WEBVTT - Introducing After the Revolution

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<v Speaker 1>I'm Robert Evans. You probably know me from my podcast

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<v Speaker 1>Behind the Bastards in my two thousand nineteen series It

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<v Speaker 1>Could Happen Here, which was a rather unsparing look at

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<v Speaker 1>the possibility of a second American Civil War. Well, that's

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<v Speaker 1>actually an idea I've been playing around with for a

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<v Speaker 1>long time, ever since I was a young man traveling

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<v Speaker 1>throughout the American Southwest and watching the opening fractures of

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<v Speaker 1>the culture war that currently crypts our country. Starting in

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<v Speaker 1>the mid auts, I began traveling to actual war zones

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<v Speaker 1>and Ukraine, Iraq, and Syria. That further informed my thinking

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<v Speaker 1>on the matter, and I started working on a novel

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<v Speaker 1>called After the Revolution, which you're about to have a

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<v Speaker 1>chance to listen too soon. After the Revolution is set

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<v Speaker 1>in a future United States shattered by Civil War. Most

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<v Speaker 1>of the book takes place in what was once Texas

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<v Speaker 1>and is now an independent republic in the American South.

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<v Speaker 1>It follows three characters, which I'm about to introduce you

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<v Speaker 1>to now. First is Manny, a fixer who lives in

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<v Speaker 1>the independent city of Austin. Manny smiled the way the

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<v Speaker 1>British journalist's face blanched as the old Toyota hit the pothole.

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<v Speaker 1>Reggie wasn't used to bad roads, cars driven by actual humans,

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<v Speaker 1>or the way the heavy metal of the gun mountain

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<v Speaker 1>the truck bed made the aluminum frame grown. That was

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<v Speaker 1>all familiar to Manny. He'd grown up in Siodad de Muerta,

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<v Speaker 1>back before the lake would blast, back when people had

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<v Speaker 1>still called it Dallas. The truck's driver veered around the

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<v Speaker 1>bloated corpse of a large dog lying in the middle

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<v Speaker 1>of the road. Reggie gripped the truck bed with white

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<v Speaker 1>knuckles and eyed the swaying AMMO belt of the twenty

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<v Speaker 1>millimeter cannon like it was a coiled snake. The gunner,

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<v Speaker 1>Manny's cousin, Alejandro, grinned down at the journalist. The suspension's

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<v Speaker 1>a little fucked, yeh. The Briton nodded and turned greener

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<v Speaker 1>when the technical hid another pothole. Many supposed he should

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<v Speaker 1>offer a comforting word to the man. That would be

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<v Speaker 1>good business, but a louder part of him looked at

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<v Speaker 1>Reggie's brand new boots and thought he can stand a

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<v Speaker 1>little discomfort. The journalist would brag about this ride for

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<v Speaker 1>months once he got home, Escorting reporters from the safety

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<v Speaker 1>of Austin to the sundry hotspots of the Old Metroplex

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<v Speaker 1>was not Manny's ideal career. Two years ago, he'd been

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<v Speaker 1>working on a bachelor's in business administration from the University

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<v Speaker 1>of Austin. The plan had been to get a job

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<v Speaker 1>with Ages Biosystems, then charm his way into a working

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<v Speaker 1>visa and a gig in the California Republic. But the

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<v Speaker 1>fighting had started up again and ruined all that. The

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<v Speaker 1>culprit this time was the Heavenly Kingdom, a loose assortment

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<v Speaker 1>of Christian extremist militias. They'd boiled out from the suburbs

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<v Speaker 1>of the Old Metroplex and all but broken the Republic

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<v Speaker 1>of Texas. The Autonomous City of Austin had stabilized the

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<v Speaker 1>situation with the help of an alliance of leftist Texan

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<v Speaker 1>militias the Secular Defense Forces. Beating them back had cost

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<v Speaker 1>a lot in blood and time and forced Manny to

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<v Speaker 1>change every plan he'd ever had for his life. So

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<v Speaker 1>he'd embraced the situation and started his own business, hiring

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<v Speaker 1>on some friends as employees. Together they'd built the best

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<v Speaker 1>network of stringers in North Texas. His boys fed him

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<v Speaker 1>video contacts and news updates, and he sold what he

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<v Speaker 1>could to the big foreign media conglomerates. In a couple

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<v Speaker 1>more months, he'd have enough saved up that he could

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<v Speaker 1>fuck off, fly to Europe and apply for a refugee Viza.

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<v Speaker 1>My aunts are pretty good as long as the war

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<v Speaker 1>doesn't end too soon. Second is Sasha, a girl on

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<v Speaker 1>the verge of adulthood in the American Republic, which makes

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<v Speaker 1>up most of the Northeast coast. She is secretly a

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<v Speaker 1>Christian extremist, planning to leave her home and family behind

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<v Speaker 1>to travel to the Heavenly Kingdom. The drone gun rotated

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<v Speaker 1>on its axis and brought a new, slightly different chunk

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<v Speaker 1>of city escape into view. The world was a dull

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<v Speaker 1>gray green color through the lens of the weapon's camera.

