By the reckoning of the Christian calendar, it was the year of our Lord 1645. According to the traditional Hebrew calendar, it was the year 5405 since the creation of the world. And for those gathered here, it was the year of a much more immediate miracle.
“Behold,” a man whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “Our Temple.”
Five years had passed since they had embraced this land as their new home. This was Salem, the ‘Refuge’ for the Jewish people and all who were persecuted. Bolstered by the surrounding abundance, Salem had already blossomed into a city of tens of thousands. While its geographic location was not inherently extraordinary, no place on earth could have been more suited to serve as the capital of the fledgling State of Israel.
After all, this was the land ‘He’ had personally chosen for them.
In the heart of the city, the Jewish Temple was being rebuilt. It was a massive undertaking, designed to mirror the exact dimensions recorded in the Old Testament. Since the Continental Covenant had declared absolute religious freedom and the total separation of church and state, Israel—perhaps the most inherently religious of all the member states—had embraced those principles with a fervor that bordered on the ironic.
In their desperation to honor the Nameless One’s decree, they adhered to secularism more strictly than any of their neighbors. Regardless of whether one believed ‘He’ was the Messiah, a great savior, or merely a man, the government was established by excluding all theological disputes. Consequently, the ‘Jerusalem Temple’ rising before them received not a single cent of government aid; it was being forged entirely through the voluntary tithes and donations of the citizenry.
“Sacrifices according to the Law shall once again be offered there,” an elder remarked, watching the stonemasons at work. “The thread of the Torah, severed for so long, is finally being mended.”
Even so, the Israeli government could not remain entirely indifferent to the project. The Temple had been the center of the Jewish soul for millennia. Gershom, Manasseh, and several other ministers stood at the construction site, their eyes brimming with emotion as they looked up at the majestic structure.
Their theological stances varied wildly—some argued the Messiah’s arrival meant the Law was restored, others that it was fulfilled and superseded; some worshipped Nemo as the Christ, while others viewed him simply as a divinely appointed protector. Yet, such debates paled in comparison to the sight of the Temple being restored exactly as the scriptures ordained. It was the ultimate symbol that their thousand-year wandering had ended. They had found their home.
Even Gershom, who did not count himself among those who viewed Nemo as the Messiah, felt a stray tear escape. In this new world, they would finally be free. They could finally reclaim their peace and live as masters of their own destiny—
“Pardon me, Your Excellency?”
Gershom’s reverie was shattered. He turned, a flash of annoyance crossing his face at the secretary who had come sprinting toward him, breathless and disheveled. “What is it? Can you not see we are—”
“A report, sir! From the East!”
Gershom snatched the paper, his eyes scanning the lines.
[Critic’s View] The Covenant Army is Weak—Are the Citizens to Blame? … Wait, what? War?
The irritation vanished, replaced by a cold, leaden weight in his stomach. The other ministers, sensing the shift in the air, crowded around him, their faces pale with sudden dread.
Gershom’s voice was a ragged whisper as he delivered the news. “The… the Mainline Republic has begun full-scale mobilization. War is coming.”
Being on the opposite side of the continent from Virginia, the news had been delayed, but its impact was instantaneous. Within half a day, the tranquil streets of Salem were a cacophony of fear and fury.
The Spanish, of course, had no idea that a Jewish state had been carved out of the American wilderness. Compared to the task of crushing the Continental Covenant, they likely wouldn’t have cared. But the people here cared deeply about the Spanish. Many were survivors of the ‘Imperial Massacres’ in Germany. To them, the House of Habsburg was not a distant political entity; it was the face of the devil himself.
Frustration boiled over into the streets. They had barely finished building their new lives, and already the same ancient shadows were stretching across the sea to find them.
“Habsburg… they are coming here?” a man stammered, his hands shaking. “It’s over… everything is over. Benjamin? Did you hear?”
“I heard,” the other replied, his voice flat with despair. “I fled across an ocean to escape them, and still they hunt us.”
The initial terror gave way to a hollow resignation—if I must die, let it be here—but as the hours passed, that resignation curdled into a scorching, righteous rage.
“Wait a minute,” someone shouted in a tavern. “Why us? Why is it always us? Do those jut-jawed bastards just see a Jew and feel a sudden urge to steal his gold?”
