Freedom's Sons

by H. A. Covington

  “What?” said Sheriff Ben Lomax. He wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.

  “Oh, didn’t I mention it?” said Gabi brightly from the podium. “I’m sorry; it must have slipped my mind. My husband and I are going to be among the first new residents of Boulder so that I can personally supervise and become involved in every aspect of creating the Prosperity Zone. We’ll be coming out permanently next month, and I must say I am really looking forward to living in this beautiful part of the United States. I know Joseph and the kids will love it here.”

  “Uh, okay,” replied Lomax, bemused, “but what was that you said about meeting with the civil authorities in what you call the racist entity? First off, may I ask what civil authorities you refer to?”

  “Well, I’ll meet with whoever’s in charge over there as necessary to solve whatever issues come up,” said Gabi, waving her hand vaguely.

  The locals stared at one another, dumbfounded. Mayor Jay Gavin stood up. “Ah, ma’am, if I might ask, what exactly have you been told by those folks in Burlington about how things actually work Over The Road? About how their society is organized?”

  “Surely they have some kind of local government!” exclaimed Gabi.

  “You didn’t bother to find out before you came out here?” asked Monty Sanderson, stunned.

  Mayor Gavin sighed. “Ma’am, right now things in the western part of Montana are kind of like they were back a hundred and fifty years ago. Not much government, and what there is of it is mostly local. It’s true that the larger cities like Missoula and Kalispell and towns like Northwest Helena and Northwest Butte have city councils and mayors. Those are voted in every six years in one big election, their national election for all offices from their president on down, by the people who have earned citizenship and the right to vote through service in the military or otherwise, sometimes in the case of women by having wh—by having children.” Gavin had almost said “white children.” The days when a white male could be arrested and imprisoned for so much as mentioning race at all were gone, but it still wasn’t the done thing. “There’s a sheriff for each of their counties, but the sheriff is a civil official and not a law enforcement officer like here. Over There the sheriff is an administrator who runs the government’s business for the county. I seem to recall hearing somewhere they got that idea from the Middle Ages in England, which is what sheriffs originally were. But that doesn’t apply on this part of the border. Jefferson County was always a rural area, and outside the cities in the Northwest—in the racist entity, the fact is that there is very little government of any kind.”

  “Well, I’ll meet with this sheriff, then,” said Gabi Martine impatiently.

  Mayor Gavin went on. “There isn’t one Over There, at least not for the immediate area. They’ve created the Montana Border District, which runs about thirty miles or so westward from Interstate 15, except for the city limits of some of the divided towns like Helena and Butte. It dates from the time when we had those fucking kooks—sorry, those liberation fighters over here on our side who used to go into the Republic, I mean the entity, and plant land mines and murder people and kill their cattle and that kind of thing. The Border District is essentially an eminent domain setup wherein the NDF and the Civil Guards, that’s their police force, can go anywhere and can search private property at will in order to deal with anybody who comes across the border looking for trouble. In the rest of the Rep—oh, screw the ‘entity’ crap, in the rest of the Republic, the police and the military need a search warrant or permission from the owner to go on private property, except for the Bureau of State Security. Those guys can go anywhere and do anything they want, but there aren’t very many of them, and nobody ever sees them unless they’re doing something they shouldn’t be doing. In the Border District the cops and the army can go on private land when they have to in the course of a pursuit or setting up an ambush for anybody they think might be coming across the border to do harm, their helicopters and levitating cars can fly over people’s property looking for trespassers and also to pick up white people who cross the border fleeing from this country and into the Republic.”

  “That’s illegal,” pointed out Gabi Martine archly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied Gavin in a tired voice.

  “Obviously that’s one of the things I need to talk to these local authorities on their side about,” she said. “We need to persuade them to accept the rule of law.”

  “Their law says you can’t set foot on their turf without getting your fool head blown off!” snorted Monty Sanderson.