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<v Speaker 1>Once again, there were no humans in sight. That was

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<v Speaker 1>the norm, but Sasha still logged in for her scheduled

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<v Speaker 1>gun time every day. Her pay rants would have been

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<v Speaker 1>mortified if they'd known how she was spending her few

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<v Speaker 1>hours of free time, but she had a good VPN,

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<v Speaker 1>or at least it was good enough to hide her

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<v Speaker 1>activity from her non tech savvy elders. She doubted they'd

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<v Speaker 1>ever suspect her of something like this. Sasha was a

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<v Speaker 1>good student. Her grades guaranteed her admission to the American

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<v Speaker 1>University in d C. At one point, she'd had a

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<v Speaker 1>shot at being her high school's valedictorian and maybe of

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<v Speaker 1>gaining admission to Stanford. But then she discovered the true

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<v Speaker 1>Gospel and given herself to Christ. Her grades were still good,

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<v Speaker 1>but probably not good enough to earn her an educational

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<v Speaker 1>visa to the California Republic. The extra time the old

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<v Speaker 1>heir had dedicated to school was now spent glued to

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<v Speaker 1>a gun camp, browsing live feeds from various Christian militias,

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<v Speaker 1>and reading everything she could from the few pastors brave

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<v Speaker 1>enough to preach the word. The new herd didn't want

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<v Speaker 1>to go to school near San Francisco, capital of what

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<v Speaker 1>Pastor Mike had called the world's most sinful nation. Sasha

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<v Speaker 1>didn't even really want to go to college in d C.

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<v Speaker 1>What was the point? Sash her dad called from the kitchen,

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<v Speaker 1>dinners on cheese Enchilada's. There was still nothing in her

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<v Speaker 1>line of sight. For the eleventh month in a row,

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<v Speaker 1>she was spending sixty five AM fed dollars for the

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<v Speaker 1>privilege of staring through a camera at nothing for a

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<v Speaker 1>half hour a day. Sasha had been warned about this

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<v Speaker 1>when she'd signed up to support the Woodlands Martyrs Brigade.

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<v Speaker 1>Their drone guns didn't see much action. The front had

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<v Speaker 1>been stable for the last year. Rumors said the number

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<v Speaker 1>of backers had even gotten to fire during their turn

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<v Speaker 1>was under a dozen. Sasha had hoped she'd be a

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<v Speaker 1>special case. Something moved. Just as she thought about killing

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<v Speaker 1>the app and going downstairs, something moved across her drones

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<v Speaker 1>field of vision. It happened again, and Sasha realized that

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<v Speaker 1>the somethings were armored soldiers sprinting past her weapon. She

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<v Speaker 1>locked the drone on one and for the first time ever,

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<v Speaker 1>selected the fire approval button. A second went by, then another,

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<v Speaker 1>and then a red box replaced her firing redicule. Target

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<v Speaker 1>declined friendly fire. Sasha her mother called up in that

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<v Speaker 1>grating voice that miant. She was almost frustrated enough to

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<v Speaker 1>start yelling get down here. Next is Roland, an aging

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<v Speaker 1>veteran who lives alone in the desert with a body

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<v Speaker 1>full of U. S. Army cyberware and a head full

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<v Speaker 1>of missing memories. He woke up suddenly aware of two

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<v Speaker 1>equally pressing problems. The acids worn off and eight people

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<v Speaker 1>are here to kill me. Both of these facts concerned

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<v Speaker 1>him equally. He couldn't remember his name or where exactly

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<v Speaker 1>he was, which made the impending killed him all the

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<v Speaker 1>more concerning. He opened his eyes, His vision was blurry

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<v Speaker 1>and unfocused. His head felt filled with sand. Rowland, Oh ship,

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<v Speaker 1>that's my name. Roland wondered how long he'd been asleep.

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<v Speaker 1>He reflexively triggered his deck before the dim firing of

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<v Speaker 1>a synapse reminded him that he'd permanently disabled his datic

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<v Speaker 1>connection well a long time ago. Milion two or twenty

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<v Speaker 1>six minutes his hindbrain, what Roland called the acres of

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<v Speaker 1>microscott processors and data banks, spun into his blood. Spat

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<v Speaker 1>the knowledge out, unbidden into his conscious mind. Roland tried

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<v Speaker 1>to curse, but wound up spitting out a wad of

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<v Speaker 1>brackish flim instead. His eyes settled on a quarter full

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<v Speaker 1>bottle of fungus whiskey. He grabbed it, drained it, and

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<v Speaker 1>rooted around on the table where he'd found it until

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<v Speaker 1>his digging turned up a sheet of acid. He ripped

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<v Speaker 1>the sheet in half, ate one half and pasted the

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<v Speaker 1>other on his sweat damp chest. Roland's brain didn't wait

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<v Speaker 1>for the acid to do its job. Nano machines couriered

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<v Speaker 1>the lysurgic diethyl acid directly to his synapses. The drugs

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<v Speaker 1>took cold in a matter of seconds. Acid softened the

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<v Speaker 1>world around him. His hindbrains running commentary faded into a

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<v Speaker 1>sort of generalized hyper awareness of the world around him.

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<v Speaker 1>He sighed, relaxed, and remembered. Woman hovered over him, her

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<v Speaker 1>hands on his shoulders, her knees on either side of

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<v Speaker 1>his body. Sweat dripped down from her short black hair

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<v Speaker 1>onto his face and chest. Her pupils were the size

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<v Speaker 1>of dinner plates. She smelled like acid and desire. She smiled,

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<v Speaker 1>revealing a row of Damascus steel. Heath Roland pulled himself

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<v Speaker 1>out of the memory. He felt the strike team advance.

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<v Speaker 1>His hindbrain generated a map of the approaching assassins. They

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<v Speaker 1>were still a solid minute from his hovel. There were

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<v Speaker 1>six men and two women on the team. If he'd

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<v Speaker 1>wanted a micro seconds focus could have told him which

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<v Speaker 1>members of the group were vegetarians, where two of the

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<v Speaker 1>team were on their minstrel cycles and how recently each

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<v Speaker 1>of their firearms had been cleaned and oiled. But Roland

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<v Speaker 1>didn't care about that information. He was trying to remember

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<v Speaker 1>where he'd left his gun. Listen to After the Revolution

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<v Speaker 1>every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday on the I Heart Radio app,

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<v Speaker 1>Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts.