by Sam Clark
When the original group had entered the bunker, there were more men than women—hardly surprising in a paramilitary group. The younger men in the militia tended to be unmarried. They ended up taking the teenage daughters of the older militia members as wives. This created a lag, with older men tending to marry younger women. Further, the numerical balance between the genders still hadn’t been corrected. As a result, there was fierce competition for women.
Obedience was expected of the women, but the only thing that was unforgivable was refusing to marry and have babies. That’s what the women were here for, to pop out little militiamen. Oh, they put the girls through training, but it was a joke compared to what their male counterparts got. Where you could really see it was in their coursework. As the years went on, the girls’ studies veered away from the martial toward increasingly domestic topics. It started gradually at first—focusing on things like how to run a field camp, treating illness, and stitching cuts. The “women’s work” of running an army. Then it went into things like sewing and cooking. Still skills useful for a soldier, but once you got into needlepoint, it was hard to see the military utility. Then all pretense disappeared with the girls’ senior seminar: “How to Be a Good Wife and Mother.” And what’s your graduation present? Lifetime employment as a baby-factory. Congratulations.
The leadership was afraid if one person called bullshit on all of it, by say training with the men and refusing to marry, then it wouldn’t be long until someone else did too, and then another. And then what would they do? How long would it be before their little patriarchal heaven came crashing down on them?
The only person close to her own age who never shunned Czarina in public was her younger sister Isabella. She even used to try and sit by her, until Czarina told her not to. Why should they both suffer? Now they only ate together on weekends, when the meal schedule went by wings so families could eat together.
As if on cue, Czarina noticed her younger sister enter the cafeteria, flanked by Jenkins.
And Steve.
Czarina could feel the corners of her mouth involuntarily turning downward into a frown. Poker face, Czarina. With some effort, she managed to exert control over the muscles of her face and return them to the blank, neutral expression she so often practiced in the mirror. She almost smiled when she thought of how the practice was paying off, but caught herself just in time.
While Jenkins had been following Isabella around for some time, Steve’s interest was new, and much more disturbing. Steve was a little more than a year older than Czarina, which made him eighteen, or about five years too old to be interested in Czarina’s thirteen-and-a-half-year-old sister. Czarina had no doubt Steve’s newfound interest in her sister was to get back at her for humiliating him.
Isabella walked by Czarina on her way to her table, her two suitors still in tow. “Hi, Rina,” she said.
Czarina responded with a nod.
Obviously hoping to win points with Isabella, Jenkins also greeted Czarina, mumbling, “Hey.”
“Jenkins, don’t forget, same time tomorrow,” Czarina said.
Jenkins didn’t respond, but his cheeks reddened, and his pace quickened a bit in an effort to hasten his exit from the zone of malignancy surrounding Czarina.
Isabella looked back over her shoulder as she passed and mouthed, What?
Czarina flashed a big grin and shrugged her shoulders. Damn, wrong smile. Then, just like that, the smile was gone, replaced once again by her neutral expression.
Czarina spent the next few minutes pushing her food around on the metal tray, taking only the occasional bite. Eventually, she’d eat it all. You didn’t waste food when you lived in a self-contained underground facility. That was one norm she never thought of challenging. Besides, she was a growing girl who needed all the food she could get. For now, she was just killing time, waiting for Marisa’s eventual arrival.
While Czarina was usually the first to arrive, Marisa was usually the last. Most days, she would saunter in just as they were shutting down the serving line at 0620, or even after. However, the servers never gave her any grief for her late arrival. One of the perks of being Colonel Mueller’s daughter. Another difference: While Czarina always came alone, Marisa always came surrounded by two or three other girls.
Men didn’t swarm around Marisa like they did most of the women. Another effect of being the militia leader’s kid. Not to mention, her brother had earned his nickname: Psycho.
