They were correct to a degree.
But those reporters with more respect for their readers and viewers—and they were outnumbered by their counterparts—looked at Tri-states a bit more closely and called it an experiment in living together, based as much on common sense as on written law. Most of those reporters concluded that yes, Tri-states could probably exist for a long, long time, and it was no threat to America. And, yes, its citizens seemed to be making the Tri-states’ form of government work, for they were of a single mind, and not diversified philosophically.
But could this form of government work with millions of people? No, they concluded, it could not.
And they were correct in that assumption… to a degree.
But most people can govern themselves, once basic laws are agreed upon; if those people are very, very careful and work very, very hard at it.
That a people must be bogged down in bureaucracy; beset by thousands of sometimes oily, rude, arrogant, and frequently hostile local, state, and federal “civil servants”; licensed, taxed, and harassed; ruled by a close-knit clan of men and women whose mentality is not always what it should be and whose weapons are power; be dictated to by judges who are not always in tune with reality; and yammered at year after dreary year that a couple of senators and a handful of representatives have the power to decide the fate of millions… is a myth.
And Tri-states proved it.
There was not much pomp in Tri-states. Ben’s governor’s mansion was a split-level home on the outskirts of Vista. In good weather he rode to work in a Jeep.
Ben was on the road a lot, visiting the districts, listening to grievances, if any; and they were few. But of late, the one question asked, the one question paramount in the minds of Tri-states’ residents was: what happens when we open our borders?
The residents had met in open town meetings (something that was required by law before any decision affecting the lives of the citizens was initiated) and finally had decided to open their borders to the public, if any persons wanted to visit. They had been wholly self-contained for almost six years. Maybe it was time.
But most viewed the border openings with highly mixed feelings.
The Tri-states’ communications people contacted the major TV and radio networks, and the major papers, asking if they would like to cover the opening of Tri-states’ borders.
All did.
“Now the shit really hits the fan,” Ike projected.
The driver of the lead bus brought it to a hissing halt and motioned for the chief correspondent of CBN to come to the front. “Take a look at that, Mr. Charles.” He pointed to a huge red-and-white sign that extended from one side of the road to the other, suspended twenty-five feet in the air. Other buses and vans stopped and discharged their passengers. Cameras focused on the sign and rolled, clicked, and whirred.
“It hasn’t been up long,” a reporter from Portland said. “I’ve been out here a half-dozen times during the past six months and this road has always been blocked. And no sign.” He looked at the message.
WARNING—YOU ARE ENTERING THE TRI-STATES. YOU MUST STOP AT THE RECEPTION CENTER TO FAMILIARIZE YOURSELF WITH THE LAWS OF THIS STATE. DO NOT ENTER THIS AREA WITHOUT PERMISSION AND KNOWLEDGE OF THE LAWS. YOU MUST BE CLEARED AND HAVE ID.—WARNING
The international symbol for “danger—keep out” was on either side of the huge sign.
“I think I want to go home.” A young lady grinned. In truth, a mule team could not have dragged her from the area.
The knot of press people, sound people, and camera-persons laughed. Clayton Charles put his arm around the young woman’s shoulders. “Come, now, Judith—where is your sense of journalistic inquisitiveness?”
“Well, the nuke and germ war came so fast no one had a chance to cover it. So, maybe this will do.”
Larry Spain, reporter for another network, pointed to a steel tower, much like those used by the forest service, except that this one was lower. The tower sat inside the Tri-states line, across the bridge.
“Low for a fire observation tower,” he said.
“Look again,” a friend told him. “That one’s got .50-caliber machine guns to put out the blaze. Jesus! These people aren’t kidding.”
They said nothing as they all looked at the tower. The muzzle of the heavy-caliber machine gun was plainly visible. Silently, the men and women climbed back aboard their vans and buses. A moment later they were the first outside reporters to visit the Tri-states (legally) since the states’ inception. One reporter would later write: “The soldier in the tower never made a hostile move; never pointed the muzzle at us. But it was like looking at the Berlin wall for the first time.”