  Gavin resumed hastily, “Anyway, Ms. Martine, what I’m getting at is that there is no real civil authority immediately on the other side of the Road from us, except I guess the commander of their Civil Guard post and any of their military that happens to be passing though. The town of Basin doesn’t have a mayor or a council. There’s only about four hundred people living there, and they decided they don’t need one. The town is run by a manager hired by the nearest sheriff outside the District, who I guess would be in Missoula, but he’s just an employee. He deals with their utilities like Northwest Power and Light and runs the water and sewage treatment plant, but he doesn’t have any political power. I think they have a circuit-riding judge who comes by every three or four months or so, to hear any pending legal cases, which I understand are usually convened in a local saloon, just like in the frontier days.”

  “Well, if you know your history, there were people of color around this part of the world in the frontier days, and now there’s a woman of color with power here again,” said Gabi with a silvery laugh. “The power of the purse, anyway. I’m a representative of the United States government, which they may not respect, but I am going to be bringing many millions of dollars into this area, which inevitably they will be getting a piece of. Money knows no borders, Mr. Gavin. You need to read up on your Ayn Rand. Anyway, I don’t need to be meeting with any of my counterparts Over The Road yet, so we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  After the meeting Jay Gavin, Ben Lomax, and Monty Sanderson cornered Brandon Blackwell in the office that Gabi and her team had been lent by the town council. “What the hell is going on, Blackwell?” demanded Monty Sanderson roughly. “First off, who and what are you, exactly, and what’s your role in all this? Is this some kind of joke? Or has the U.S. government decided they want to provoke another war? You do realize, do you not, that this is insane? What fucking planet are you people living on, to come here and spout drivel like that?”

  “What can I tell you?” replied Blackwell with a shrug. “I don’t make policy. I’m just here to hold my power lady’s briefcase and pick up her dry cleaning.”

  “Bullshit,” said Sanderson.

  “And keep track of the money, and her appointment book, and prepare her speeches and media briefings, and go over all her memos and whatnot from Burlington and make sure she has at least some vague understanding of what she’s supposed to be doing here,” admitted Blackwell.

  “What does she think she’s supposed to be doing here?” asked Lomax.

  “Building a kind of Disneyland for her and all her friends so they can come here during the summer and watch the buffalo and ride horseys on a dude ranch?” Blackwell told them irritably. “Hell, I don’t know! Look, I can tell you this: the CPZ is the real deal. The U.S.A. has got to step up its game economically or we’ve got about two dozen cities that are going to blow within the next few years because we’re not able to keep their inhabitants fed and pacified any more. That’s where most of you guys’ beef and wheat is going to. That means we have to start optimizing our human resources, so to speak.”

  “Meaning you’ve got to move as much economic infrastructure as possible into the whitest remaining areas in the country so you can actually get some producing done without the whole kit and kaboodle being looted and burned down by rioting mud people when the cities blow,” said Sanderson. Even the other two winced at his racial bluntness, but Blackwell didn’t bat an e
yelash.

  “Pretty much, yeah. I agree, I think this constructive engagement idea is unlikely to work, but President Humperdinck and the cabinet want to try it.”

  “You can tell Rumpelstiltskin for me that he’s flipped his pint-sized little lid,” said Monty Sanderson. “And what the hell is the idea of bringing in New Model Army troops right up to the Road?”

  “They won’t be right up on the Road,” said Blackwell. “There won’t be any really big bases, at least not in this part of the CPZ. That’s what Colonel Hart is here for. He’ll be selecting locations and facilities for a whole long series of company-sized posts, old farmhouses and abandoned buildings of various kinds. That’s the first of the CPZ cash you folks will actually see, when the NMA buys the land and starts building their barracks and whatnot. We’re not looking to start any fights with that bunch Over The Road. The threat the NMA will be anticipating will be coming from the east.”

  “You think so? It’s gonna get that bad, is it?” asked Lomax.

  “When the rings around the cities are finally breached, and mass migrations of millions of people in search of food and resources start to wander across the land?” replied Blackwell grimly. “Oh, yeah. You better believe it.”

  Later on in Mayor Gavin’s office, the kitchen cabinet met in emergency session. “The first thing we have to do is stop that crazy nigger bitch from going Over The Road and knocking on people’s doors,” said Monty Sanderson. “Do you think that Blackwell guy would help? He at least seems to have his head screwed on straight.”

