CHAPTER 4: ALL ABOARD THE SS AMERICA

  “You can never cross the ocean unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

  —Christopher Columbus

  Port of Los Angeles, California, Federation of American States, September 30th, 1945, 0831 hours.

  The Ford V8 Deluxe halted in the back alleys. Two men stepped out of the car. On the right was Lucius Armstrong, civil rights activist and Red Panther Party spokesman. He wore a stainless white suit which Top Deuce had lended over to him, a beige homburg and a yellowish (almost golden) tie. On the left was Anthony Armaru Jr., Red Panther Party cadre and professional drinker, shooter, gang fighter and everything else in between. He wore a black suit, a matching black fedora and a red tie to show his allegiance (the two were forbidden from wearing their armbands for safety concerns). There were two bags worth of luggage between them.

  “Here!” Ant shouted as he tossed the car keys through the open window to a large man sitting in the back seat. Bastion grunted in response.

  “Make sure it ain’t got a scratch on it by the time we get back, or we’ll finally get to see who’s tougher ‘tween the two of us!”

  Lucius gave a nervous laugh as the two headed off towards the docks.

  The beauty that lay before them was the SS America. A state of the art ocean liner that was more sea beast than steam vehicle. Its bow was sharp and angled as if a blade to slice through Poseidon’s fortress. Its hull was a foreboding mass of black void that seemed boundless in the abyssal sea. Its quarters were a grand and pristine white, already brimming with passengers and commotion. And the word ‘AMERICA’ was proudly imprinted on its side for the world to behold.

  As they approached the vessel the duo were swept into a large serpentine line of passengers-to-be, one of many columns slithering onto the ocean liner by gangplanks.

  Ant raised an eyebrow at the procession, “Is it just me or is that a hell of a lot of pastors?”

  Lucius made a hushing noise but still replied, “This is a settlement effort after all. The first thing the Federal Government wants is for everyone to be on the same page about which God is the right one.”

  A man suddenly bumped into Lucius’ back. Ant shouted a curse, “Watch where yer goin’ old man!”

  The man snickered when he realised ‘what’ he had bumped into, “They’re letting the negroes on this damned boat!? For shame. How the world has gone to shit.”

  “What was that old man!?”

  “I said! How the world has gone to shit! To have you dirty negroids enter our exclusive American ocean liner!” The man swung his New Ithaca Double-barrel shotgun into his hands and jammed it into Ant’s back.

  Ant’s blood began to boil. American? He was part Native American. More American than this white man! Ant knelt and reached for the gun hidden in his shoe but Lucius stopped him. Blacks weren’t allowed to hold weapons. The Second Amendment didn’t apply to them.

  “Let it go Ant.”

  Both men sighed and turned from each other. Lucius noted that the man seemed to have a certain air about him. One of those military types. Yet he couldn’t shake the thought that he’d seen him somewhere before.

  Nicholas returned his shotgun to its resting place. Grimace still on his face. He did not like this affair one bit. The negroes were responsible for it all. The Great Sabotage. It was said that during the Cambion Invasion of North America from 1900 to 1901, the canaille of the blacks and socialists schemed against the white man. They stabbed their good masters in the back and opened the ports to the Cambions. They were the pawns of the secretive Jewish elite before they were torn down. Best not to let them near you. Best to confine them to their ghettos.

  Nicholas willingly stepped a spot back in line to escape those brutish men. Allowing a Latino man in between them. He hated Latinos as well but according to the state published hierarchy they ranked just above the blacks so it seemed to be the more tact move to make. Besides, it was unlikely he would come into contact with any non-whites on the ship. Segregation ran deep in the Federation. Laws were laws. And the laws of nature which separated the men of earth by blood were one upheld by the constitution through its many amendments. Just as God had intended.

  As their line neared a ticket inspection point an argument broke out at the front of the line and several passengers began their bout of gossiping and murmuring.

  “Sir, this is the wrong ticket!” shouted the inspector.

  “I know, I know! But listen—!” the unseen man pleaded.

  “Sir, this ticket is for a voyage from Santiago two days ago! You can’t possibly have bought a ticket for the SS America in time!”

  “I ordered one over the radiotelephone, you have to believe me!”

  “Well, I have not been informed of any such cases and your presence has not been indicated by the higher ups so your ticket is null!”

  “I swear by it! Call your team again to check! —Here’s my ID! I’ve already confirmed my identity with the booking team, I promise!”

  “Sir. Your ID says that you are no longer an American citizen!”

  “But I— I’m a Cambionologist! You’ll need me—!”

