A Sneak Peak from The Twin Paradox, Bane War Vol. III

July 3, 1863
Year 19417, Yava

Major General George Pickett crouched behind a tangling briar, the humid Pennsylvania air tasting of pine and cordite. He leveled his brass binoculars down Cemetery Ridge, where blue-clad Yankees skulked among rocky outcrops and churned wheat fields. West of Seminary Ridge, far beyond the Union’s artillery range, great blossoms of earth and flame erupted—one-hundred-pound high-explosive shells launched from M1908 6-inch howitzers.

With this being the first test against the enemy of these bleeding edge weapons, Pickett didn’t know what to expect. The shells might be duds, or they might overshoot, or worse yet, undershoot into his division’s ranks.

A distant thundercrack. The guns. Whistles overhead. Shells flying.

Two massive explosions sundered earth and stone, hurling men, timber, and metal skyward.

“By the Lord, what infernal thunder is this?” While a hot-air balloon above for spotting drifted, Pickett draped his binoculars around his neck and set the mouthpiece of his field-radio against his jaw. Fingers coaxed a crackle of static as he adjusted a dial for transmission. “Battery C, this is General Pickett—do you read me? Over.”

A heartbeat passed.

“Captain Thomas Blackwood here, sir. Loud and clear. Over.”

Pickett’s grin sharpened. He traced Cemetery Ridge’s silhouette beyond three miles of churned soil. “We’ve done it. Fire mission on grid Alpha-6-3-2-7-4-1. Reload howitzers for HE at forty degrees. Target that mass of blue fifty yards west of the stone wall. All guns on my mark. Over.”

Men on the other line whooped and hollered before someone barked for composure. “Awaiting your mark. Over.” Static ensued.

Weeks earlier, General Robert E. Lee had confided in his corps commanders that these monstrous guns, along with M1918 assault rifles—and the wireless-telegraphy devices enabling this instant reach—came from a joint development effort from a benefactor in Germany: Werner von Siemens, who whispered promises of Southern victory followed by their North and South American continent domination. And a long-lasting alliance, of course.

“Mark!”

The far-off battery stirred over the radio first. Horses neighed, the clatter of shell racks, the howitzers roared. Like the Second Coming, thunder tore the sky apart; the radio slipped from Pickett’s fingers. Earth quaked beneath his boots as blue uniforms vanished in the bloom of colossal explosions, the Union line rupturing like parchment torn by steel.

Pickett’s eyes blazed. He rocked back on one heel and spat a curse of wonder, “God Almighty—those guns can rend heaven and earth.” He drew his saber and swept his gaze across his division of riflemen. His voice rang out, low and fierce, “Virginians, the Lord fights with us! Cleanse that ridge! For home, for your sweethearts and wives, and for old Virginia! March!”

Drums beat. Men whooped. Red flags crossed by blue overlaid with thirteen white stars raised. A gray sea advanced.

***

The crack of machine-gun fire erupted as Pickett’s skirmishers surged forward. Rifles spat iron hail into the panicked Union ranks, each burst tearing gaps through blue wool and scattering men like grain before the scythe. Bodies pitched into churned earth, anguished cries swallowed by the relentless staccato of lead. In minutes, the Federal line dissolved into a shattered swarm of fugitives fleeing beyond Cemetery Ridge.

Pickett halted atop the ridge, the reek of gunpowder and blood heavy on the air. A beep on his radio and he put the mouthpiece to his lips.

Crackling. Then General Lee’s voice, “What of their divisions, Pickett? Over.”

Awestruck, Pickett surveyed the field below—a sea of Yankee corpses glinting in the afternoon sun. He let the silence stretch before replying, his words cold as the steel in his hand, “General Lee, they have no divisions. Over.”