The Genesis Block (Blockchain Wars Episode 1) Read online

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  The Genesis Block

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgements

  If you had to choose between reading this short story or another book, go read one of these guys:

  Saifedean Ammous

  Marcus Aurelius

  Henry Hazlitt

  Ludwig Von Mises

  Lew Rockwell

  Tom Woods

  Robert P. Murphy

  Ron Paul

  Murray Rothbard

  David Deida (The Way of the Superior Man)

  Foreword

  “Write like you are a kid again.” That’s one piece of advice I never heeded. Until now.

  The Genesis Block (Blockchain Wars : Episode 1)

  Leonidas, King of the Spartans, stood on the east bank of the Mississippi River. Sweat glistening off his bare chest. A spear in one hand and a bronze shield in the other.

  Murray Rothbard, a wanted man, hid behind a shrub about twenty yards away. He noticed the king wore no armor but for the fabled Spartan tunic. A deep crimson, the color of blood.

  Murray remained silent, gripping his AK-47 as he watched this historic event unfold.

  Facing Leonidas was a stormtrooper of the United Soviet States of America, his M-4 blaster drawn.

  “Get back on your ship and return where you came from filthy goatbanger,” the trooper said.

  Broadband antennas and a polarized visor made up the trooper’s facemask. His voice an electronic buzz.

  “I cannot do that,” Leonidas said, unmoving.

  “This isn’t your fight Spartan. Go home.”

  Snarling, Leonidas took a step forward. “It certainly is. It always is and always will be. You promote imperialism over protection, coercion over free will, and authoritarianism over freedom. Last time someone tried to do that to us, they died.” He tightened his grip on his spear. “And so did I.”

  The Spartan warrior charged.

  The stormtrooper opened fire.

  Sparks flew from Leonidas’s shield, creating a golden splendor around the two of them.

  Some blaster bolts found flesh, but the Spartan kept coming.

  Lowering his spear, he drove the steel tip through the high-tech armor of his enemy.

  “This is Sparta,” Leonidas whispered, inches from the trooper’s face.

  He withdrew his spear and they both fell to ground.

  Leonidas clutched at purple welts rising from his chest as he gasped for air.

  Murray crawled out from under the shrub and ran toward the fallen king.

  Cheers rang out from the river. The decks of ancient war ships were a spectacle of crimson and bronze. Spartan commanders barked orders while soldiers scurried down the side of the vessels to prepare the row boats.

  Murray skittered to a stop over the fallen king.

  Leonidas lay on his back staring at the sun, chest heaving. He tried to speak but all he could produce was a labored wheezing.

  Murray called to the approaching Spartans. “Medic! Your king needs a medic.”

  The first to reach them was a female.

  “I am Korinna,” she said. Murray gave an awkward bow.

  She knelt next to Leonidas and examined his wounds.

  “These are evil wounds indeed. This black bile has been the cause of death for many a warrior,” she said as salves, herbs, and oils were handed to her from the other women arriving.

  Spartan infantry, in precise shoulder to shoulder formation created a large rectangular perimeter around their fallen king. The famed Spartan phalanxes of ancient history made landfall on the banks of the Mississippi River. Murray could only stare slack jawed.

  As Korinna crushed leaves into a small pestle she tilted her head to Murray. “So you must be the one who brought us here?”

  “Yes. Will the King live?” It was all Murray could do to hide his concern. If the king dies the entire operation was for nothing. And it would be Murray Rothbard, freedom fighter, who through a technology this Spartan race would never begin to comprehend, brought the Spartans to their death a second time in their history.

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “Our king would never pass up a chance to save civilization.”

  Eyes still closed and breathing as if he just scaled ten mountains, a pained smile crept across Leonidas’s face.

  “Hold still,” Korinna said as she rubbed a poultice into his wounds.

  Leonidas flinched. “Remember,” he said through gulps of air, “you can’t kill a god.”

  “You are not a god. Yet. Now hold still.” Korinna pressed down on his chest. Leonidas stiffened as if paralyzed.

  Moments later his breathing was noticeably less uneven. Leonidas drifted off to sleep.

  Murray paced.

  Getting the ships passed the border patrols in the Gulf was the easy part. Send them some bitcoin and the guards look the other way. Murray had used this tactic time and time again when smuggling all sorts of contraband into the Soviet States. But this was different. There was an ancient Greek army on USSA soil and there was no doubt that dead trooper broadcasted the whole damn thing to the entire world.

  “Korinna, we cannot stay here much longer,” he said softly.

  “He needs rest. Those weapons and these wounds should have killed them. What kind of magic is this?”

  Murray had no answer to that. The king should be dead. He agreed with her on that point but said nothing.

  It was dark when Leonidas woke. Campfires and lean-tos hugged the bank of the Mississippi while the infantry remained on guard. Men lugged nets filled with freshly caught fish from the river while the women prepared drink and scolded the children for their rough housing underfoot.

  Korinna sat cross legged rubbing a cloth dipped in scented oils on Leonidas’s forehead.

  Murray was close by staring into the flames. His AK-47 by his side.