The vehicles pulled off the road and onto a huge blacktop parking area. Set deep in the area was a long, low concrete building, painted white. On the front and both sides of the building, in block letters several feet tall, painted in flame red, were the words: ENTERING OR LEAVING—CHECKPOINT—ALL VEHICLES STOP.
“I think they mean it,” someone said.
“Very definitely,” another said.
“Unequivocally,” Judith replied.
“Explicitly,” another reporter concurred with a smile.
“Knock it off.” Clayton Charles ended the bantering.
The bus driver turned to the press people before they could enter the building and spoke to the entire group. “I want to tell you people something,” he said. “I have friends in the Tri-states; I’ve been checked and cleared and am moving in here next month…. So listen to me. It might save you a broken jaw or a busted mouth, or worse.
“Whatever impression you might have of the people who live in the Tri-states—put it out of your mind, for it’s probably wrong. Even though they are doctors, dentists, farmers, shopkeepers, whatever, I’m betting you’re thinking they are a pack of savages or crazy terrorists. If you do, you’re wrong. They are just people who won’t tolerate trouble—of any kind. You’d better remember that.
“Don’t go sticking your nose in their business uninvited. The laws are different here; you’re liable to get punched out. I hope all of you are going into this assignment with an open mind—I really do. ‘Cause if you get cute with these folks, they’ll hurt you. Even the kids are rough.”
A lone male reporter stood in the back of the crowd and solemnly applauded the driver’s speech. “How eloquently put,” he said.
The driver looked at him; then slowly shook his head in disgust, as did many of the press people. Barney had the reputation of being rude, arrogant, obnoxious, and a double-dyed smart-ass.
“Barney,” Judith said. “I know we work for the same network, and are supposed to be colleagues, and all that, but when we get inside, stay the hell away from me, O.K.?”
Barney smiled and bowed.
The reception center was large and cool and comfortable, furnished with a variety of chairs and couches. Racks of literature about Tri-states, its people, its economy, and its laws filled half of one wall. A table with doughnuts and two coffee urns sat in the center of the room; soft drinks were set to the right of the table. Between two closed doors was a four-foot-high desk, fifteen feet long, closed from floor to top. Behind the desk, two young women stood, one of them Tina Raines. The girls were dressed identically; jeans and light blue shirts.
“Good morning,” Tina said to the crowd. “Welcome to the Tri-states. My name is Tina, this is Judy. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts—they’re free—or a soft drink.”
Barney leaned on the counter, his gaze on Tina’s breasts. She looked older than her seventeen years. Barney smiled at her.
“Anything else free around here?” he asked, all his famous obnoxiousness coming through.
The words had just left his mouth when the door to an office whipped open and a uniformed army Rebel stepped out, master sergeant stripes on the sleeves of his tiger-stripes. He was short, muscular, hard-looking, and deeply tanned. He wore a .45 automatic, holstered, on his right side.
“Tina?�
� he said. “Who said that?”
Tina pointed to Barney. “That one.”
“Oh, hell!” Judith whispered.
“Quite,” Clayton concurred.
The Rebel walked up to Barney and stopped a foot from him. Barney looked shaken, his color similar to old whipped cream. The filming lights had been on, and no one had noticed when a camera operator began rolling, recording the event.
“I’m Sergeant Roisseau,” the Rebel informed the reporter. “It would behoove you, in the future, to keep off-color remarks to yourself. You have been warned; this is a one-mistake state, and you’ve made yours.”
“I… ah… was only making a little joke,” Barney said. “I meant nothing by it.” The blood rushed to his face, betraying the truth.
“Your face says you’re a liar,” Roisseau said calmly.
“And you’re armed!” Barney said, blinking. He was indignant; the crowd he ran with did not behave in this manner over a little joke. No matter how poor the taste.
