Exhale.

I straightened my spine and centered my weight, focusing on the rhythmic connection between man and beast. I sought to communicate through subtle signals, a silent dialogue of pressure and intent. With a gentle nudge of my heels against the horse’s flanks, I gave the command.

Neigh.

The animal responded instantly, moving forward in a slow, steady amble. I gave another light tap, and the pace quickened, the horse breaking into a spirited gallop that devoured the earth beneath its hooves.

It had been over thirty years since I first tumbled into the 17th century. Whenever I needed to travel, I had relied on my modern crutches—the Damas and the Porter. But this was the frontier of North America, a land yet to be tamed by pavement or industry. A vast, sprawling continent home to a mere few million souls, it was a wilderness of treacherous swamps and impenetrable forests where even the most rudimentary roads were only just beginning to take shape.

The utility of wheeled transport had reached its limit. I had no other choice—though, in truth, even if I did, I likely would have chosen this path anyway.

Whinny!

Horsemanship.

“Alright! Let’s go!”

I couldn’t help it; there was an undeniable, rugged charisma to riding that a truck just couldn’t match.

As I completed a sweeping circuit around the village, the tribal youths rubbed the sleep from their eyes and stood in silent awe, watching my progress. A few stood with their mouths agape, unable to suppress their admiration.

“With just a bit of practice,” I announced, pulling the horse to a graceful halt, “every one of you can ride like this. And for those who master the saddle, I have a gift: the newest model of our rifles.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Every single young man in the clearing shot their hand into the air.

I spent several weeks in Dakota territory, personally training dozens of them in the art of the gallop. Once I was satisfied with their progress, I delegated the remaining instruction to my companions and set off for the next tribe. The core of this journey was simple: to propagate the horse and the culture of riding across the heartland.

As one moves toward the center of the continent, population density plummets and the land’s agricultural productivity wanes. It is a world of endless, rolling prairies—an environment perfectly suited for a nomadic existence. For this grand design, we had scoured the colonies for every available horse, even importing thousands from England and France.

We weren’t alone in this endeavor. Across the Great Plains, countless agents of the Covenant were currently traversing the grasslands, teaching the tribes to ride and leasing out horses by the thousands. We followed a rigorous cycle: arrive at a village, lease the animals, teach the fundamentals of horsemanship, and move on.

However, a sea of riders does not a trade network make. What we required was a permanent, unbreakable supply line stretching from Virginia to California—from the Atlantic’s edge to the Pacific’s shore. Goods do not simply migrate across two thousand kilometers of wilderness just because the locals have stopped walking. We needed a system.

“A… ‘logistics hub’?” the local chief asked, testing the unfamiliar syllables. “What exactly is that?”

“Think of it as a central warehouse,” I explained. “When goods need to be delivered to a region, they are first stored in a nearby hub. From there, local riders take over, carrying the items to their final destination.”

“I see…”

“From now on,” I continued, “your riders will move between these warehouses on a fixed schedule. There will be a massive influx of cargo heading west, and we need the transit to be systematic.”

It was the industrialization of transport. The plains were a patchwork of tribal territories, and it was nearly impossible for a single traveler to cross them all without igniting a conflict. But by dividing the land into jurisdictions managed by the local tribes, we could ensure a continuous flow. A tribe in Wisconsin would deliver goods to a warehouse in ‘B’ tribe’s territory to the west; ‘B’ tribe would then carry them to ‘C’ tribe in Iowa, who would pass them to ‘D’ tribe in Nebraska.

This network had to remain distinct from our existing multi-level marketing gift circuits. We couldn’t risk our vital supplies being treated as mere tokens of prestige and disappearing into someone’s private collection. Management had to be cold, efficient, and centralized.

Thus, we established a new agency under the federal government. I kept the name simple, borrowing from our trade company’s branding: the Federal Express.

If I shortened the name…

Wait. Fed… Ex?

***

Historically, the buffalo had provided everything for the tribes of the Great Plains. Bones, horns, meat, hides, and fur—nothing was wasted. In this resource-scarce environment, the buffalo hunt was the pulse of survival, providing not just food, but clothing and the very walls of their homes.

Bang! Bang!

“Is that the last of them?”

“That’s enough. Let’s head back.”

But the old ways were fading. The cotton fabrics arriving from the East were lighter, more breathable, and easier to clean than heavy hides. The wool we provided was a far superior material for tents, readily available and versatile. As buffalo products were replaced by superior manufactured goods, the very rhythm of life began to shift. While hunting had become easier with firearms, the actual number of kills plummeted. There was no longer a reason to slaughter a buffalo for anything other than its meat.

“Wolf! Over there!”

“Get it!”