It didn’t matter that it wasn’t the Spanish branch of the Habsburgs that had led the slaughters in Germany, or that Spain wasn’t specifically targeting Jews this time. All that mattered was that they were coming to invade the land of the ‘Angel.’ They were coming for the last sanctuary on earth.
We will not let them take it.
Volunteers for the navy began to line up in every district. Cities competed fiercely to attract munitions factories. They would not surrender this land to anyone. This was the promised refuge for the persecuted, and they would defend it until the last man fell.
And to the south, the air was just as thick with the scent of impending lightning.
***
California. The capital, San Francisco.
“The Mainline Times reports that Columnist Philip Oitotan has commented: ‘The Californians are…'”
“Enough! Stop reading!” the Consul shouted, slamming his hand on his desk. “I’ve heard that editorial a hundred times already!”
The atmosphere in the capital was volatile. The information trickling in through the Mainline Republic was terrifyingly vivid, and the Consul of the California Republic found himself struggling to maintain his composure. He looked around his office, letting the sight of Joseon porcelain, Japanese lacquerware, and Chinese landscapes soothe his frazzled nerves.
Leaning back into his chair, he cast a wary glance at his secretary. “And… the citizens? What is the word on the street?”
“They are on the verge of a riot, sir,” the secretary replied. “If you step outside without a guard, you might take a blade to the ribs. They’re demanding to know why you’ve allowed things to deteriorate to this point.”
“Damned pirates and swindlers, the lot of them,” the Consul muttered. “What is this country coming to?”
Nearly thirty percent of the oriental art in the room had been acquired through financial fraud, and another forty percent had been plundered from Spanish galleons. But neither the secretary nor the ministers cared about such trivial details.
In California, such things were simply the way of the world.
This was a den of lunatics who had trekked across a continent for a glimpse of gold—an adventurer’s paradise. When they had mined their gold and found themselves without ships to carry it, they had simply lured the Spanish Navy into a trap and stolen theirs. Though those were the achievements of the previous generation, the pirate blood still ran hot in the veins of the current citizens. Even now, Californians treated plundering a passing Spanish vessel as a casual pastime. Privateering was, quite literally, one of California’s pillar industries.
Twenty-six years ago, Walter Raleigh and Kim Lee-sang had spearheaded the Western expansion to link the Pacific and Atlantic trade routes. Tens of thousands, blinded by the lure of the “Golden Land,” had crossed thousands of kilometers of wilderness. Against all odds, they had built a self-sufficient society and carved cities out of the dust. They plundered the Spanish to secure their ships, used those ships to open trade with the East, and used the gold and silver from that trade to fill their homes with luxuries.
They had raked in fortunes, and they had spent them just as quickly. Their mansions were more opulent than anything else in the Covenant, filled with antiques from China, India, Joseon, Japan, and Vietnam. This sudden wealth had fostered a highly developed aesthetic sense; despite over half the population being pirates or merchants, it was rare to find a Californian who couldn’t read the Thousand Character Classic.
It was a nation of cultured brigands. Most citizens were adventurers living for the next big score, meaning stable industries were practically non-existent—save for some viticulture and the production of brandy. Since even the brandy was mostly exported to Joseon and its neighbors, the entire country effectively lived on trade and plunder.
This adventurous spirit had birthed a government that operated on a Consular system rather than the parliamentary cabinets used elsewhere in the Covenant. They valued charismatic, decisive leadership above all else.
The current Consul knew that indecision would be fatal to his reputation. He straightened his coat and stepped out onto the balcony of the modest two-story government building. Thousands of citizens were gathered below, a sea of restless, murmuring bodies.
“Consul! Do something!” “What does ‘He’ say? The Mainline is screaming bloody murder!” “Where are our new cannons? Why are we sitting ducks?”
The shouts, jeers, and occasional cheers rose up to meet him. The Consul and his ministers swallowed hard, their hearts hammering against their ribs. The fear of a riot was palpable.
“Citizens! Calm yourselves!” the Consul roared, his voice carrying over the crowd. “I know exactly what you fear!”
The crowd fell into a sudden, expectant silence. Thousands of eyes looked up at the man they had elected.
