm qualified to speak on that," he added. He was light enough to pass in this part of the country, had done so for six years in the Army and another ten in the Byzantine civil service of the State Department; memories of too much time in Mississippi, listening to old family stories, were what had pushed him into this path.

"Not really," King said without malice. He was more clearly marked with his heritage, and had had a more difficult time. A free black had more opportunities in Washington and Maryland than almost anywhere else in the country, but also faced more hazards, from loss of business and police harassment by daylight to lynching and fiery crucifixion by night. "But what the hell."

They stood for a moment, watching the pedestrians and occasional auto pass them by. At two in the morning, the Avenue was as quiet as it would ever be; but this city simply did not shut down.

"There's promise in those kids," Evers said finally.

"Mm-hmm, but promise isn't enough," answered King. "There was promise in us, in our parents and grandparents and all the way back." His tone was as much wistful as it was bitter. "And we have to face the fact that it takes time to build."

In a kind of aside, he added, "My daddy wanted me to be a preacher, I ever told you that? He said all things can be done by a man of God." He coughed. "Well."

There was another quiet moment, then he said, "Generals. How long were you in the Army?"

"Six years. Made it to Captain, didn't think I'd go much further." And I was afraid someone might look at my family records too hard; but that didn't need to be said.

"What about the ones who do? Not," he looked away, "not the ones who have something to hide -- but white kids, Privates and Lieutenants, who know how to keep their ideals hidden under their ambition. And think about where they'll be in twenty, thirty years."

"Ah ..." Evers looked up at his companion, looking hard at his face and thinking about how easy it was for dreamers to dream about fields of endeavor in which they had no practical knowledge. But it could be done. He's right. It could be done.

"I can ask," he said at last, carefully. "State will send me to the right places, if I ask right. The big overseas postings like the Suez force, and the Philippines. And I have friends." He spread his hands. "You can work here; I can give you names before I leave."

For just a moment, he was caught by the vision his friend's words had created, a subtle network of conspirators bound by the ideal for which they were supposed to have given their oaths. The two of them would be old, perhaps dead, when anything came of it, if it ever did. But it would give them a goal, and hope.

"Yes, I think so," he said at last, and they started down the street.

They came down from the mountains on customized Indians, big hardtails with high monkey bars and long front forks and lovingly chopped and channeled engines. They rode under a full moon almost painfully sharp-edged in the Colorado night air, that turned the fields surrounding them into unreal silver seas.

The light made them seem vengeful ghosts, gasoline-powered riders of the Apocalypse. This impression (had any been awake to have it) would not have been far wrong.

They were a crew of thirteen blacks, mulattoes, and quadroons, of mixed ages, though none were in any meaningful sense young. All with the same grim faces, and, an astute watcher might note, all very attractive in their own styles, despite their obvious marks of hardship.

All wore their left hands covered, though many had no gloves on their right; no observer would have had to think very hard to understand the meaning of this.

They were fourteen, then, who rode across the farms of Green Mountain on their way to Denver, and Hell followed with them.

"Your honor, I must object!"

The judge smiled in much the same way as a cat does when it watches a fat pigeon. "Must you?"

Ephesus Marten forced his jaw muscles to unclench. Shouting now would surely lose him the case; reason might be perilously close to useless in Judge Henderson's courtroom, but anger would be much worse. "Your honor, in Miranda the Supreme Court clearly stated that the children of indentured mothers and free fathers are granted the same protections as freeborn citizens in the case of arrest."

In the defendant's chair, Peter sat staring straight ahead, looking toward but not at Timothy Allen, the plaintiff. Since Peter had no last name, the case was necessarily known as Allen v. Peter.

"Your honor," said Hebel from the other side of the courtroom, "this indie's paternity is far from established; nor has Mr. Marten brought any evidence before the court pertaining to it."

Peter's skin was a medium brown, while Allen's was tanned but naturally very pale. Despite this, no one looking at the two of them could have much doubt of their relation. Allen was forty-nine, Peter seventeen.

"Exactly right, Mr. Hebel," said Henderson, smiling still wider.

"Overruled. You do remember the details of your Colorado bar exam, don't you, Mr. Marten?"

Marten shut his eyes and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Please give the court a verbal answer, Mr. Marten," purred the judge.

Colorado law was very specific about indenture. Although it contained strict prohibitions against physical abuse -- much stricter than those found in Oklahoma, from which State the pair had come six months ago -- it was far from kind to those "indies" who attempted to use such abuse as a justification for trying to escape their obligations.

"Yes," said Marten in a voice barely above a whisper, "I do, your honor."

"Please recite the appropriate passages." Henderson's powerful voice, the voice that had gained him election and three re-elections to the head of the Denver County Court, boomed out through the courtroom.

Tears began to glimmer in the corners of Peter's eyes.

Marten opened his eyes and stood at attention, the way he had when he was a Lieutenant-to-be in Officer's Basic School, before law school, before being shipped off to the Suez and losing his foot. "'Evidence referred to in any statement before the Court must be given before that same Court in that trial in which it is mentioned in that statement, or such evidence shall be moot. Said statement shall be stricken from the record and removed from consideration as pertaining to the outcome of this trial.'"

