~ Somewhere along the New Haven/Connecticut border, 5th of November 1931

The New Haven/United States border had been a low-key and friendly one for well over a century. The fourteenth colony had just never decided to join the other thirteen when the Articles of Confederation were tossed out. The major crossing points were properly controlled, of course, but there were numerous back roads that crossed the borders and only the locals were usually sure which side they were on at any given moment.

This changed when the Red Fists overthrew the elected government and started executing ‘Enemies of the People’. Connecticut and New York suddenly found themselves calling up their National Guard units and manning all of those back road crossings; Connecticut especially found themselves strapped for manpower and had requested help from Massachusetts and Rhode Island. Duncan and Sean found themselves breveted to Second Lieutenants and placed in charge of a short company manning one of those crossings.

"In that name of the People, hand over those bastards!" The ram was wearing only the approximation of a uniform, a leather jacket and peaked cap in obvious emulation of Trotsky's commissars. A revolver was jammed into his belt, along with a cosh. His "troops" wore no uniforms at all, clad in a mix of everyday working clothes with makeshift armbands. In their hands they held shotguns, no doubt "liberated" from the New Haven State Police armouries.

Duncan glanced over his shoulder at the scene. The first car was a wreck, the tires and radiator shot out and the windscreen shattered. The body of a wolf was slumped over the steering wheel. One of his passengers, a bear, was sprawled halfway out the door, a Tommy gun still grasped in his hands. The other three had survived the exchange and were currently under guard.

The second car had obeyed their order to stop and was currently parked at the side of the road, while the bus they’d been escorting was parked a little way beyond the border, currently under guard by three of their troopers. The local doctor, a kindly old squirrel, was attending to its passengers. Duncan knew many of them weren't Americans, but….

He turned to the ram. "What crimes have they committed?"

The ram glared up at Duncan. "I gave them fifteen years of my life in the factories, ever since I was a boy. And what happened? Lay off. No food. No medicine. No kids. And all the while they drank, fucked and bitched at each other." Rage boiled in the Commissar's eyes, and he gestured behind himself towards his followers. "We all got screwed. And those bastards are finally gonna get theirs."

Duncan frowned. His hands were still trembling with adrenaline, but he clasped them behind his back and squared his shoulders. "Bein’ a greedy shite is nae actually a crime, so no. There were women and children on that bus, an’ I’m not turnin’ them over tae the likes o’ ye."

There was a mutinous rumble from the rabble, and several brought their shotguns up to the waist, looking to the commissar for orders - but then the sound of safeties being released echoed from behind the young otter. Duncan gazed down at the ram, unflinching. "My men are in the houses, and in the treeline yonder. Don't even think aboot it. The refugees are on United States soil now. If they've done genuine crimes, apply tae the State Department fer extradition. Fer now, ye can get yer arses back tae yer side o’ the border."

With a huff and several hurled expletives, the ram and his crew turned and tramped back down the road.

Duncan muttered to Sean Junior as the rabbit emerged from his hiding place. “That was damn good shootin’, Junior.” He looked at the wrecked car, and the two bodies. “An’ thanks fer givin’ me that speech about proper channels.” He noticed his friend looking at the bodies. “...Don’t stare at ‘em. We told them tae stop, they opened up on us. It was their choice.”

“Hmm?” Sean Jr. looked momentarily puzzled at the comment. “Oh." His brow raised in understanding. "Oh, no, I'm fine. I’m just wondering if we need to let the police check it over first, or if we should just tell our people to clean it up.” He looked up as the rest of their paltry detachment emerged from the bushes - seventeen men of the Massachusetts State Guard, and five Connecticut state troopers. Duncan had found being in charge a daunting affair, and so had Junior. Sergeant Major Barrows, a bull elephant from Alabama who had fought with the 10th Cavalry in 1898, had been their saviour.

“Jis’ like I said, suh.” The old trooper shouldered his Krag-Jorgensen rifle and jerked a thumb at the car. “If we’d let fly when they came around that there corner, we’da missed, an’ they’da had that thar record-player on us like lightning." Unlike the bus, the car had been intent on running the barricade - given their armament, it seemed likely that they’d been wanted on both sides of the border and didn’t want to risk being stopped.

Duncan nodded briskly, doing his best to seem authoritative. "Thank ye for yer advice, Sergeant." When the other troopers were out of earshot, he leaned over and murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "How are we doin'?"

Barrows clapped his massive hands on their shoulders with the kind of paternal familiarity only a veteran senior sergeant could get away with. "Suhs, y'all is doin' jis’ fine. Better than many I seen before, Lord's truth. Y’all ask for advice an’ listen to it, y'all don’t assume ya know thangs ya don’t, and y'all ain’t got any of us killed yet."

