“Well,” Clayton Charles said, “I’d certainly like to get into that.”
The bus rocked with laughter.
“I didn’t mean it that way!” the chief correspondent said, his face crimson.
Judith shook her head. “I’m ... still very confused about this area. I just witnessed a young lady—a teen-ager—beat up a grown man with nothing but her hands for weapons, and you people obviously thought it perfectly all right for her to do so. It’s obvious you are teaching your young that violence—in some forms, and incidents, I suppose—is acceptable. Yet, I have only to look out the window to see that your society is religious. You people claim to have completely obliterated hunger, poverty, and slums.... That’s the height of compassion. Yet capital punishment—so we’ve been told—is the law of the land. Tri-states seems to be, at least to me, a marvelous combination of good and evil.”
“We agree on the definition of one word, but not on the other,” Bridge replied. He found himself, for some reason, liking this reporter; he believed she would report fairly. “Here in our society, we have, I believe, returned to the values of our forefathers—in part. Much more emphasis is placed on the rights of a law-abiding citizen than on the punks who commit the crimes.
“There is honor here that you don’t have in your states—that you haven’t had in your central government for decades. You people still want it both ways, and it won’t work; I’m amazed that you can’t see that. We believe our system will always be worlds apart from yours. We set it up that way.”
“Then where does that leave Tri-states and the rest of America?” he was asked.
“In a position of separate but workable coexistence.”
“But that violates the entire concept of United States.”
Bridge glanced at the bus driver, the man who would soon be moving into the area. The driver smiled and shook his head.
He understands, Bridge thought. Even if the others don’t. “I suppose it does,” Bridge said. “But that is not our problem. And it’s yours only if you make it a problem.”
He sat down and turned his back to the reporters.
The town of Vista lay quiet and peaceful under a warm early summer sun. People tended gardens and mowed lawns. Kids played along the sidewalks and yards, their laughter and behavior reminiscent of an age long past. No horns honked, no mufflers roared, no huge trucks rumbled about. Trucks, unless they were moving vans, were forbidden to enter residential areas. The only exception was pickups. Unless it was an emergency, horns did not honk in Tri-states. Straight pipes, glass packs, and other such adolescent silliness were banned. There were lots of sidewalks—all of them new—to walk upon, and there were bike paths for the pedalers. Speed limits were low, and they were rigidly enforced.
A contentment hung in the air; a satisfaction that could almost be felt, as if everyone here had finally found a personal place under the sun and was oh, so happy with it. A mood of safety, tranquillity, and peace surrounded the area.
To the newspeople, that was unsettling.
The buses and vans parked in front of a split-level home on the outskirts of town. In the two-car garage, there stood a pickup truck and a late-model (the last year automobiles were made), small station wagon. Parked in the drive was a standard military Jeep with a whip antenna on the rear and a waterproof scabbard on the right front side. The flap was open, exposing the stock of a .45-caliber Thompson SMG.
“You people are certainly careless with weapons,” a reporter remarked.
“Why?” Bridge looked at him.
He pointed to the Thompson. “Someone could steal that.”
Bridge shrugged. “Everyone in this state, male and female, over the age of sixteen has an automatic weapon and five hundred rounds of ammunition assigned to them, also a sidearm with fifty rounds of ammunition, three grenades, and a jump knife. Why would anyone want to steal an old Thompson?”
“Well, goddamn it!” The reporter lost his temper. He quickly checked it. “There are children, you know.” Being from a large city—that no longer existed—the reporter’s knowledge of firearms was limited to pointing his finger and making “bang-bang” noises.
But Bridge was under orders to be patient. “Sir, do you see that metal object on the top of the weapon, just above and in front of the stock? The stock is that long, funny-shaped wooden thing. You do? Good! That is a bolt lever. When it is pulled back, locked in position, as it is now, that signifies the weapon is void of ammunition. In Tri-states, any ten-year-old would know that.”
If looks could kill, Bridge would have fallen over.
A young man wearing starched and creased tiger-stripe field clothes suddenly appeared by the side of the garage. He wore buck sergeant’s stripes and carried an automatic assault rifle, much like the Russian AK-47/AMK.
“Who is that?” a reporter asked.
“The governor’s driver and bodyguard. Badger Harbin,” Bridge said. “Don’t make any sudden moves around him until he gets used to you.”
Badger looked at the growing mounds of equipment and then at the men whose jobs it was to set it all up. He pointed to the rear of the house.
“Take it all around there,” Badger said. “There are tables and chairs and plug-ins. If any of you are armed, declare it now.”
“None of us is armed,” Clayton said. Then with a smile, he added, “What’s the matter, Sergeant, don’t you trust us?”
“No,” Badger said shortly. He stepped to one side, allowing them to pass.
The crowd was ushered onto the patio, then seated. Badger stood by the side of the sliding glass doors leading into the den. “When the governor and Mrs. Raines come out,” he said, “get up.”
“Young man,” Clayton said acidly, “we do have some knowledge of protocol.”
Badger grunted his reply and Judith laughed at her boss’s expression.
None of the newspeople knew exactly what to expect of Governor Raines. But some of the younger newspeople had a preconceived image of a military man who would be dressed in full uniform, dripping with medals, armed with at least two pistols, and possibly carrying a swagger stick, tipped with a shell casing. When Ben and Salina appeared, most were mildly astonished.
Ben was dressed in blue jeans, a pullover shirt, and cowboy boots. Salina wore white Levi’s, a blue western shirt, and tennis shoes.
They shook hands all around while flashbulbs popped and cameras rolled, many of them directed at Badger, who scowled appropriately. For half an hour the press corps sipped coffee or cold drinks and munched on hors d’oeuvres.
“I’d like to take some pictures of you two together,” a photographer said to Ben and Salina, “and of the house. Do you mind?”
“No,” Ben said, after looking at Salina and receiving a slight nod of agreement. “Fire away—figuratively speaking, of course.” He smiled.
Out of the corner of his eye, the photographer noticed Badger’s hands tighten on the AK-47. Badger made many of the press people very nervous.
The camera crews wandered around the house, taking pictures of this and that: the home, the lawn, the garden, the neighborhood. Governor Raines was a hero to many Americans, having stood up to the government, formed his own state over its objections, and now governed the only area in America, and probably the entire world, that was free of crime and poverty. That much had leaked out of Tri-states. Practically anything about the man, his family, and his way of life would be of interest to someone.
After a short time, an informal press conference was under way.
“Before the questions start flying,” Ben said, “I’d like for you all to meet my daughter, Tina Raines. She works part-time at the western reception center. The one closest to Vista.” He turned just as Tina opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out.
The press was silent for a few moments, looking at each other, putting it all together. Each waited for the other to ask the first question. Finally, Judith did. “We were at that reception center, Governor. How many Tina Raineses
are there in Tri-states?”
“Only one that I know of,” Ben said. “I gather from your expressions you were there when Tina had her . . . small altercation with one of your colleagues.”
Barney looked at the ground, thinking: of all the people I pick to get cute with, I pick the governor’s daughter. Great move, Weston. Super timing.
“You know we were there,” Clayton said.
“Yes,” Ben agreed. “Not much goes on in this area I don’t know about.”
A photographer from the World News Agency was snapping away as Tina walked out onto the patio. He took two quick shots of her and smiled.
“Hello, again,” Tina said.
“You’re a very lovely young lady,” he complimented her. “Very photogenic.”
She blushed, then sat down beside her mother, on the patio, just behind and to the right of where Ben stood behind a podium.
Ben looked at the press people. “One word of caution before we begin. Be careful what you print, broadcast, or ask about people living here in the Tri-states. We don’t have scandal sheets here; yellow journalism is not allowed.”
Barney tore several sheets from his notepad and crumpled the pages, thinking as he did so: if I ever get out of this wacko state, I’ll never come back!
“Governor—General; what do we call you?” a reporter asked.
“Either one. Ben—whatever. We’re not much on pomp here.”
“All right, Governor. But that’s a pretty stiff warning you just handed us. What can we report on here?”
“Anything you see, as long as you present both sides of the issue. Isn’t that fair journalism?”
What it’s supposed to be, Judith thought. But seldom is.
“Oh, come on, Governor! People are opinionated no matter how hard they try not to be. Reporting objectively has been a joke for decades.”
Clayton smiled outwardly at the reporter and inwardly in admiration for Ben. He had gone back and read as many of Ben’s books as time would allow before coming to the Tri-states. He said, “I recall you writing, Governor, that the press enjoyed sending a black man to report on KKK meetings and an avowed liberal to report on the National Rifle Association’s yearly strategy meeting. You haven’t changed much—if any. I also remember your writing that the press is stacked with liberals and not balanced with conservatives and middle-of-the-roaders.”
“I still feel that way,” Ben said. “You people are supposed to be neutral, but you’re not. You haven’t been for decades.”
“I’d like to debate that with you sometime.”
“Maybe. I’ll give you a reply when I see what you’ve reported about us.”
Each man gave the other a thin smile of understanding.
“General,” Ben was asked, “for the record, sir, just what are you people attempting to accomplish in this new state?”
“We are not attempting. We have created a society where the vast majority of citizens—I’d say between ninety-five and ninety-eight percent—are content with the laws they live under.”
“Constitutionally?”
“According to our constitution, yes.”
“A gunpowder society, void of human rights.”
“That,” Ben said, “and pardon my English, is pure bullshit. Law-abiding people have every right they voted to give themselves.”
“General, do you believe the United States could be a world power if dozens of groups like yours splintered off to form their own little governments?”
“Since the bombings, there are no world powers—anywhere. With the exception, perhaps, of the United States. Yes, I believe the U.S. could be built back into a power. Tri-states has not broken with the Union—just with many of its laws.
“I have written to President Logan, telling him we will pay a fair share of taxes to his central government—and it is his. Our share won’t be much, since most of the money will remain here, doing what we feel is right and best for the citizens of Tri-states. We will not ask the federal government for anything, and we will not tolerate their unrequested interference. We will fly the American flag alongside our own flag; we will live under the American flag, and if necessary, fight for it, as a friend and ally. Our borders will be open for all to pass through.
“However, there are certain things we are not going to do. We are not going to give up our weapons or disband our army. We are not going to change our laws to pamper thugs, punks, and social misfits who cannot or, as in most cases, will not live under the most basic of laws. We are not going to be ruled—totally—by a distant government in Virginia, or abide by the mumblings of your Supreme Court. Make no mistake about this, too, ladies and gentlemen: we are fully prepared to fight for our freedoms and our beliefs—right down to the last person. ”
Ben tapped the podium with a fist, rattling the microphones. “Now let’s clear the air on a few more points. When we pulled into this area, it was chaos—that’s the best one could say about it. The people were confused, disorganized—and that disorganization was partly the fault of the people, but mostly the fault of the federal government. The federal government wouldn’t allow home militias without their so-called ‘guidance.’ But the federal government wasn’t in here helping the people. We were. The federal government didn’t send in doctors, food, medicines. We did it. We did it all, and did a damned good job.
“You won’t find one person in this state suffering from hunger. Not one! We’ve eliminated it; wiped it out in less time than it takes some bills to get out of committee in your Congress. Your government has been attempting to wipe out hunger for decades, with only partial success. Think about that. Write about that. That says a great deal for our system.
“When we got here the elderly were living—most of them—in squalor. Existing might be a better word. Their possessions had been taken from them; they were neglected; and utterly terrified in their own homes, living in fear of punks and thugs and slime you people have, for years, been moaning and sobbing over. Hell, what else is new? Old people have been living in fear for their lives for decades, but you people haven’t done anything about it, except moan and sob about the rights of street punks. We rounded up the punks, shot or hanged them, and helped the elderly put their lives back in order. Now, if that makes me a dictator or a man lacking in compassion, as has been written about me, then I’m proud to be just that.
“And, for your information, most doors in the Tri-states aren’t locked at night, or at any other time. The lock on my back door doesn’t even work, and hasn’t for four years. That’s got to tell you something about the way we live; the peace we all feel here. And we are at peace here, wanting trouble with or from no one.
“While you are here, by all means visit our hospitals and research centers and day-care centers and community centers and villages. Talk to anyone you wish to talk with. Visit our schools and see what we’ve done. Then compare what you see with what you’ve just left—out there”—he pointed—“in your United States.
“Visit our planning offices here in Vista, see what we’ve got on the tables for the future. You’ll be surprised, I’m sure. But don’t just report on a society that comes down hard on criminals; one where they are not pampered at taxpayer expense. For once, just once, you people report on both the good and the bad; weigh the rights of decent people against those of criminals. But by all means, do report that the life expectancy of punks is very short in the Tri-states.”
A reporter raised his hand. “Governor, all you say may be true—probably is true—I’m not disputing your word. It’s easy to see that you and your people have done a great deal of good in this area, but the fact is, you stole all the material you brought into this area. That’s something you can’t deny.”
“I have no intention of denying it,” Ben said. “We took from dead areas, transplanted what we took here, and put those materials to use. You people could have done the same—but you didn’t. You people left billions and billions—probably trillions of dollars worth of valuable materials to r
ot and rust, and do absolutely no one any good at all. That is the crime.”
“Governor”—Judith stood up—“on another topic—or maybe, really it isn’t—on the way here, Mr. Oliver said you don’t have police, but peace officers. Would you explain the difference and why their powers are limited?”
“Peace officers keep the peace,” Ben said simply, and with a smile. “And folks out here—myself included—seem to prefer the name to cops. As to their limited powers, I’ll try to explain, but here is where we veer off sharply from your society and its laws.
“First, and lastly, too, I suppose, a person has to want to live here. You’ll hear that a dozen times before you leave. We are not an open society. Not just anyone can come in here to live. I have no figures to back this, but I would be willing to wager that probably no more than one out of every ten people in America could live under our laws or the type of government we have. Hucksters, shysters, con men, ambulance-chasing lawyers, cheats, liars . . . those types cannot last in this society. Everything is open and aboveboard in this state. Some of those types have tried to live here. We’ve buried a few; most left.
“Our laws on the books are few, and they are written very simply and plainly. Our laws are taught in our schools, our young people are brought up understanding the do’s and don’t’s of this society. Any person with an average intellect can draw up a legal document in the Tri-states, and it will be honored in a court of law simply because the people in this state are honorable people. That sounds awfully smug, but it is the truth. Here, a person’s word means as much as a written contract. That’s why so many people can’t live in our society. And here, as strange as it seems to you people, all this is working. Working because of one simple, basic fact: one has to want to live here.
“Our peace officers don’t have much to do other than occasionally break up a family fight.” He smiled. “And yes, we do have domestic squabbles here. Or they might issue a traffic ticket; occasionally have to investigate a shooting or a theft. But those are very rare. The army is constantly on patrol, so they pretty well take over most law-enforcement jobs in a preventive manner, so to speak. We’ve found their presence to be a deterrent.”
Out of the Ashes Page 33