  Still groggy Leonidas propped himself on an elbow, grimacing. “Is it true the Persians have their own country?”

  Murray noticed color returning to the king’s face. “They are known as Iranians now.”

  “Names change but their nature does not. Are they still savages?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “A pity. I’d love to go toe to toe with those Persian devils again.”

  “Their technology along with help from the Russians is what helped bring you here.”

  “Russians?”

  “Slavs. You wouldn’t know them,” Murray said.

  “More savages.”

  ”We still have a greater foe in front of us,” Murray warned, “more fierce and more powerful.”

  “This country of yours must be an oppressive people indeed to ally yourself with Persians.”

  “It wasn’t always like this.”

  Leonidas nodded but said nothing. Murray continued: “Only a few generations ago we were a land of freedom, liberty, and happiness. Our nation was the greatest thing to happen to mankind in the entire history of the world. Our men were strong and stoic. We stood on the shoulders of the great civilizations that came before us.”

  Murray lowered his head, darkness creeping across his face. “But it wasn’t a foreign enemy that destroyed us, like so many civilizations before us. It wasn’t a natural disaster or a plague either.”

  “What was it? What evil could destroy a free people? Was it Cerberus? Cyclopes? The wrath of Zeus?”

  “No King Leonidas. Something far worse.” Murray paused. “Communism.”

  “What in bloody hell is that?”

  Murray stood up and eyed the area around him. Nearby a solider placed a freshly cooked fish
on a ceramic plate and was about to sit and enjoy the meal.

  Murray picked up his AK-47 and walked over to the man.

  Leonidas sat up and looked on.

  “You there,” Murray said. “Cut me half of your fish?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed but said nothing.

  Murray raised his AK-47. “I said give me half your fish.”

  A few soldiers stopped eating and slowly reached for their weapons.

  Leonidas shook his head. The men stood down.

  “Go catch and cook your own fish. This one is mine.” the man said.

  Murray stepped closer. The barrel of his gun inches from the man’s chest.

  “You saw what our weapons did to your king. Would you like to chance a worse fate?”

  The man looked around unsure of how to handle the situation. Murray suddenly regretted his action. This man had been bred for war. Murray didn’t expect to live another second. Just then the soldier reached into a pouch attached to his belt and pulled out a knife. He cut the fish and grimacing, gave half to Murray.

  Murray walked to Leonidas and presented the king with half of fish. “That, my king, is communism.”

  Leonidas reluctantly took the fish. Murray unslung his weapon and sat back down.

  “If this was Sparta you’d be dead.” the king said.

  “Exactly.”

  For the next few minutes there was silence. Korinna, content with her king’s health, engaged in other tasks about the camp.

  When Leonidas finished eating he gestured to Murray. “Hand me your weapon.”

  “AK-47, Russian made, a relic from my great grandfather’s time” Murray said as he handed over his AK-47.

  Leonidas ran his hands over the metal. And examined every angle. “This weapon kills?”

  “Efficiently.”

  Chest out, Leonidas rubbed the bandages on his chest. “But it didn’t kill me.”

  “No. It didn’t.” This still baffled Murray but he kept the thought to himself. Perhaps the mighty Spartans were gods after all.

  “I’d like to learn how to use this weapon.” He handed the weapon back to Murray. “In return I will show your army how to use the spear and the shield.”

  “We have no army. Not since the war.”

  Leonidas scratched his head, a puzzled look on his face. “No army?”

  “Hunted down and killed.”

  “Impossible, what kind of army is hunted. Did they not stand and fight to the death?”

  “They were betrayed by the very people they fought for. Some went into hiding, living in burnt out towns and cities. Some adapted to the new system, receiving their I.D. chips like caged cattle, and some escaped overseas and found refuge in lawless regions, like Afghanistan and Somalia.”

  Leonidas got to his feet. “No more skulking about then. The Spartans are here now. We will breathe strength and honor back into your people. Point me in the direction of your enemy.”

  “Their seat of power is in New York. The region is heavily guarded. Border walls, state of the art weaponry, a well-trained secret police and military.”

  Leonidas waved one of his captains over. “Prepare to march. Women and children as well. We shall see how they fare against Sparta.”

  “We can’t just march hundreds of miles in the open King Leonidas, they will pulverize us,” Murray said.

  Leonidas growled, “Let them try. I look forward to meeting them on the battlefield.”

  “They have no honor King. They will fight behind their walls and send death from the sky.”

  “Then death is what they shall receive.”

  Leonidas turned back to his captain.

  Murray knew he couldn’t deny Leonidas his day of glory. They died once defending their homeland, they will die again without a moment’s hesitation.

  “What if I can get you and your army inside New York City?”

  “Inside the belly of the beast?” Leonidas raised an eyebrow. “What kind of deviltry is this now?”

  “Not deviltry my Lord. A tunnel was built during the war to smuggle munitions to rebel sympathizers in New York. The entrance is in what was once Kentucky. The last state to fall. It was generations ago but if the stories are true that would be our safest passage.”

  “Then that’s the road we take.”