Henderson nodded. "Exactly. Let the record show --"

A young man whose life since puberty has been spent pitching hay can move heavy objects very fast. Peter lifted his solid oak chair over his head before the bailiff even began to move, and by the time the bailiff's gun was clear of its holster, the chair had flown ten feet across the courtroom and bounced off Timothy Allen's skull.

Patricia Allen's scream from the observer's gallery at seeing her husband laid out on the floor, his skull cracked open, was drowned by the roar of the bailiff's Colt. The heavy bullets threw Peter at Ephesus' feet -- or, rather, at his foot, and at the base of his metal stump.

Ephesus looked at the corpse, and almost wished, for a little while, he could go back to the Suez. Things there had, at least, made a sort of sense.

The big Air Corps transport, a Ford Quadmotor known to the brass as the C.19 and everyone else as the Mule, had come in perfectly as far as Bear Creek. Yes, they'd wirelessed to Tower that they were having trouble with the portside engines, had even had to feather the outer prop and were maybe minutes from having to do the same to the inner; but Mules were legendary for their toughness and stability, and last year that cowboy Henke had brought one in on one engine, the outer starboard at that, just to show it could be done.

They'd been crossing the creek when the fire started, and what hit the Fort Logan flightline wasn't really an aircraft, just a collection of metal and incredibly volatile fuel and human flesh, all of it moving very fast.

Paul Nokia tried to choke down his vomit as he stepped into the fuselage. The fire crews said it was safe, and so it was time for the medics to go to work. Paul thought privately that it was more a job for Services section -- not even the morgue personnel, but maybe the cooks.

If he filtered through the smells of oil and hot metal, what remained was a stink identical to that of a pork roast left far too long in the oven.

He hardly needed to look toward the tail. The fire had been worst there, cooking through the metal of the fuselage in some places; not only flesh but some of the smaller bones had become ash. Over the wing, bodies were still recognizable as such -- and that was where most of the smell was coming from -- but they were, at least, unquestionably dead. And the pilot's cabin had simply been crushed.

That left the front of the passenger compartment, where things that had once been men breathed and writhed and sometimes tried to speak.

"Oh my sweet Lord," Culligan said behind him.

"Not really," Paul said, not taking his eyes from the slowly moving forms. "Not really at all ... Get me some cotton blankets in saline, and tell 'em to double the crackerboxes, please. I don't think we'll be able to move more than one in each ambulance." He was proud of himself, of how he kept his voice from cracking.

"But we counted on four, sweet Mary ..."

Paul whirled and faced Culligan. Both were tall men, but Culligan was much bigger, at least sixteen stone to Paul's thirteen-and-three. The Irishman might be able to take him, if it came to that -- and it often enough did, even in today's Army. And if they went by the book, Culligan was supposed to be giving the orders anyway ... but Paul seemed to swell, filling the narrow cabin, and the combination of pain and anger in his face made Sergeant Sean Patrick Culligan, who very rarely in his twenty-seven years had backed down from anyone, take three involuntary steps toward the door.

"There were ninety-seven men in this aircraft, Sean," Paul said, his voice shaking just a bit. "Now there are maybe a score, and seventy-odd corpses. And unless you just want more bodies to haul away --" his voice rose suddenly to a roar "-- do what I say, you fucking Paddy!"

Sean almost laid him out then, damn the wounded -- but they were both medics, and there were too many here who could slip into the grave as the result of a minute's more delay. He ducked out of the craft.

Paul started doing what he could, which wasn't much. Triage is a hellish business, apt to put more fear and revulsion into a rescuer than actually working on any individual victim, no matter how horrible that individual's wounds might be. In triage, the medic very simply decides who will die; this responsibility, which in the courts is given days of consideration by a judge and jury, is laid in triage upon one person, with minutes to decide. By the time the tags were passed out -- black for those who were doomed, yellow for the ones who could wait at least until the second wave of rescuers, and red for those who needed treatment now; the green ones in the triage pack, for the "walking wounded" who would need minimal treatment, had received no use at all -- the equipment and the rest of the medics had arrived.

The blankets, soaked with a saline solution that approximated the tonicity of blood, and warmed to a little above body temperature, were the most critical here. A severe burn victim goes on losing fluid through the wound, at a rate sufficient to cause death in a frighteningly short time. Paul poured another gallon or so of saline around his first patient before wrapping him in the blanket and trying to lift him; another critical problem in the care of burn victims is that burnt flesh sticks.

As Paul lifted him, the writhing patient gave one long exhalation that sounded almost like a snore, and then went completely limp. Paul shut his eyes for a moment, then set the body down as gently as he could, and went to the next one.

This one's arm came off in Paul's hands.

It went on like that, through the afternoon. They saved ten; three later died in the hospital, and none of those who lived would ever be anything like whole. Corporal Nokia received a recommendation for a medal, for his quick action at the accident scene; red-eyed and stinking, he went before the commander and asked that the recommendation be withdrawn. Colonel Parke, who preferred that his men think of him as a physician first and an officer second, nodded and complied. Paul's next act was to buy a bottle of very good Irish whiskey and take it to Sean's house with an apology. Sean took the gift in the spirit in which it was intended, and the two of them did an excellent job on the bottle before passing out.