Roisseau smiled and unbuckled his web belt, laying the pistol on the desk. “Now, fish or cut bait,” he challenged him.
That really shook Barney. All the bets were down and the pot right. He shook his head. “No… I won’t fight you.”
“Not only do you have a greasy mouth,” Roisseau said, “but you’re a coward to boot.”
Barney’s eyes narrowed, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.
“All right,” Roisseau said. “Then when you apologize to the young lady, we’ll forget it.”
“I’ll be damned!” Barney said, looking around him for help. None came forward.
“Probably,” Roisseau said. “But that is not the immediate issue.” He looked at Tina and winked, humor in his dark eyes. “So, newsman, if you’re too timid to fight me, perhaps you’d rather fight the young lady?”
“The kid?” Barney questioned, then laughed aloud. “What is this, some kind of joke?”
Judith walked to Barney’s side. She remembered the bus driver’s words and sensed there was very little humor involved in any of this, and if there was, the joke was going to be on Barney. And it wasn’t going to be funny. “Barney, ease off. Apologize to her. You were out of line.”
“No. I was only making a joke.”
“Nobody laughed,” she reminded him, and backed away, thinking: are the people in this state humorless? Or have they just returned to values my generation tossed aside?
“No way.” Barney shook his head. “You people are nuts!”
The camera rolled, silently recording.
Roisseau smiled, then looked at Tina. “Miss Raines, the… gentleman is all yours. No killing blows, girl. Just teach him a hard lesson in manners.”
Tina put her left hand on the top of the desk and, in one fluid motion, as graceful as a cat, vaulted the desk to land lightly on her tennis shoe-clad feet.
She stood quietly in front of the man who outweighed her by at least fifty pounds. She offered up a slight bow. Had Barney any knowledge of the martial arts, he would have fainted, thus saving himself some bruises.
Tina held her hands in front of her, palms facing Barney, then drew the left one back to her side, balling the fist. Her right foot was extended, unlike a boxer’s stance. Her right hand open, palm out, knife edge to Barney. Her eyes were strangely empty of expression. Barney could not know she was psyching herself.
Barney did notice the light ridge of calluses that ran from the tips of her fingers to her wrist, and another light row of calluses on the edge of her hand, from the tip of her little finger down to the wrist. He backed away, instinctively.
Almost with the speed of a striking snake, Tina kicked high with her foot, catching Barney on the side of the face. He slammed backward against a wall, then recoiled forward, stunned at the suddenness of it all. With no change in her expression, Tina slashed out with the knife edge of her hand and slammed a blow just above his kidney, then slapped him on the face a stinging pop. Barney dropped to his knees, his back hurting, his face aching, blood dripping from a corner of his mouth. He rose slowly to his feet, his face a vicious mask of hate and rage and frustration and disbelief.
“You bitch!” he snarled. “You rotten little cunt.”
Roisseau laughed. “Now, you are in trouble, hotshot.”
Barney shuffled forward, in a boxer’s stance, his chin tucked into his shoulder. He swung a wide looping fist at Tina. She smiled at his clumsiness and turned slightly, catching his right wrist. Using the forward motion of his swing against him, and her hips for leverage, she tossed the man over her side and bounced him off a wall. Quickly reaching down, her hands open, on either side of his head, Tina brought them in sharply, hard, slamming the open palms over his ears at precisely the same moment. Barney screamed in pain and rolled in agony on the floor, a small dribble of blood oozing from one damaged ear.
Tina smoothed her hair. She was not even breathing hard. She looked at Master Sergeant Roisseau. “Did I do all right, Sergeant?”
The reporters then noticed the flap of Roisseau’s holster, lying on the desk, open, the butt of the .45 exposed. And all were glad no one had tried to interfere.
Then, from the floor of the reception center, came the battle cry of urbane, modern, twentieth-century man. Unable to cope with a situation, either mentally or physically, or because of laws that have been deballing the species for years, man bellows the words:
“I’ll sue you!”
