The semaphore chain across the coast had warned them of the approaching fast ship sporting an official pavilion. While the engineers of the United States were busy trying to copy English designs, it was a sad truth that no one, save the Brits would be able to run a ship across the Atlantic in ten days rather than the six weeks it would take for a normal clipper.

Thankfully, those fast ships are relatively small, Avery Randel thought.

The idea of these ships being able to reinforce and supply armies across the world would be terrible. Despite the British Empire having no longer any foothold on the continent and having signed peace, they remained… a potential enemy. George III was still king, and as long as he ruled, the English would certainly never forget their former colonies, not the Americans the Mad King. They might not be at war at the moment, but you never knew when one could flare.

Normally, he wouldn’t check on every ship that arrived in Manhattan, but that one had a pavilion on its mast indicating diplomatic service. What could bring British officials to the American shores, that was an interesting question.

The gangplank extended, and the two powered-armour Guard Units placed themselves on both sides on the landing. They locked themselves at parade rest, diplomatically leaving their rotating gun arms pointing to the ground.

The woman who descended on the gangplank was… formidable indeed. Plate-clad, with copper-bronze whorls spiralling over a steel-looking finish. The only people who wore that kind of armour in the gunpowder era were Professionals. Randell was unfamiliar with Professionals. In his position, you picked things from the world beyond the Gate and met some, but he was not versed in the intricacies of their progression “system”. Just from the look of it, she was wearing very high-level, high-quality gear, which implied a high tier behind it.

“Imposing Knight Augusta Cowen. I bring greetings from his Majesty George III.”

Randell had no idea what kind of Profession it was exactly. The type of the designation seemed to indicate some kind of top tier… six? Probably six. If that was true, this was probably someone at the pinnacle of the British Profession scale. US Professionals were already exploring tier seven, but less than a dozen had managed to grab one of the available options and more were slowly making progress toward their next step.

“Greetings, Mrs Cowen. I am Avery Randel, representing Lieutenant General John Tayler and the Government of the United States.”

He looked at the woman, but she was unreadable. As always when it came to high-tier Professionals, it felt like she was catching his entire attention as if the world existed for her and her only. She simply stood at the edge of the plank, waiting for him.

“I welcome you to the United States.”

And with these words, her plate glove vanished abruptly, and she extended her hand. Randel grasped it warily, but he only felt as if he had been grasped in an iron tong, rather than crushed in a vice. There was no doubt she had superhuman strength if she was tier-six, but she didn’t display it. She did not need to. If he had been a Professional, he’d have introduced himself as such. As it was… he was merely a mundane. A high ranking official, but non-Professional.

Avery saw more people starting down the gangplank. A hooded figure in a red-orange woollen robe, sleeves joined as if he… or she was a penitent. A green leather-clad man. A woman wearing flowing midnight black robes with complicated grey lines. Ending the line was a man that for a second Randel thought being a seaman escorting them, but the black-and-white leather diagonal mask covering his face dispelled that idea rather quickly.

“My team,” was Cowen’s only explanation.

Randel didn’t let any expression show. Two Guard Units might be barely able to contain a high-tier Professional, although tier six was a dangerous proposition, notably in close quarters. A full team of five upper-tiers? He’d have to mobilize nearly half of Manhattan’s guard to be sure. But thankfully, the mission here was… diplomatic. Even if saying no to a British Professional might be a bad idea in general, no wars would be started today.

“And what brings your team to the port of New York City?” Avery asked.

“We came to ask for permission to use your Gate.”

As they drove across the roads toward Gatewatch Square, Avery Randel reflected on the baleful news brought by Augusta Cowen. If the woman was to be believed, the French… had a way of shutting down a Great Gilded Gate.

When Cowen had left England, the London Gate had been inert for over a week and a half. A “simple” sculpted metal circle – still unbreakable – with no trace of the lighted disc that indicated the entrance to the Labyrinth.

“And nobody has seen any indication of a Descriptor at your Gate?” Cowen asked.

“Nobody has seen anything. Neither guard nor Professional going and coming. And nobody has reported anything abnormal regarding Gate behaviour. If you hadn’t come… nobody could have known about this,” Randell answered.

While it was not impossible that the British Professionals were dissembling and had come for a nefarious reason, the reason they had reached for the USA as fast as they could do was obvious. Without a Gate, they were cut from the Professionals operating in the Labyrinth. Thus, they were trying to bridge across the Labyrinth, hoping to figure out how things were on that other side.

The more calculating part of Randel was trying to figure out how that would translate into an advantage for the United States. But what absolutely terrified him was what would happen if the French managed to do that again… on the Federal Gate.

“The prisoners we made – both of them – had been uncooperative so far. We can contain them, but most interrogation methods are useless against a high-tier Professional. Which they are.”

“The government is probably going to ask you lots of questions.”

Cowen winced visibly.

“I’ll be doing my best to answer, but we need to be on our way as fast as possible. If we can have permission to acquire a tier-two gate to come back, that will help. If not, a list of lairs so we can make our way back fast across the Great Line.”

Randel noted that she hadn’t asked for a zone path. No doubt British spies had good lists of the USA sectors, even if they did not have the exact details.

After all, the Americans had a good – if partial – catalogue of the ones around Grailburg, their starting zone.

“I will see what we can do,” he said, trying to be non-committal.

Cowen relaxed in her seat.

“I cannot ask for more.”

The carriage turned as the last vestige of woodland turned into buildings, and the village of Gatewatch appeared. The Commission for the development of New York had drawn magnificent plans for the growth of the city, with the help of his brother, but Gatewatch was growing faster than they could manage, and their perfect square plans were already moot around the Gate area, as buildings were erected yearly over land appropriated under eminent domain.

There were even talks of bringing back the Congress and the Office of the President to New York City, considering the strategic importance of the Gate. If that happened, the Commissioners would be hard-pressed to keep their utopian order on the city’s growth.

Meanwhile… Avery Randel had an urgent appointment to make with the Governor and the Gate Office Under-Secretary.