  “Out!”

  The man tried to protest but was swarmed by the oncoming crowd and tossed into the back ranks. As he dejectedly made his departure, Nicholas caught a glimpse of him. A man in his 30’s perhaps? With bright brown hair and green eyes under what seemed to be goggles. A peculiar sight indeed. Oh well, not that that mattered. A man could be white as snow but as long as he held no American citizenship he was as good as compromised. The outside world was like that. The Europeans were compromised long ago by the Jewish masterminds. America was the only bastion of safety for the good men of God. The ones who will liberate his fellow white man, the Germans, the French, the British, the Nords, etc. from the grip of the globalists.

  Hansel Zimmermann slumped over at the first solid wall he had found. Any second now an immigration officer could be sent after him for having escaped the paperwork process two days prior. And he could be deported back to… well, no one really knew where they’d be deported to. Officers likely decided by throwing darts on a map. Nevertheless, not having his identification papers may be a problem after that rather public commotion. Thankfully for him he’d hit the jackpot at birth and was born to Germans (no blond hair nor blue eyes but good enough to not get stared at in the streets) so it would take a little longer for a customs inspector or whoever to approach him and ask for papers.

  He rolled up his sleeves and tied his luggage tight to his person. It was time for plan B.

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  He slipped into an alley and darted off somewhere towards the docks.

  Pastor Abatangelo could swear that he saw a suspicious man dash across the docks but wiped the thought from his memory as the silhouette vanished from his line of sight. He squinted. Deciding that his vision had deteriorated much too fast for his liking he produced his pair of reading spectacles from his robes and placed them upon his face.

  Deacon Agnusdei was grunting alongside the Pastor, carrying his luggage. Heaving in the effort.

  “That’ll be enough, Deacon Agnusdei,” said the Pastor.

  The Deacon dropped the humongous weight from his shoulders. Pastor Abatangelo’s luggage could probably have serviced two or three people. “A-Are,” Deacon Agnusdei panted, “y-you sure you can handle this all by yourself, Pastor?”

  “Do not worry about me, Deacon Agnusdei, worry about home,” the Pastor picked up the luggage with ease, “about Boston and her honeycrisp apple trees. Red and golden in the autumn breeze. And do not neglect your duties as they appoint a new Pastor. Remember your duties to the Church and to God. As well as to your family.”

  “Y-Yes Pastor, I will complete my duties with utmost effort and pride,” the Deacon was still panting.

  The Pastor smiled and waved, “Till we meet again, Deacon Agnusdei… no, I should say… Till we meet again, Michael.”

  Michael Agnusdei watched on with emotion. The Pastor really had been a father to him. A second papa. His Godfather. A man he looked up to since childhood. The man who pushed him away from inheriting his papa’s criminal empire and into the loving arms of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. The man who baptised him as an infant in the middle of a brutal and bloody gang war.

  The gangs stayed away from the Pastor. Mobsters were daring but their Italian ancestry would not have them breach the lines of tradition. They almost did when the church forced them to convert to Protestantism, but crossing the church also meant crossing Pastor Abatangelo, and not even his papa dared to do that.

  “Send my farewells to your papa for me, Michael.”

  Michael’s tears had already bursted from their dams, “Farewell to you as well, Pastor… no… Father! Christ be with you!”

  “Christ be with you,” the Father replied, turning away and disappearing.

  At that point both of the men had recalled a moment from many years ago. Father Abatangelo had told Michael that he had the name of the Archangel who battled Satan and that he was not destined for a life of crime or an Empire in his name, but for the eternal Kingdom of Heaven up above. And that was sweeter than any amount of blood money could ever be worth.

  ***

  8 hours later.

  Nicholas grunted conflictedly in his quarters, as he had suspected the lesser races were not allowed any tier higher than the lowest, Third Class. Though apparently, some genius had decided that veterans who risked their lives defending the Federation—not even the Great Paul Buyan himself—would not be treated to the luxurious suites of the Cabin Class. Not that he was too mad though, the Tourist Class served him well enough and he was far as can be from the negroes. God forbid if there were any Jews on board.

  He did notice several East and South Asians though, or as far as he was concerned: Chinese and Indians. Then he stumped himself a little, realising he had to now find a way to differentiate between Indians (South Asians) and Indians (Native Americans). If there was anything you could give so-called race realists it was that they loved their categorisation.

