“The problem is the plastics,” Ridvan said. He sat back in his chair, now set up near the fireplace.

Benjamin folded the leather case over his chimney cleaning tools with thick, soot-covered fingers. He looped straps around the buttons, his face tight.

“Plastics, Jeddy?”

The old man sighed and waved his hand in the air.

“That’s going to get tiring,” he said. “When you and I are alone, you needn’t call me Jeddy.”

The boy swallowed and stared at his toolcase.

“What should I call you?”

“Nothing at all.”

Benjamin looked up. The old man was smiling through his gray mane.

“Just say what’s on your mind. It’s for your mind that I chose you.”

The boy blushed and slid his toolcase aside, toward the empty fireplace.

“Should we call the maids to light it?”

“It’s warm today,” Ridvan said, nodding toward the bright light from the windows beyond the leading couple’s chairs.

“And Alexandra can’t save you.”

They shared a chuckle. The boy shrugged.

“So what are plastics?”

Ridvan sat back in his chair again.

“When radio was first discovered,” the old man said, “the stuff it was made of was very simple.”

Benjamin nodded. “Old stuff that the Package didn’t eat.”

“Old stuff the Package doesn’t eat,” Ridvan said. “The Package bugs are still alive in some places, eating their way through the garbage of the United Times.”

The boy pushed himself backward with his boots and leaned against the fireplace.

“That’s good, though, right? They keep us from being poisoned.”

Ridvan nodded.

“But, they also keep us from enjoying the wonders of the United Times.”

“Radio,” Benjamin said. “Talking through the air.”

The old man nodded.

“But,” he lifted a finger, “it can be done. It was done. When radio was first invented it was done without plastics and rare metals.”

Benjamin shook his head.

“Why don’t the nerds just read the old books about it?”

Ridvan cleared his throat. “Almost all of the books only talk about the later times, when radio was done with garbage stuff.”

Benjamin looked down. The old man stood from his chair and walked over to the doorway, staring toward the northwest.

“There are nerds,” Ridvan said, “scientists, who dig through old books for the earliest knowledge. Hints here and there.”

The old man’s shoulder sank.

“But, so many books were lost during the Starving Time.”

“Nerds,” Benjamin said. “I mean, scientists where, Jeddy?”

The old man turned and waved toward the southeast windows.

“Oh, in all the free lands. From Louisa to Columbia. From here to Tidewater.”

Ridvan pointed back through the doorway, toward the northwest.

“But, the scientist who seeks it most eagerly, who gathers the most books on radio? He’s not of the free lands.”

Benjamin sat up.

Ridvan shook his gray mane. “He’s not even human.”

“Cumber Six,” the boy said. “From Harun’s report.”

Ridvan grinned and pointed at Benjamin.

“You’re a good listener.” He walked to the fireplace and knelt before the boy. “So listen to me now.”

Benjamin brushed his unkempt hair back with a dirty hand and nodded.

“Cumber Six is an old ramkin,” Ridvan said, his gray eyes steady and dark. “He remembers the United Times, as I do. He was among the second generation of genetics.”

The boy blinked.

“Does he really have horns?”

“And hooves,” the old man said. “People were playing with their bodies in the years before the Package. Some of them, like the wild folk, trying to recapture some animal nature. Others, just cosmetic. Like Alexandra’s ancestors.”

Benjamin nodded.

“Her white hair.”

Ridvan put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Yes. And maybe her smarts. Her aunt Kath has some of that in her, but mixed.”

“So,” Benjamin said, “if they’re genetics and Cumber Six is a genetic—”

“No.”

The old man pulled his hand away and turned to the northwest door.

“No. The cosmetics were just trying to dress up. The wild folk were declaring themselves apart. No longer human. They have no loyalty to us.”

Benjamin rubbed his hands together, thinking. Ridvan turned back to him.

“The wild folk are disorganized, unlike the Union. But the Union are humans. Even though they seek to drive us apart by race, and sex, and religion, and—”

He waved the thought away.

“By anything they can think of. Turn the free landers against each other so they can take us over. But, the wild folk are just against us all.”

Benjamin dragged his toolcase toward him. His face was slack in thought.

“Harun said Cumber Six was trying to maintain the truce.”

Ridvan glared at the boy.

“By murdering king’s men, humans, and putting their heads on poles.”

Benjamin frowned and nodded.

“If Cumber Six gets radio,” he said, “he would use it against all of us.”

Ridvan put a hand on the boy’s shoulder again.

“He would link up with wild folk in the swamps in Tidewater, and the coastal marshes on the Eastern Shore, and the woodlands above Nova and Columbia.”

Benjamin sighed.

The sound of a bell rang through the Fort. The watch bell. Driven by Benjamin’s clockworks. It rang again, then again. Three o’clock.

A man in a mustard uniform stepped into the room, came to attention, and slammed the butt of his long gun on the floor.

“May I help you?” said Jeddy Ridvan.

“Jeddy,” the guard said, “you have a meeting at three bells.”

Ridvan shook his head. “I did not—”

A woman walked in shedding a trail jacket. Underneath was a shirt decorated with gold and silver discs. A merchant, then. She casually handed the jacket to the guard, who sneered at her, but took it.

“That’s not exactly what I told him,” she said. “I told him I was here to see you at three bells.”