The Consul met their gaze, his own eyes wide with a very real anxiety. He did know what they feared, because he shared it.
The Spanish… they’re coming for us, aren’t they?
It was the same thought the Jews of Israel had shared, though the path to that conclusion was very different. If the Jews were motivated by the trauma of persecution, the Californians were motivated by the guilt of a thief who knows the law is finally catching up. They had spent decades gleefully robbing Spain blind. It was about time a ‘punitive expedition’ showed up.
That was the impression held by the average citizen, who knew little of European geopolitics or the true scale of the Covenant. They were thousands of kilometers from the Atlantic, after all. But the Consul and his ministers had access to more than just the inflammatory rags of the Mainline; they had official reports from the central government.
“Perhaps… most unfortunately,” the Consul declared, projecting a confident authority he didn’t entirely feel, “the enemy’s primary targets are likely Virginia and the Eastern states!”
It was common sense. The coming conflict wasn’t a skirmish to catch a few Pacific petty thieves; it was a war for the hegemony of the Atlantic.
The crowd visibly relaxed, though they tried to hide their relief behind masks of somber concern. They listened intently as the Consul continued his performance.
“It is a tragedy! If only we were on the front lines! We would crush those wicked men with our own two hands to preserve our glorious liberty!” He paused, his voice dropping an octave. “But we cannot rest easy. If the Spanish triumph in the East, the freedom and prosperity we have fought so hard to build on this soil will be stripped away!”
Several sailors in the front row nodded vigorously. They knew that their freedom to plunder and the prosperity derived from it were at stake. The crowd began to chant the Consul’s name, their cheers echoing through the streets.
“Therefore,” the Consul cried, “let us volunteer! Let us join the Covenant army! Let us stand together to defend our nation!”
The response was overwhelming. In California, just as in Israel, thousands rose up to march East. In the Mainline Republic, the government happily welcomed the ‘customers’ as thousands of men, laden with gear and supplies, began the long trek along the arterial road.
***
“…Mr. Mansfeld? Or should I say, General?”
“Ahem. Yes, My Lord.”
“I need you to organize these men,” I said, gesturing toward the horizon. “Work with the Admiral.”
“Do not worry, My Lord. I shall handle it…” Mansfeld trailed off, his eyes widening as he looked past me. “…There are… quite a lot of them, aren’t there?”
A seemingly endless stream of Israeli volunteers, their faces etched with a peculiar sense of grievance, and ‘suspiciously’ patriotic, battle-hardened Californians were flooding into the Chesapeake via the Mainline road.
Ernst von Mansfeld would spend several more sleepless nights trying to figure out how to forge this disparate mass into a functional army.
It was the summer of 1645.
***
“We know almost nothing about them,” the Count-Duke of Olivares reported, bowing before his King. “It is even questionable whether this so-called ‘Continental Covenant’ existed on this earth a few decades ago.”
“And yet,” Olivares continued, his voice hardening, “one fact is undeniable. North America belongs to them. And if we do not act, the Atlantic may soon follow. Their mere existence is an existential threat to the Crown.”
“Then what is to be done?”
Philip IV, the ‘Planet King,’ turned to look at his minister. His eyes were burning with a cold, desperate fire. “Is it the fate of this kingdom to simply crumble into dust? Has the Lord ordained our ruin?”
Olivares knew exactly what his master wanted to hear. He knew the words he had to speak.
“No, Sire.” He shook his head firmly. “Our fleet remains without rival, and Your Majesty’s loyal army serves with the same devotion they offered to your grandfather and your father!”
A flicker of doubt crossed Philip’s face. “Without rival? But the people whisper. They say their largest ships are several times the size of our own…”
“Sire, that is exactly why—”
Olivares cut the King off—a blatant breach of protocol that the Planet King allowed out of sheer desperation.
“—Spain has built even greater vessels.”
Olivares gestured toward the window as a massive shadow began to drift across the docks. Philip IV, Gaspar de Guzmán, and every courtier in the room fell into a stunned silence.
Gliding through the harbor of Seville were the largest wooden sailing ships in human history.
“We too,” Olivares declared with a fierce pride, “can stand tall against them!”