“How much time is left?”

“Soon,” came the reply. “It will be ready soon.”

Since the establishment of its new dynasty, the Kingdom of Ireland had begun to operate as an entirely distinct entity from England. Basking in the joy of sovereignty reclaimed after centuries, the Irish confiscated lands from Protestant landlords and rebuilt the cathedrals that had long since fallen into ruin. While James I attempted to maintain some semblance of control through formal authority, the internal chaos gripping mainland Britain rendered him unable to intervene. If anything, his clumsy attempts at meddling only served to stoke the fires of Irish resentment.

Eoghan Mór Ó Néill, the progenitor of this independent Irish dynasty, was a man who understood the delicate geometry of power. He knew that Ireland, vastly outmatched in population and resources, could not afford to overstep. He pointedly withheld support from English Catholics and refrained from a total purge of Anglican practitioners. On several occasions, he even moved to suppress peasant riots intent on slaughter, drawing a hard line to ensure Ireland’s survival. He even trimmed his connections with Spain to the barest functional minimum.

To the Catholics remaining in England, Ireland was no longer the bastion of faith it once was. Yet, amidst the swirling political instability, the island remained an ideal staging ground for those wishing to move in the shadows. From there, the Papists crossed the narrow sea in small skiffs, slipping into Britain to raid settlements and incite insurrection. The western coast, particularly the area near Liverpool where the self-proclaimed Parliament had taken root, proved to be an irresistible target.

“Now,” a voice whispered.

Boom!

The moment the hooded Guy Fawkes gave a sharp nod, another government building in Lancashire erupted into flames. However, after enduring a relentless string of such terror attacks, the local response to the inferno was surprisingly swift. Watching from the darkness, the radical Papists clicked their tongues in annoyance before melting away into the night.

Initially, their offensive had been a sweeping success. Despite the length and relative stability of the late Queen’s reign, and despite the severity of the subsequent persecutions, Catholics still made up over twenty percent of the population in England and Wales. It hadn’t taken long for them to break their long silence and join the rising. They saw this as their final gambit; with Ireland free and the English throne’s legitimacy in limbo, it was now or never if they hoped to end the cycle of oppression.

As the secret societies intensified their campaign of terror, the state’s retaliation grew more draconian, which in turn radicalized the Catholic populace at an even faster rate. Guy Fawkes’ grand strategy seemed to be unfolding exactly as planned.

And yet…

“Damn it,” Fawkes hissed. “If only we had succeeded in killing James!”

The air grew heavy with the unspoken weight of that failure. Had they eliminated James and installed a Catholic monarch, they could have plunged the enemy into total disarray and sparked a true, full-scale civil war. But James had survived. He had executed the royals who conspired with the Catholics and responded to the treason with startling alacrity.

He knew exactly what needed to be done.

At that very moment, within the confines of the palace in Edinburgh, James was meeting with the one man he needed most.

“Cumberland, Westmoreland, Northumberland, Durham… and across the north and west of England, all the way into Wales.” James tapped the map spread across the table, his fingers dancing over the troubled regions. He looked up at his guest, who had been cautiously gauging the King’s mood.

“All of them,” the guest noted, “are regions where the Catholics have risen.”

“Indeed, Lord Protector,” James replied, his voice smooth. “We cannot simply stand by and watch these rebels tear our peace asunder, can we? They threaten the very tranquility of England.”

Robert Cromwell remained silent, watching the King.

“They should all be hanged,” James continued, offering a pleasant, almost grandfatherly smile. “No—drawing and quartering, followed by being burned alive, would be too merciful. That is the only end fit for those who defy the divine right of the Crown.”

Despite the bloodthirsty nature of the decree, Robert Cromwell didn’t so much as flinch. “You are correct. To deal with heretics who obey the Pope over the Lord, this nation’s legitimate sovereign—and the Parliament empowered by that sovereign—must act.”

The two men exchanged smiles, though the air between them was thick with unspoken daggers. James had essentially threatened to kill anyone who defied his authority, while Cromwell’s mention of “Parliament” was a pointed reminder that he considered the King a puppet who had been manipulated by Elizabeth. They both realized, however, that they were not opponents who could be bullied by mere posturing. Setting aside the petty power play, they returned to the matter at hand.

“Liverpool and the surrounding regions of Lancashire and Cheshire have always been Catholic strongholds,” James observed. “You chose a difficult place to build your nest.”

“It was where Her Majesty came to meet us,” Cromwell countered. “We had little choice in the matter.”