The room suddenly rocked with laughter. News commentators, reporters, camera-people and sound-people; people who, for years, had recorded the best and worst of humankind, all howled at the words from their colleague.
“Sue?” Clayton managed to gasp the word despite his laughter. “Sue? Sue a little teen-age girl who just whipped your big, manly butt. Really, Barney! I’ve warned you for years your mouth would someday get you in trouble.”
Roisseau spoke to the girl still behind the desk. “Judy, get on the horn and call the medics and tell them we have a hotshot with a pulled fuse.” He faced the crowd of newspeople.
“You’re all due at a press conference in two hours. Meanwhile, I’d suggest you all help yourselves to coffee and doughnuts and soft drinks and study the pamphlets we have for you.” He glanced at Barney, sitting on the floor, moaning and holding his head in his hands. “As for you, I’d forget about suing anyone. Our form of government discourages lawsuits. You’d lose anyway.”
“I’ll take this to the Supreme Court!” Barney yelled.
“Fine. Governor Raines is someday going to appoint one for us. Next twenty or thirty years. We don’t recognize yours.”
“Well, who is the final authority on Tri-states law?” a woman asked.
Roisseau smiled. “Just about anyone in the area… over the age of ten. As you study the simplicity of our judicial system, you’ll see what I mean. We don’t use any Latin base or legal double-talk. It’s all in very plain English. If you’re asking who would make the final decision on an issue—if it ever got that far—Governor Raines and half a dozen people whose names were pulled out of a hat.”
“Well, that’s the damnedest form of law I ever heard of in my life!” Larry Spain said.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Roisseau said. “But what is important is that it works for us.” He walked back into his office, closing the door.
Moments later, the medics came in and looked at Barney. They said he had a split lip, several bruises, a slightly damaged eardrum—nothing serious—and a severely deflated ego. They sat him in a chair, told him to check into any clinic if he began experiencing dizzy spells, patted him on the head, told him to watch his mouth, and left, chuckling.
“Very simple society we have here,” a reporter observed. “Live and let live, all the while respecting the rights of others who do the same. Very basic.”
“And very unconstitutional,” another remarked.
“I wonder,” Judith mused aloud. “I just wonder if it is.”
“Oh, come now, Judith,” Clayton sai
d, shaking his head. “The entire debate is superfluous. There is no government of Tri-states. It doesn’t exist. The government of the United States doesn’t recognize it. It just doesn’t exist.”
Several Jeeps pulled into the parking area. The reporters watched a half-dozen Rebel soldiers—male and female, all in tiger-stripe—step out of the Jeeps. The soldiers were all armed with automatic weapons and sidearms.
“Really?” Judith smiled. She pointed to the Rebels. “Well, don’t tell me Tri-states doesn’t exist—tell them!”
FOUR
Before leaving the reception center, each member of the press was handed a pass marked: VISITOR—PRESS. It was dated and signed by Roisseau.
“Don’t lose those passes,” he cautioned them. “You people don’t have permanent papers with prints, pictures, and serial numbers. Our equivalent of social security.”
“Why are those papers necessary?” a reporter asked.
“We’ve given asylum to many so-called criminals from bordering states. Some of the police from those states have tried to come in after them, undercover, slipping in without our knowledge. They didn’t make it, but it did force us to go to a permanent ID.”
“I don’t… quite understand.” Judith looked up from the pamphlet she’d been reading. She was very interested in this state. “What kind of so-called criminals?”
“As you have probably read, or heard, our laws are different from yours. Very different. In other states, if you were to shoot a punk trying to steal your car, your TV set, or whatever, you would be put in jail and charged. Not here. There is a full investigation, of course—we’re not animals—but we do believe that a punk is a punk, and that a person has the right to protect what is his or hers from unlawful search or seizure. Using any authorized weapon.”
“How many children have been shot?”
“None. Our children are taught, not only in the home, but in public schools, the difference between right and wrong—as we see it.”
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