Most people in Czarina’s situation would have gone for easier game, but not her. She always dreamed big, consequences be damned. However, it might be a bit generous to say she was openly pursuing Marisa. A few casual nods here, the occasional covert smile there—for Marisa’s eyes only, of course—was about as much as she’d managed since she had begun her mission on her sixteenth birthday, nearly three hundred days ago.
The depressingly few times Czarina had managed to speak to Marisa, or even in her general direction, had always been under the same circumstances. Occasionally, after Czarina finished her afternoon run, she would see Marisa and her entourage in the corridors. In the full grip of her runner’s high, Czarina could sometimes manage to get out a “Hey” or a “How’s it going” without sounding like a complete moron.
Since beginning her pursuit, Czarina had had seven such encounters with Marisa and her friends. The most recent had been one week prior. It was the fourth encounter where she had managed to speak. And, oh, how she wished she hadn’t. She had meant to say a nice casual “Hey, ladies,” maybe throw in a nonchalant nod, and then be on her way. Smooth as silk. Instead, her nerves had raised her voice an entire octave, and it came out more like “Heyyy, ladies!” Not surprisingly, it induced even more giggling than her previous greetings had. Afterward, as she reviewed the encounter again and again in her mind, Czarina decided the whole thing had been a complete and unequivocal disaster, on par with Custer’s Last Stand. She had then spiraled into her most recent episode and hadn’t been to school since.
Marisa made her entrance right at 0620. She was wearing her ‘uniform,’ which was the same as everyone else’s, but less. Her long-john top had a deep slit cut in the collar, as if the tightness of the top didn’t do enough to emphasize her cleavage, and, of course, there were her short-shorts, which showcased her long legs.
As usual, Marisa was accompanied by some shadows. Becky was on her left. She was a rather unattractive girl, tall and lanky with a beak-like nose and hair the color of mud. On her right was Regina, who was the inverse of Becky, short and thick like the morning porridge. Marisa’s compatriots didn’t do themselves any favors, hovering over the shoulder of a girl so much more attractive than them. Czarina wondered if it was intentional on Marisa’s part, to make herself look even better, or if she genuinely liked the two girls. In the end, Czarina supposed it didn’t really make much of a difference for Becky and Regina. Women were at a premium, and even an unattractive woman would have multiple suitors to choose from.
As the girls began to make their way to their table, Czarina lowered her eyes back to her plate. Don’t get caught staring, creeper. She kept her eyes averted for as long as she could, which probably wasn’t long. When Czarina finally did look up, she looked everywhere she could, except in Marisa’s direction. Finally, with a sigh to settle her nerves, Czarina slowly turned her head toward Marisa’s seat.
And Marisa was looking right at her, smiling.
Holy shit. Don’t just stare, Czarina. Do something. Anything. Smile back. Wink. Don’t just sit here, staring like a jackass.
Czarina slowly lowered her gaze back to her porridge. A coward dies a thousand times. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Ignoring her will make her more interested.
Well, if that’s the case, then she must be super fucking interested because I’ve been doing a whole lot of ignoring.
Czarina managed to finish her breakfast, return her tray, and leave the cafeteria without making eye contact with Marisa again—or with anyone else, for
that matter.
FIVE
Location: Edward Falls
Date: 4-22-61
Preston walked around the outside edge of the manor’s courtyard with his nephew Roger at his side. The quiet was strange to Preston’s ears; he was used to the grunts, clacks, and thuds that accompanied the never-ending battles between Edison and his training partners. However, Edison had broken for lunch, and Preston was taking the opportunity for a constitutional. He had always felt light exercise helped him think more clearly, and he was trying to pass the practice on to Roger.
His nephew was a good boy, with a sharp, curious mind. The problem was going to be getting him to keep using it. He was six years old, and Kathy had agreed he could begin training with a blade when he turned seven. She had made it conditional on him keeping up with his studies, but Preston worried that with time that requirement would erode until Roger, like his father, cared about nothing but fighting.