  The journey to the Kentucky Tennessee border took two days. Murray marched at the front of the column next to Leonidas. By dawn of the second day Murray had to drop back. The pace of the Spartans, even the women and children, left Murray in awe. The entire company did not stop once. He knew they were a disciplined people, tougher than most cultures in all of history, but their grit and determination was something Murray never saw from his generation or from any in over a century. It was as if they were a higher level human.

  When they reached a small chain of wooded hills marking the Kentucky border a child burst from the trees, his arms raised.

  Murray raised his AK-47.

  A solider marching nearby laughed, gesturing to Murray. “This is a strange place indeed if unarmed children frighten grown men.”

  Murray knew mercenaries loyal to the USSA still roamed this region. Age old bounties put on the heads of suspected rebels.

  The kid kept coming. He was thin and dark. His hair a nest of twisted dreadlocks.

  Leonidas halted their advance as Murray ran to the front of the column.

  The kid was about fifty paces away when he dropped to his knees, hands behind his head. “I have a message from The Gold Peaks Mining Corporation.” He had a thick Jamaican accent.

  Leonidas gave Murray a quizzical look.

  “How did you know we were coming?” Murray said, gun still aimed at the kid.

  The kid turned his attention to Leonidas. “The world knows you are here, you’ve gone viral. I was sent to help you.”

  “What is this about?” For the first time Murray noticed the king seemed unsure.

  “Gold Peaks Mining Corporation take bitcoin to allow passage through the tunnel,” Murray explained. “They protect it, maintain it, and keep it hidden from enemies. I thought there was nothing left of that outfit.” Murray turned to the kid. “How can you help us?”

  “We know what you seek. I’ll take you there.”

  Murray lowered his weapon. “We will discuss payment after our arrival.”

  The kid got to his feet. A second later his eyes went wide.

  An explosion rocked the Spartan column. Bodies flew. Screams, earth and blood sprayed in every direction. Above them, drones fell from the sky.

  “Spread out, shields up,” Leonidas barked.

  Ten thousand Spartans broke into separate units. Women and children ran underneath the mighty Spartan shields as they closed ranks.

  Murray joined Leonidas. The Jamaican kid not far behind.

  More drones.

  More screams.

  Murray figured it was a matter of time before they were blown to bits. Yet the shields held.

  Leonidas peered between their defenses.

  The earth burned. Body parts lay scattered about.

  “We cannot sustain much more,” he said.

  “Follow me into the hills. The trees will give us cover,” the Jamaican boy said and bolted toward the forest covering the hills.

  “King Leonidas, these drones will tear us apart if we stay close together,” Murray cautioned.

  Leonidas nodded, his face hardened. He turned to one of his captains, “Send the command to break ranks and head for the cover of the forest.”

  His captain paused a moment.

  “Even the women and children. Do it now,” Leonidas barked.

  Spartans scattered. No longer under the protection of the shields it was an all out sprint into the hills.

  Drones still fell and bodies still flew. There was a cacophony of screams and battle cries. As Murray ran he noticed the women and children kept pace with the soldiers.

  Once in the wooded hills fire rained down. Trees blazed as chunks of tinder cra
shed to the earth like meteors. Murray skittered around charred bodies. Through smoke and death he managed to keep sight of the Jamaican boy scaling the crest of a hill.

  Murray reached the top moments later but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Down here.” At Murray’s feet an iron door lay open revealing the top of a ladder, the Jamaican kid standing a few rungs down beckoning to him.

  Others fleeing the carnage ran to them.

  Murray jumped onto the ladder and climbed down.

  Leonidas was already down pacing like a caged animal. Fleeing and hiding from an enemy was foreign to the Spartan king. That much Murray expected. But as less and less survivors descended the ladder a look of anguish crossed Leonidas’s face.

  After a few minutes more the kid slammed the iron door shut.

  “How many made it?” Murray asked.

  “Three hundred,” the king said.

  Above them the earth thundered.

  Everyone who made it was brought into a vast cavern. Excavation equipment of every kind was pushed against the walls like a battalion of armored tanks waiting deployment.

  People of all ages emerged from other areas of the underground structure to catch a glimpse of the spectacle Murray and his allies made.

  An old Asian man leaning on a cane stepped forward, a gun holstered to a worn leather belt. “So it is true,” he said. It was directed at Leonidas and it wasn’t a question.

  Leonidas gave slight nod.

  “Come with me,” the old man said hobbling towards an opening in one of the stone walls.

  Murray and Leonidas followed. It didn’t escape Murray that Leonidas, King of Sparta, just took a command unquestioned from an old man they just met.

  They emerged from the open space into a small white paneled room. High along the far wall, monitors transmitted live satellite images and news broadcasts from across the globe.

  Jersualem, Riyadh, New York, and London played the same footage over and over. Leonidas’s confrontation on the bank of the Mississippi.

  A headline scrolled across the bottom of the screens: “Terror From Our Dark Past.”

  The propaganda has begun, Murray thought.

  The Jamaican kid sat at a fiber glass table in the center of the room. The old man sat down next to him.