“Regardless,” James said, leaning forward, “my command is this: summon your forces immediately and deal with the rebels in Western England and Wales.”

Cromwell’s expression remained unreadable.

“My Lord High Admiral, the Duke of Lennox, is currently patrolling the western coasts of England and Wales, hunting for Catholic stragglers. Our navy will support you from the sea, while our army sweeps through the north. The chaos in Cumberland and Northumberland is already being suppressed as we speak. We shall march as far as Lancashire. What say you?”

Robert Cromwell closed his eyes, his mind working furiously. He’s got us, he realized.

Just as James had pointed out, Liverpool was currently a hornet’s nest of Catholic uprisings and terrorism. It was hardly an ideal environment for the Liverpool faction to consolidate their strength. In the meantime, James had moved with incredible speed, persuading the great Scottish nobles and already beginning his suppression campaign. By the time the Parliament’s army managed to restore order, James would already be marching south. He would reach Lancashire. He would be at Liverpool’s doorstep.

If that happened, the Liverpool faction would lose all leverage.

I thought it would take him much longer to win over the great nobles, Cromwell thought, begrudgingly impressed by the King’s political acumen. He shook his head and met James’s gaze. “Lancashire… we shall handle it. As loyal subjects of the Kingdom of England and servants of the Lord, we will drive out the heretics.”

He had no choice. Even if it meant exhausting the Parliament’s military capacity, he had to claim this task. They had to be the ones to pacify Lancashire; they could not afford to let James seize control of it. Cromwell waited, wondering what pound of flesh the King would demand in exchange for this concession.

“Very well,” James said.

“Pardon?” Cromwell blinked, taken aback.

“I accept your show of loyalty. I hereby command you to suppress the rebellion in Lancashire.”

The concession was far smoother than Cromwell had anticipated. He searched for the catch, but James merely stood up, preparing to end the meeting.

“Consider Lancashire… a gift,” James said.

As he turned away, a quiet smile played across the King’s lips. It didn’t matter. He held a monopoly on the massive shipments of food arriving from the New World; he could sway the hearts of the English people whenever he pleased. He had a dozen other moves he could make. There was no need to antagonize Liverpool just yet. He would savor the sweet candy that was England, dissolving it slowly, layer by layer.

Even as the meeting concluded, the Scottish forces were already marching south, advancing toward the Catholic fortresses. In response, the Catholic rebels took up arms, incinerating Protestant villages in their path. The religious war in England had begun in earnest. And as King James’s influence stretched southward, a different kind of expansion was occurring thousands of miles away.

Rattle, rattle, rattle…

“The porter has stopped!”

“Everyone, push! We’re almost at Shoshone territory!”

The reach of the Continental Covenant was expanding rapidly toward the Pacific.

***

The Shawnee people—or the Shaawana, as they called themselves—had never truly functioned as a single political entity. To them, the label “Shawnee” felt as foreign and distant as the word “Asian” might feel to a modern person. But history had shifted.

“If fifteen tribes join together, you get another bonus item!”

“Ooooh!”

History had shifted through the sheer, unstoppable power of multi-level marketing.

By integrating vast swaths of land spanning from Southern Ohio to what would one day be Indiana, Kentucky, and Missouri, they had formed a massive confederation. As the largest territorial entity within the modern Continental Covenant, they were now steadily drawing the southern Chickasaw and Illinois tribes into their orbit.

Of course, from their current position, the Pacific was still more than two thousand kilometers away. It was a distance that defied comprehension. Although roads were being built and canals were being dug, the sheer lack of population density in the interior of the Americas placed a hard limit on civil engineering. Progress was agonizingly slow. At this rate, I figured it would take a lifetime to reach the coast.

However, I looked around at our current surroundings. We were now beyond Shawnee territory—effectively outside the borders of the Covenant.

In the eastern coastal regions, people lived in wigwams—dome-shaped huts covered in bark. But here in the Great Plains, where timber was scarce and the reliance on agriculture was lower, the people were far more nomadic. With buffalo hides and other animal skins readily available, they used the products of the hunt to craft everything they needed. Consequently, the people here lived in the portable tents we know as tipis.

Traditionally, these were simple dwellings made of pine or cedar poles draped with animal hides.

“Attention! If ten clans sign up together, I’ll double the fabric allocation!”

“Double? Are you sure there’s any profit left in that?”

“There is no profit! This promotion ends after only three more teams, so bring your friends, bring your enemies—just bring everyone!”