“How many seats are there in the House of Lords?” Preston asked.
“Sixty-six, Uncle.”
“Correct. And why are there sixty-six seats?”
“Because there are sixty-six lordships in the south. One for each county.”
“Good. How many nobles currently hold seats in the House of Lords?”
Roger smiled broadly, revealing the gap where his top two front teeth used to be. “You can’t trick me, Uncle Preston.” Then the smile faded, and his brow furrowed. “I don’t know the exact number, but it’s less than sixty-six, because some people have more than one lordship.”
“Correct again. The exact number changes fairly frequently—sometimes it goes up, sometimes it goes down.” And it’ll keep going down if I have my say. “The important point is, some people hold more than one seat, and therefore get more than one vote.”
“How many votes do you get, Uncle?”
“I hold six counties: Buffalo, Lyman, Jones, Jackson, Oglala, and Bennett. Therefore I get six votes.”
“How many does my dad get?”
“He gets ten.”
“Wow, that’s a lot! Way more than you.”
“I wouldn’t say way more.”
“Does my dad have the most? I bet he does. Nobody’s better than him.”
I bet he tells you so fifteen times a day. “Yes, he has the most votes.”
“I knew it! Do you have the second most votes?”
“No, I have the third most. Lord Gunner holds eight counties.” For now. “The most important of them is Pennington, where Rap City is located. After me, there is a drop-off. There is one lord, Lord Fredrick, who controls three counties. To get his counties, he married very well. Twice.” And unfortunately for me, his wives were as fertile as rabbits. Fourteen sons between them. “There are also a few who control two counties, with the rest having just one.”
“Do you have a lot of subjects, Uncle?”
“Very few, actually. Most of my counties are very sparsely populated, except Oglala, but I’ve never been there.”
“Why not?”
“While Oglala is part of the Free Counties in name, it is not in practice. It’s the home of the Tribal Nations. For now.”
“Am I a lord, Uncle?”
“Not yet, but someday. When your father dies, you’ll inherit his lands and titles. And will you have to fight for them?”
“No,” Roger said, sullenly. He pouted for just an instant before reciting the passage Preston had given him to memorize after their last lesson. “Inheritance Tournaments are held when a county-lord dies without a male heir. If the lord holds more than one county, there will be one tournament for each county.”
“Very good. And what do the Articles of Confederation of the Free Counties have to say about male heirs?”
Roger recited, “‘Only natural-born sons and the husbands of natural-born daughters may be designated as heirs for the purposes of passing on the title of county-lord and the lands associated therewith.’”
“Correct. Now let’s try a practical application. What will happen to my lands and personal possessions when I die?” Preston asked.
“Umm… ah… I’m not sure.
Preston was hardly surprised; the boy had an excellent memory and learned quickly when he put in the time, but the system was rather nuanced, especially for someone Roger’s age. “If I were to die without children, neither your father nor you would be able to inherit my titles and the landholdings that come with them, even though we’re blood relations. They would be redistributed through Inheritance Tournaments. However, I could pass on my personal wealth and possessions to your father or you.”
Roger’s face took on a very serious expression. “Don’t worry, Uncle. I won’t let anybody else get your lands when you die. I’ll fight for them, and I’ll win too.”
Preston smiled at the boy’s spirit. “No doubt you will, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that for a long time.” They walked together in silence for a moment before Preston resumed the civics lesson. “Now tell me, Roger, what does the House of Lords do?”
Roger slowed, then came to a stop. His brow drew down and his lower lip tucked under his remaining upper teeth. In that moment, Roger looked every bit his father’s son, and it threatened to gnaw Preston raw. It should have been his son. Preston ripped his eyes away and focused on the vines gradually creeping their way up the courtyard walls. He struggled to swallow his anger. His time would come. He would be more than his father and brother ever were, ever could have dreamed of being. He just had to be patient.
“I’ve got it!” Roger exclaimed. “They lord over things.”