The state troopers took the bodies from the car and searched them, before calling in a wrecker to have the remains taken to the police impound lot. One of them left to escort the bus to one of the regular border stations for proper processing. Sean watched them go. “And now we wait for the next crossing attempt. Although if the Kommisar sets up shop here permanently, I don’t think too many more will make it across the border here. Most Americans are heading to the controlled border crossings.”

“Aye, yer probably right about that. But I doubt that'll stop the refugees from comin' oer. I think the New Havenites are in for a very bad time of it." He shook his head grimly. "You want to write up the report on this?”

“No, but I’ve got better handwriting so I’ll do it anyway.”

The old noncom chuckled. “An’ tha’ss why I ain’t never tried to be no officer, suh. Y’all can keep the paperwork.”

Duncan couldn’t help but smile. "I don't think we'll get any more trouble, here. But we'll keep on guard just the same. If those eedjits try somethin', like a night time kidnapping, I mean tae give 'em hell." He glanced around. "An' keep a weather eye on the locals. I doubt they mean harm, but people talk to friends, and those friends talk tae theirs, and well…"

He shrugged as both Junior and the Sergeant gave him a questioning look. "Ye learn these things where I grew up."

Sean nodded, getting the implication. “Not all the Bolsheviks needs be on that side of the border, eh?”

~

It was a pair of proud young officers who arrived at the doorstep of the O'Leary residence on Sunday evening two weeks later. Both were still in khaki, with reserve commissions pending the results of their final examinations.

Duncan’s face lit up as he saw who answered the door. "Ma!"

Moiré Kholyawsky-Gunn embraced her son as tight as she could, as though he might vanish if she let go. "<My son.>" She whispered.

"<I have seen the papers. Mother, you were heroic.>" Duncan growled. "<If I meet with that bastard lawyer, I swear I shall break his legs for making you bare yourself before the court.>"

Moiré reached up to stroke his chin, a fearsome glint in her eyes. "<That is not needed, my son. The judge has done it himself, or as good as. They *are* bringing criminal charges now, if only for his attempts at perjury so far.>"

"<Mother…what does this mean for us? I do not want to leave Boston, but there is something in Canada that I wish.>"

Duncan was smiling, but there was a look in her eyes that made his grin fade. Moiré was not smiling back. She was gazing up at him with the kind of intensity usually reserved for when she suspected mischief. "<Duncan.>" The tone in her voice made both boys shudder. "<I think young Fleur has something to tell you.>"

"<Fleur is here?>" Urgency flared in his voice. "<Is she well? What has happened!?>"

His mother raised a placating hand. "<She is here and well, and awaiting you in the back parlor. Pay your respects to Teresa, and then attend your lover.>"

"<But what of father?>" And then her mother’s final word registered fully. <Lover…?>

"<Your father has visited your grandparents, and is with Elder Sean at the Minkerton offices. When he returns, and Fleur has had her words with you? Then we shall drink to your safe return. And, it may be, to other matters.>"

Moiré finally smiled, the tips of her fangs poking under her lip in a feral aspect. "<She is pretty, my son. I am proud that you were gentle with her.>"

Duncan flushed. Junior's sympathetic grin froze when the elder otter’s wintry gaze switched to him. "<And you, young man. I think your mother means to have words with you, too.>" She leaned in. "<A word of advice. Next time, change your bedsheets yourself.>"

The rabbit gave her a sickly grin in return. <Advice duly noted, ma’am.>

Duncan followed Moire and Junior to the back parlor, where two small yet strong arms wrapped around his waist.

“Duncan.” Fleur whispered. “I am so sorry… I…”

“Fleur.” Duncan took her by the shoulders, and sat himself down, nuzzling himself against her face. “What’s happened?” He brushed his nose against hers. “Fleur? Ye weren’t worried about me, were ye?” He sniffed, and froze. His eyes widened, and his nosepad paled. “Oh Christ… Fleur, are ye… Oh, Lord, ye are. Do yer parents know yet?” He reached down and gripped her hands in his.

Fleur whispered, fighting back tears. “Duncan, it is not your fault, it is mine, I should not ‘ave…”

“No.” Duncan snapped, with more vehemence than he intended. “Do not say that. I chose tae make love tae ye, too. We both chose tae do it, and I knew the risk. I’ll make this right, if ye’re willin’. Yer bairn will need his father.” He looked up at her, then got up from the chair and knelt down on one knee. Even kneeling, her shoulders barely cleared his head. He took her hand in both of his massive paws. “I said it then, and I meant it, but I’ll ask ye again here in front o’ everyone.”