“Wooooooo!”

That tradition was a thing of the past. It turned out that the “pyramid scheme” expanded far faster than any road, canal, or modern transport ever could. Almost overnight, the outer walls of every tipi had been replaced by wool fabrics of our manufacture.

“Hey, Grand Chief! Any more muskets?”

“Be patient,” I replied. “They’ll be moved up soon enough.”

“Our tribe moved past the Ruby rank six months ago! How much longer are we supposed to look like hicks, carrying around these bows?”

The tribes that had reached the Sapphire rank or higher considered bows and arrows “country.” They hunted buffalo with guns now. They had abandoned corn farming in favor of a relentless buffalo hunt, trading the hides, horns, and bones to us. In exchange, we provided flour and various foodstuffs, which they claimed tasted better anyway.

I couldn’t help but feel like I was doing something terrible. Back in my youth, I had been deeply moved by stories of Sitting Bull—the great Tatanka Iyotake. Those tales were filled with noble imagery: living in harmony with nature, being poor but free.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Yes! Just a little more and we’ll hit the Diamond rank!”

“Go tell the neighbors! If they don’t sign up with us right now, they’re going to get a face full of lead!”

Listening to the warriors shouting as they galloped by, I realized that the “Great Speech” probably wouldn’t be happening in this timeline.

Oh well. I suppose I was just blinded by my own colonialist prejudices regarding indigenous peoples.

Regardless, we were currently in the territory of the Dakota—what would one day be Minnesota. To the east lay the lands of the Iroquois Confederacy, who controlled the Great Lakes, and to the south was the territory of the Shawnee. We had traveled by boat across Lake Superior before hauling our porters this far. The Dakota people, recognizing me as their nominal Grand Chief, were treating me with a reasonable amount of hospitality.

“You don’t age, and all your wounds heal? So the rumors weren’t lies? Does that mean you can’t get tattoos?”

“Ha… ha… likely so,” I admitted.

“Can I try poking you with a needle?”

“I don’t mind—Gah!“

“Ooooh! It really does heal!”

Once I had grown accustomed to being viewed as a strange spirit-slash-Grand Chief, the local chief finally broached the subject on his mind.

“So, what brings you all this way? To drag that strange blue cart from the very edge of the world to this place… you must have a significant reason.”

Finally, after traveling so far west, the real conversation began. The other tribesmen watched me intently, pipes in hand. I cleared my throat and spoke. “I have come… to bring you a gift.”

“A gift?”

“Yes.”

The journey here had hammered home a harsh reality. How were we supposed to build a permanent trade route to the West? How were we to transport the people and resources necessary to maintain outposts? In the 17th century, with our current level of technology, laying down thousands of kilometers of roads, canals, or railways was impossible. If we wanted to reach the West, we needed another way.

And I had found it.

“Bring them out.”

Whistle! “Over here!”

The tribesmen stirred in confusion at the sudden call. At my gesture, we stepped outside the tipi. A low, rumbling thud began to shake the earth, causing everyone to tense as if an earthquake were imminent. I simply pointed toward the east.

Neigh!

Thud-thud! Thud-thud!

“I shall lend these to you as a gift.”

“What… what are these monsters?” the chief gasped.

If Oitotan had been here, he probably would have said something pretentious like, “Ah, it seems the Dakota are not yet aware.” I kept it simple.

“They are horses. With these beasts, you can travel in a heartbeat a distance that would take a man all day to walk.”

“Ooh… Oooooh!”

My plan was straightforward. Why not turn all the friendly tribes in the vicinity into riders? They could be the specialists who would transport our supplies and personnel all the way to the western coast.

Noticing the chief’s son looking at the horses with wide-eyed wonder, I placed a specially crafted helmet on his head to protect him from falls and gifted him a backpack. Trembling with excitement, he allowed me to guide him onto the back of a horse.

I mounted another horse beside him and began teaching him the basics of riding. Over the next few days, he galloped across the plains, intoxicated by the thrill of speed. The chief watched the spectacle with disbelief before turning to me.

“Grand Chief… why would you give us such precious creatures?”

“To be precise, I am lending them. Later, when we ask you to deliver supplies, you will use these horses to transport them.”

“Father! Look!” the son cried out. “I feel as though we could ride to the very edge of the horizon!”

I watched him with a sense of satisfaction. He looked truly happy as he tore across the open plains.

He was the New World’s very first delivery rider.