  A factor he didn’t account for was that the room assignments for free ticket receivers were preorganised. This meant he shared a room with another free ticket recipient. An Italian fellow who looked like a Pastor. That turned his gut. A lot. But as the man was a Protestant Pastor all he could was grit his teeth and hold his tongue. The Federation (or more accurately the Klan) allowed this to an extent. Impure whites like Spaniards, Portuguese, Slavs and Greeks were allowed some leeway if they converted. As long as they served well and were celibate, at least. Nicholas had long decided that as long as these so-called whites had their impurities bred out perhaps they could climb a few steps higher in the hierarchy.

  Between the two of them, the luggage had stretched end to end from wooden wall to wooden wall. Resettlement was like that. They had to optimise the rooms such that the vessel could transport as many settlers as possible. Though his paranoia at having the Italian near his belongings certainly did not help in conserving space.

  When Nicholas and the Pastor—‘Abatangelo was it?’—first interacted, Nicholas had gotten an eerie feeling from the man. Was it because he was Italian? No. This was different. It was a strange glint in his eyes. A glint he had seen many times on the battlefield. A glint he no doubt wore when raging towards his enemies. He tried to keep conversation to a minimum.

  Finally, after finishing his initial bouts of lazing around and napping, he had grown too uncomfortable staying with the Pastor and left for some food.

  The Pastor did not so much as blink in acknowledgement. He seemed to be concentrating on a strange copy of the Bible Nicholas had never seen before. He let it go and simply left the quarters in search of something to satisfy his growling stomach.

  ***

  Lucius returned to his quarters. He had gone sightseeing on the boat and had gotten a lot of hostile looks from basically everyone on board, not that that was new. Overall he was rather enjoying his time on the vessel. The design was a nice modern style and its accommodations had not been half bad even for the Third Class.

  He inched the door open and was suddenly yanked into the room by Ant.

  Lucius thudded to the floor. Slowly winding himself up he asked Ant, “You’re back already? I thought you’d be out till nighttime.”

  They had separated to explore the ship individually. Large as it was, it made for quite the adventure. Lucius enjoyed watching people in quiet moments like this, even if they looked back in disgust. He had spent his time watching the waves and losing track of time. Who knows what Ant had been doing.

  “I’ll be back out ta grab dinner eventually, but first I got something else t’show ya,” he slammed the door shut and did the lock.

  Lucius’ attention was drawn to their luggage, which had taken up much of their limited 80 square feet of space.

  Something was moving inside Ant’s bag.

  “Ye can come on out now,” said Ant, unzipping his luggage.

  A man emerged from within, gasping huge breaths of air, drinking the atmosphere into his lungs. He laughed, falling over backwards, “Never doing that again!”

  Lucius winced. He had seen this man before. Yes. He was unmistakable. Brown hair, green eyes, goggles. He was the man who had been arguing with the ticket inspector!

  “Found ‘im sneaking around the back of the ship. Scared me to death. Almost pulled my gun out on ‘im! Had a chat. Decided he was a funny guy. Offered ta sneak ‘im into our room.”

  Lucius looked dumbfounded. This wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed something very illegal done by the Red Panthers, or even by Ant, but it was the first time he’d seen a Red Panther cadre chatting so jovially with a white man.

  “The name’s Hansel Zimmermann,” the man reached a hand out to Lucius, “Professional Cambionologist, German, American born, illegal citizen of the Argentine Republic. Legal citizen of nowhere.”

  “Lucius Armstrong,” Lucius shook his hand, “Member of the…” He turned to Ant. Unsure.

  Ant said it aloud, “Member of the Red Panthers. I told him already.”

  “You did? What if he’s a…”

  “It’s alright, if he rats us out, we’ll rat him out too,” Ant played with his gun.

  “Hey, hey,” said the man, “Don’t even think about it. I’ve got friends in here… somewhere. Or at least I’m supposed to have friends here. Hard to tell, only ever talked over the radiotelephone.”

  “Well, I don’t mind an extra person though I don’t know if we’ll have the space to—”

  Hansel dismissed Lucius’ concerns with a wave of his hand, “Oh, that’s alright this ship’s not gonna make it too long anyway.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What?”

  “Oopsies! I said too much, hehe. Just a funny little thing I like to do. Ever played bingo before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, but what does that have to do with—”

  “Let’s put it this way. It’s on my bingo sheet: ‘the SS America will not make it to Australia.’”

  Ant stopped spinning his gun, “Stop speakin’ in metaphors. What the hell are ya talkin’ about?”

  “Hmm,” Hansel mimed thinking profusely, scratching his head, “This ship has a zero percent chance of making it to Australia. That’s my prediction. And also my bet to you. If I win, I get ten billion dollars, if I lose we all live happily ever after. Sounds good?”