Fleur turned. Teresa, Moire and Junior were watching from the doorway, at a respectful distance, while Grace hovered in the background.

“Will ye marry me?”

Fleur, by way of reply, practically jumped on him. She buried her head into his hair, mumbling indistinctly.

“Is that a yes?”

She sniffed, nodding quickly. “Oui.”

The otter hybrid put his head on her shoulder. “...Funny. Ne’ever thought I’d say that tae anyone. Much less hear someone say yes. Well, at least I know one thing now fer sure.”

“What?”

He grinned. “I really am my father’s son.”

Moire sputtered. “Why, ye wee…” She chuckled ruefully. “Aye. I guess ye are.”
Teresa just smiled. Junior grinned broadly, and clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “And let me be the first to offer my congratulations.”

“Aye.” Moire pulled out a bottle of whisky from a bag. “What?” She shrugged at Teresa’s raised eyebrow. “No Constitutional Amendments’ gunna stop me frae drinkin’ tae this. None fer ye, young lady, mind,” She gave Fleur a warning look. “I’m afraid ye’ll have tae keep off the stuff for a guid while.”

Fleur shrugged. “I do not really drink whisky anyway.” She put a hand to her lips. “Alzough I wish I could - I might need it to tell maman.”

Teresa frowned. “It’s not good for the baby, I’m thinking, any more than it’s good for children. And you should be setting her a good example, Duncan. But I certainly can understand the sentiment. Are your parents in town, Fleur, or did you come down on your own?”

“On my own. I told them I was going to see Lucille. Which, I suppose, is true.”

Teresa turned, very slowly and steadily, to face Junior. “Thank you for reminding me, Fleur.”

Duncan grinned, while Moire took a very unladylike swig from her whisky and sat down with a thump. All pretence of high-class was happily discarded as she slipped back into the manners of a Nova Scotian sea captain.

Sean squared his shoulders and braced for the incoming storm. “I didn’t really think you’d forgotten, Mother. I do thank you for not bringing this up while we were off doing our part with the New Haven crisis. Neither of us needed the distraction at that point.”

“It wasn’t for your benefit. And don’t ye go being all reasonable with me, y' young scamp! I expected better of the both of you, especially after what you did fer Grace!”

“Grace was acting under duress. Of course I wasn’t going to take advantage of her! Lucille started things of her own volition, and we’ve been friends for years. It’s not the same situation at all. I’ve made my confession and done the penance that Father MacRae gave me.”

“And if ya’d gotten her pregnant, like Duncan did?”

“Then we’d deal with it the same way Duncan and Fleur are.” His brow furrowed as he considered the idea. “Still might, actually. She’s smart, she’s fun, she’s Catholic…”

“She’s a wolf!”

“I noticed that, yes.”

“What is wrong with you today? You’re just brushing this off as if it was nothing! You committed a cardinal sin!”

“And a venal one, as well. We did use protection, after all. The good Father seemed more upset about that one, actually. An interesting reaction, I thought.”

“What??”

He sighed. “Mother, I’m sorry. But that wasn’t the only cardinal sin I’ve committed recently. We weren’t going to tell you this, but I think you need to know to understand. Not all of the border interactions were peaceful. I’ve been shot at in the past two weeks, and I may have killed. Hard to be sure which bullet was responsible, but I was certainly attempting to do just that. Against that? A friendly romp with Lucille does not weigh nearly as heavily on my soul.”

Teresa went silent, her eyes wide.

Duncan nodded grimly from the couch. “It’s true, Mrs O’Leary. We were at a border post near a town. Canny say where yet, its tae sensitive. But there was a car comin’ fer our barricade, an’ a bus not long behind it. I got out ontae the road and waved fer ‘em tae stop, but the car just sped up. The passenger in the front, he leaned out the window, and let fly at us wi’ a Tommy gun.”

Moire and Fleur both started. “Duncan,” Moire growled in Gaelic. “<You foolish boy, standing out in the open like that! You could’ve been killed!>” She seized her son and held him firm.

Fleur simply paled slightly and clutched onto her lover’s arm.

Duncan, fmuch ot his credit, did his best to ease them both. “I'm used tae it, ma, remember? The way that car was bumping, he was lucky he didnae shoot his own tires out first. And I dinnae just stand there once he pulled out the gun. I ducked fer cover, an' got me pistol out, and Junior, me, and the lads cut loose at the car an’ riddled it. Killed the driver an’ front passenger, wounded the three in the back.” He turned to Junior. “Did we ever found out who they were, ‘sactly?”

“Minor rumrunners. Apparently, the Red Fists are a bit puritanical along with all their other insanities and decided to crack down on it from their end. And of course, they’re wanted here as smugglers. I think they were hoping to get past the border and join up with their gang contacts on this side.” He shook his head. “Typical Bolsheviks. They got support because of a lack of jobs, and the first thing they do is disrupt the tourist trade, one of the few sectors that *wasn’t* already depressed. I’m not even in college yet, and I know that’s a bad idea.”

A knock at the door signalled the return of Sean Senior and Marcus. Marcus paused at the doorway for the briefest of moments, eyes flicking from Teresa to Junior and back again. He said nothing however and strode into the room, clapping Duncan on the shoulder. “Ah, my boy." A chuckle grew in his beak. "You asked her?”

Fleur answered for him, grinning. “‘E did, and I said oui!”

The raven shook his son’s hand tightly. “My boy. I couldn’t be more proud of you. You did what… what I wish I had done in '13.”

Moire pulled him down onto the couch beside her. “Th’ only reason ye didn’t is because I was tae proud tae tell ye.” Marcus squeezed her hand gently.

Sean Sr. moved to speak quietly to his wife. “What’s wrong?”

“They were shot at!”

He looked up at his son, his gaze sharp. “What happened?”

Junior recounted the tale for the new arrivals. “Thompson guns sound scary, but they’ve got no accuracy at any kind of range, and that crowd just likes to scare people so they can get away. We weren’t in as much danger as it sounds. And in the end, we made it through with no casualties. Sergeant Major Barrows said we did a good job.”

"Aye. I'm just glad we didnae get intae a firefight wi' the eedjit Commissar that came after 'em. Him and his posse looked ready tae shoot anyone. Prolly would have, tae, if we hadn't had the advantage over 'em."

“He was a bit more serious. But I think he wasn’t ready to die for his cause, and he would’ve been the second casualty if he’d started something. If not the first. He was after the bus, though, not the ‘runners. As I understand it, there were a couple of cousins of the Stagg family on board.”

His father nodded. “Nasty business, all around. They’re starting show trials now on ridiculous charges, and murdering everyone they can catch even related to the former political leaders.”

Marcus concurred. "They're like millenarians. According to their doctrine, in order for the perfect society to be built, they have to start from scratch. Killing the old world to make way for the new. Madness."

Moiré scratched her chin thoughtfully. "It's the bairns and the like that I feel sorry fer. Preston Stagg, an' his ilk, though? They share a guid chunk of blame fer allowin' this tae happen in the first place. If they'd stopped squabbling after Nutella's murder, the Red Fists woulda been finished."

Junior shook his head. “It always seems to boil down to ‘we need to wreck the old system, because we’re not in charge.’ Citizen Commissar Sheep, our opposite number at our border station? He was angry that he’d lost his job. But he had no idea how to fix that beyond killing the people who’d fired him.”

“That’s what pain does tae some folk.” Duncan murmured. “It eats ‘em up. There was prolly a time when that man was a decent cove.”

Sean Sr. nodded. “Aye. Before he had misfortune. That’s what tests your character. And I’m thinking he failed that test.”

Fleur spoke up. "I 'eard Inspector Stagg was ze one who gave ze order to 'old fire."

Marcus shook his head sadly. "Franklin Stagg wasn’t a front line fighter in the War, he was an intelligence officer in the Air Corps. Nothing he saw in France would have prepared him for facing that mob. In a moment like that, you need men who'll kill without qualms."

Only Sean Sr. and Moiré saw his eyes flick over the young officers.

The elder rabbit shook his head. “I’m not sure that was the issue. He was acting as a police chief dispersing a mob before it turned into a riot. If he could have been sure of getting the ringleaders, he might have stopped the revolt, but otherwise? He just gives them martyrs, and things would have happened anyway, and the Fists could claim justification for rebelling against a brutal regime, not just a corrupt one.”

Duncan grunted. "No excuse fer inaction. When they came at the General Assembly, wi' guns in their hands and murder in their voices? Shooting was a gamble he needed tae take, and instead he bugged out when it counted. Innocent folk are dyin' because of that."

Sean Sr. sighed. “There are no easy answers. We won a Pyrrhic victory in 1918. The losers want revenge, and the ones who were on the sidelines smell blood. New Haven has fallen now. Let’s all pray that it doesn’t happen here.”


~

Part six of the Spontoonverse Saga, featuring characters created by me and  Kythra in  Heywulf's Spontoonverse. Inspector Stagg (mentioned), the odious Red Fists, and the Republic of New Haven, are the product of years of collaboration between Simon Barber,  EOCostello,  Walt46 and  marmelm.