The guard’s mouth dropped open. Ridvan waved him off. He snarled at the woman and marched out of the room.

“And so you are,” he said to her.

“My name is Angela Belle.”

“Of the Tidewater Belles?”

“Roanoke. No relation that I know of.”

Ridvan nodded. Few people knew the family history beyond the Starving Time.

“And, you’ve come from Roanoke to talk business.”

She nodded, blonde curls dancing on the shoulders of her gaudy shirt.

“I passed some carts of Shenandoah niter as I approached the fort.”

“Shenandoah.” Ridvan lowered his eyes. “You can tell.”

“Oh yes,” she nodded with a smile full of white, clean teeth. “Inferior stuff. Powder from those mines is a quarter weaker than powder made from the stuff down south.”

“That’s Kath’s niter,” Benjamin said.

“Kathleen Franklin?” Angela said, shaking her head. “She’s always trying to sell drama over quality. Doubtless, she’ll tell you how much trouble it was getting her goods out of the Kingdom, trying to tug up the price. So much easier to deal with Roanoke merchants for superior goods.”

“That itself,” said Ridvan, “sounds like drama.”

“That it does,” she admitted. “But, I’d be happy to subject my goods to your millers and gunners for a fair test. Some target practice?”

Ridvan looked at Benjamin, gauging whether he was taking it all in. The boy just blinked. Ridvan scowled at Belle.

“At a fair price, I’m sure.”

She waved her hands in the air and smiled.

“I’m not here to cheat you. A sample for the test, free of charge. And, as for the final sale, no matter who wins, let’s let Kath set the price. Whatever she’s asking for hers, you can have mine for. If mine’s proves better in a fair contest, you get a deal. If hers proves better, you avoided a loss.”

Ridvan lifted his bearded chin. That was either reckless confidence or a clever ploy. He would need to think on that later, in his room. For now, he was sure that a contest between merchants could only be a good thing. Orange would look prudent, but fair. And, the target practice would showcase the gunners of The Orange Company.

He rubbed his cheek, glancing up at Belle to give her the impression he was still debating her offer. In reality, he was calculating the after-effects. He waved her out of the room. She nodded and strutted away.

“Ben,” the old man said. “There’s a phrase from my childhood that you should learn, if you’re going to be moving in political circles.”

The boy sat back.

“Am I?”

Ridvan nodded apologetically.

“You already are.”

Benjamin cringed.

“The phrase is good press. It means that word will spread and cast Orange in a favorable light. Pitting merchants against each other may seem tough, but if it’s a fair contest it will also make us appear just.”

The boy nodded. Ridvan could see he was making clockwork of the politics.

“So,” the old man went on, “to make sure the word spreads, prominent figures should be in attendance during the contest.”

“At the range,” the boy said.

Ridvan nodded.

“Aadam and Huwaa’ of course.” He shrugged. “Myself.”

Ben nodded. Ridvan shrugged.

“General Weaver, the colonels who happen to be here now.”

“Colonel Culver is here,” the boy said.

The old man slapped Ben’s knee.

“But, whose section to conduct the test? Clearly one of Culver’s. His group maintaine the hostile border with Shenandoah.”

The boy shrugged, staring at the hardwood floor of the Meeting Room.

“Captain Harun,” he said, “is a true son of Orange.”

Ridvan chuckled and nodded.

“Benjamin Black. Your family have been here from the beginning as well.”

The boy shook his head.

“My father was from Fredericksburg. My mother was from Louisa.”

Ridvan leaned in.

“I knew your father and your mother. I know of their parents and their grandparents. We keep a lot of family records here in Orange. Did you know your mother’s grandfather and your father’s grandfather were brothers?”

Benjamin shook his head uncomfortably. Ridvan chuckled.

“Don’t worry. Your parents were third cousins. But, they both had Black blood. And those original Blacks? They were from the town of Orange, just down the road from here.”

The boy’s shoulders fell. Orange wasn’t what it used to be. Once the Truslows had moved their capital to Fort Jaliyl, the town had largely emptied out and gone to ruin. But it had once been a thriving town, even before the Starving Time.

“You,” Ridvan said, “are a true son of Orange. The Blacks trace their roots before the Package to Orange.”

Ben nodded, taking it in.

“What about the rest of them?”

Ridvan laughed out loud, shocking the boy.

“You did the math?”

“I had,” Ben said, “eight great-grandparents.”

“Yes,” the old man grinned.

“But, apparently, only fourteen great-great-grandparents. Not sixteen.”

Ridvan nodded.

“Assuming your great-great-grandma Black was faithful.”

The boy grimaced, not wanting to think about that.

“So, what about the six other great-grandparents?”

“Well,” Ridvan said. “Three were from Orange. Two of them, Mule Evans and Shimon Robinson, were Columbia. They fled south during the Starving Time. The last, Mariye Tate, was from what’s now Union land and fled north to Fredericksburg.”

“Huh,” Ben said. “I always thought my family was from conquered lands.”

“No,” Ridvan said. “Most of them were from Orange. The rest were drawn this way during the Starving Time. You, as much as Harun, are a true son of Orange.”

“Harun is a Truslow,” the boy said.

Ridvan nodded.

“He is. But, Orange is more than the Truslows. Orange is every man and woman who works through their day to make us a great land. They’re all Orange, even if their families aren’t from here.”