With the buffalo population slowly rebounding, the tribes turned their attention to the predators that followed the herds. Where they once had to flee from wolves, they now possessed the firepower to stand their ground. Furthermore, the pelts of these predators fetched a handsome price when sold back to the “Union” in the East.

The horse, however, was the true catalyst for change. The reach of a man on horseback was exponentially greater than one on foot. Clans that had once lived as distant, indifferent neighbors suddenly found themselves integrated into a single community. Under the watchful eye of the Continental Covenant, inter-tribal warfare was strictly forbidden within the trade network, leading to an unprecedented era of prosperity and commerce.

To earn the “leased” horses permanently, the tribes worked tirelessly, ferrying supplies westward and acting as guides for the strange travelers from the East. Only after a foundation of absolute trust was established did the Union provide them with ungelded horses and teach them the secrets of breeding, farriery, and even milking.

The transition was absolute. The memory of the lean years—of scratching out tiny garden plots and hoping for a lucky hunt—began to fade into the tall grass. Why labor in the dirt when a few deliveries could buy a week’s worth of bread? Why endure the grueling buffalo hunt for tent skins when a few shipments earned a waterproof wool canopy?

Some became professional hunters, chasing wolves and bears to raise their tribe’s standing in the gift-trade hierarchy, but most focused on the new economy.

“Move these to the Illinois warehouse!”

“We have a call from the lakeshore! Get those people moved first!”

Entire tribes threw themselves into the delivery business, ushering the tidal wave of people and cargo from the East toward the sunset. Beneath their hooves and wheels, the grass withered and deep ruts formed in the earth. A road was being born.

It was the permanent trade route I had dreamed of. As I drove the Porter, I noticed the journey becoming smoother the deeper I pushed into the West. Behind me, the Great Plains were coming alive.

***

Life in Scotland and England had become an endurance test. When home becomes a hellscape, people generally choose one of two paths: revolution or emigration. The English Puritans, ever overachievers, were currently attempting both.

Every day, a fresh wave of English subjects abandoned the mainland for the Continental Covenant. While some might view this brain drain as a loss for England, the reality was that the crown couldn’t feed them anyway. Sending them to America was a relief valve that strengthened our alliance.

They came lured by our propaganda—tales of a paradise overflowing with precious metals, fertile soil, and fruit so sweet it defied description. Many were initially disappointed when they landed in Virginia, realizing that gold required a long trek into the interior. To keep them moving, I provided a new destination.

The West.

A place where the sun shone year-round like the Mediterranean, where trade with Asia promised unimaginable wealth, and where the soil was black and rich. I marketed it with every slogan an Englishman could crave, and slowly, the tide began to turn.

But above all else, there was the gold.

“Please, let me go!”

“Mother, we’re going to be rich! The land of gold!”

The promise of wealth drove them into a frenzy. In an era where hundreds would die chasing the myth of El Dorado, the word of a leader officially guaranteeing the existence of gold was like lighting a fuse. Nearly twenty thousand people gathered for the trek.

Guided by our new “delivery riders,” they began the arduous journey across the continent, following in our wake. Unlike the historical Gold Rush, forty percent of these migrants were women. I had insisted on family-based emigration to ensure that they would put down roots in California and the West. With twenty thousand settlers, ports and cities would follow inevitably. Our staging ground was being built by the hands of the pioneers themselves.

Still, I thought, a slight sense of revulsion bubbling up, they move so purely for greed. The image of the 17th-century European was one of a man with eyes reddened by the luster of gold, tearing through the earth with no thought for what he destroyed. I believed that humanity should strive for higher values—love, friendship, peace… and, of course…

“Is… is this the place?”

“It is.”

Grape farming.

They say the final quality of a wine is determined by terroir—the French word for the soul of the land. In the world of viticulture, eighty percent of success is real estate. While we were currently exporting wine through sheer technical innovation, we would eventually be eclipsed by Europe if we stayed in the East. Even now, as the novelty wore off, our sales were beginning to stagnate.

No amount of technology can overcome a terrible climate and poor soil. There is a reason wines are named after their origins—Bordeaux, Burgundy, Champagne. In the 21st century, had anyone ever heard of a world-class Virginia wine? Or a North Carolinian vintage? Unlikely.

We could never beat the “cheat-code” geography of France and Italy from the East Coast. The Bordeaux region, in particular, had held the English market in a vice-grip for centuries precisely because England couldn’t produce its own.

But here? Here, we could fight back.

I knelt and ran the soil through my fingers. I had secured this land through negotiations and compensation with the local tribes. Here, I could build anything.

And I would start with the vine. Decades from now, the name of this American wine would thunder across the globe.

Bordeaux would grow anxious.

Burgundy would tremble.