Summoning Earth [Hiatus]

Chapter 28: Faultlines

09:42 AM – May 1, 1639 – Cartalpas, Holy Mirishial Empire

A veil of salty wind swept over the port city of Cartalpas as the stars and stripes rose against the pale morning sky. From a distance, the newly established U.S. Embassy looked out of place — all glass, steel, and layered electronic surveillance shielding. It stood like a foreign monolith, a monument to American permanence on foreign soil.

To the east, smoke curled lazily from fishing barges returning to port. Sea gulls circled the piers. And on the western side of the harbor, where stone temples met crumbling rail lines, the skyline had begun to change. Earth's arrival was not just political — it was architectural.

Inside the courtyard, U.S. Ambassador Marc Kallenborn read from prepared remarks beneath a low marble arch, flanked by the banners of both nations. Diplomats, defense contractors, and Ministry of Foreign Affairs officials stood under a modest white canopy, flanked by contractors in civilian dress with earpieces and mirrored sunglasses.

"This is not just an embassy," Kallenborn said, his voice calm and practiced. "It's a commitment. A bridge between nations. Between worlds."

The applause that followed was brief and half-hearted. Cameras flashed, drones hovered overhead, and on the outer perimeter, protestors waved signs written in Mirishial glyphs: "Earth Go Home", "Where Was Your Aid When the Fleet Died?", "This Is Not Your World."

One protestor — an older man in layered priestly robes — raised a burning scroll above his head before hurling it toward the gate. It disintegrated against the reinforced concrete in a puff of ash. A half-rotted melon followed, thudding dully before rolling to the curb. Local peace officers made no move to stop it.

From a rooftop across the plaza, a Mirishial agent adjusted the focus on his long-range camera. He wasn't aiming at the ambassador — but at the man standing three feet behind him, turning slightly to check the angle of the crowd. A thin black cable trailed from his collar to a shoulder rig. A wristwatch glinted briefly in the sun — the kind issued to U.S. Special Activities Division field operatives.

Not a diplomat, the agent noted.

The shutter clicked twice more.

"Send the images to Counter-Operations. Flag them for liaison trace," the agent whispered into his lapel. A green light pulsed once in response. Then he dismantled the rig, melted into the shadowed stairwell, and disappeared into the temple district.

Below, the embassy gates slid shut with a low hydraulic hiss. Inside, filtered air and soft lighting created a stark contrast with the noise outside. Ambassador Kallenborn removed his suit jacket and slung it over his arm as he stepped into the cool interior of the secure annex.

"How long until the ops room's live?" he asked, walking briskly past two State Department aides coordinating with local staff.

"Next week at best," replied Erin Wakefield, CIA Station Chief assigned to the Cartalpas mission. She walked beside him, her tone clipped, tablet in hand. "Construction crews are behind schedule. Someone's been cutting fiber lines. Repeatedly."

Kallenborn's brow tightened. "Sabotage?"

"Probably. Mirishial intel proxies, we think. Or their religious militias acting independently. Hard to say — their chain of command is a mess."

He gave a short laugh, mirthless. "Let me guess — publicly they call it sabotage by 'radical traditionalists.'"

Wakefield smirked. "Of course. Same radicals that speak perfect American English when we jam their signals."