Preston couldn’t help but laugh. “Not a bad guess. In truth, it does very little. It meets just once a year. Immediately a vote to table all new business is introduced. It passes, and the meeting adjourns until the following year. That way everyone can go home and keep doing everything exactly the same way they have been.”
“Then why do I have to learn about it?”
“Because someday, someone might change that.”
Edison and Bear walked into the courtyard, both gesticulating wildly as they talked. When Edison noticed Preston, he smiled broadly. “Did you hear the big news, little brother?”
“No, I haven’t heard. Do tell.”
“There’s been a fire at Gunner’s place. His son-in-law was found burned to a crisp, and Gunner’s missing, presumed dead.”
It was Preston’s turn to smile. All his patience was paying off. Yes, it’s all going to change someday very soon.
SIX
Location: Underground
Date: 8-15-61
Czarina exhaled forcefully as she pushed her body away from the ground with shaking arms.
“Four!” Sergeant Fegan shouted.
Inhaling sharply, Czarina lowered her body back to the ground, the burning in her chest and arms growing stronger. She came to a stop with her nose just shy of the rough concrete floor, paused for two beats of her heart, then returned to the starting position.
“Three! Keep your form, you fucking pussies! Now drop.”
Come on, Czarina. You got this. She watched as two beads of sweat dripped off the tip of her nose and splashed to the floor, then she followed them to the ground. Once more she managed to push herself back up.
“Two!”
You can do two more, Czarina. No problem. She normally breezed through the calisthenics that began each day of training. However, after her weeklong ‘vacation,’ she was struggling. As she went back to the ground, Czarina could feel her hips dipping slightly out of alignment with the imaginary straight line running from her heels to the crown of her head. Despite her faltering form she managed to make it back to the starting position. There was no way she would give Fegan an excuse to start harassing her this early in the day. There’d be plenty of time for that later.
“Last one, douchebags!”
Czarina dropped down one last time. With a grunt she was none too proud of, she pushed herself back to the starting position, and then jumped
to her feet, as if the whole thing was easy as could be.
“Weapons training time! Archery day. Get your hands off your cocks and onto a bow,” Fegan bellowed.
There were twenty-four other cadets in Czarina’s cohort, all male, ranging in age from fourteen to eighteen. Most of them rushed to get their preferred bow, but Czarina took her time. She walked slowly, shaking the soreness from her arms. She knew there’d be a bow left she liked; there always was. Better to get her arms ready to draw.
“Hurry the fuck up, St. John,” Fegan yelled. “Ya lazy piece of shit!”
Czarina sighed quietly to herself before breaking into a slow jog. If she were to make a list of all the people in the bunker who hated her, Fegan’s name would have been just behind Steve’s on a rather long list. She had no idea why the drill sergeant hated her above and beyond the general disdain she got from everybody. Probably because Fegan was an angry and petty man, looking for a socially acceptable outlet for his sadistic tendencies. Czarina just happened to be that outlet. Lucky me.
Czarina grabbed one of the women’s bows from the wall. She currently used a forty-pound draw, the lightest in the class by twenty pounds. Whereas most of her peers used the heaviest draw they could manage, she had always chosen a weight she could easily pull. As a result, her shooting motion was smooth and fluid, while most of the others had to wrestle and jerk the string back. When it came to bow shooting, she figured the extra power from a heavier draw was irrelevant if you couldn’t hit your target. Sure, arrows shot with the heavier draw flew flatter, but that was easily compensated for by using lighter arrows. And skill.
Her light draw used to be one of things her classmates and instructors made fun of her for—her so-called ‘Barbie bow.’ Not anymore, though. She’d been so much better than everybody else for so long, they had eventually stopped. Hell, for all she knew, she might be the best archer alive. That was why she liked archery so much. It had nothing to do with archery itself, and everything to do with the fact that she liked being better than everyone else at something.