  “He also draws his paycheck from Burlington,” said Gavin. “We need to be careful around him. Around all of them. Ben?”

  “If they’re going ahead with this craziness, we need to try and get ahead of it,” said Lomax. “I suppose I’d better give that kid over in Basin a call. That new Civil Guard lieutenant in charge, the one who’s married to President Wallace’s assassin’s daughter.”

  “Sounds like he’d be pretty well politically connected, then,” suggested Sanderson.

  “That’s what I’m counting on, Monty,” said Lomax with a nod. “I’m hoping that whatever I tell him will go straight on up the line to their power structure Over There. Maybe I can convince them it’s not our doing and talk them out of hammering the hell out of Boulder and Jefferson County when they do whatever the hell they decide to do about this lunacy.”

  “Is that wise?” asked Gavin. “Why not let sleeping dogs lie until we have no choice left?”

  “They won’t be sleeping long when bulldozers and Mexican labor crews start coming in here, and besides, they probably know more already about what’s going on than we do.”

  “How do you think the goots will react?” asked Jay Gavin.

  “I won’t try to guess, but I know it won’t be pretty,” replied Lomax.

  * * *

  “Bobby tell you he got a call on his hotline phone to meet with that Jefferson County sheriff tomorrow?” asked Colonel Robert Campbell. He and Major Tom Horakova were sitting in the bar at the guest house over steins of Rogue Brewery ale from Oregon.

  “Yes,” replied Tom. “Apparently this Lomax character didn’t tell Bobby what it was about, just mentioned ‘matters of mutual interest.’ I was tempted to offer to go with him and sit in on the meet to give him some extra weight this first time, but I decided not to.”

  “Good,” said Campbell with an approving nod. “You know he’s got a bit of a complex about being Mister Allura Myers. He needs to show he can handle things on his own.”

  “You sure he can?” asked Tom.

  “If I didn’t think so, he wouldn’t be here.”

  The two men met at noon the next day, in a designated spot right on the border that had been set up on the QT for that purpose, many years before. It was an ancient single-wide trailer that had been hauled into the right lane of Second Avenue going out of Boulder, dead-center under the old I-15 overpass. There were three entrances to the trailer, a door in each end, and one in the center which was never used due to the insuperable difficulties in protocol and the possibility that if it was used, an official of one government might inadvertently enter the other’s country and cause mass hysteria in Olympia, Burlington, D.C., or all of the above. Bobby Three pulled up on the western end, and he and Corporal Mike Sweeney got out of their green Civil Guard squad car. The informal protocol that had grown up over the years required each participant to bring a witness to vouch for whatever was said, if necessary, and to make sure no secret deals were being plotted behind anyone’s back. Sweeney had already attended several such conferences between Lomax and Bobby’s predecessor, Captain McOwen. They left the squad car’s green and blue LED lights flashing. Looking down the street, they saw a Jefferson County sheriff’s car parked at the side of the road, its own blue and red lights flashing. They entered the trailer.

  Lomax was already seated behind a large, battered wooden desk with a white line painted lengthwise down the middle, specially surveyed years ago, to mark the border between the two countries. He stood up when the two Guardsmen came in. Behind him stood a tall and lean deputy with a receding chin and large gray moustache that seemed to accentuate one another in counterpoint. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Sheriff Ben Lomax, Jefferson County, Montana. This is Lew Brumley,” said Lomax, nodding back to his companion.

  “Lieutenant Robert Campbell the Third, Basin station commander,” replied Bobby. “I think you already know Corporal Mike Sweeney?”

  “Yeah, I know Mike,” replied Lomax.

  “Hey, Ben,” said Sweeney. “Hey, Lew. Heard you bagged yourself a moose last season.”

  “Yep,” replied Brumley. “Eight-hundred-pound bull. Got the head and antlers on my wall and the steaks in my freezer.” No one was so crass as to inquire as to how Sweeney knew about Brumley’s moose.

  Bobby eyed the white line painted down the center of the desk with curiosity. “Okay, what’s the protocol here? If either of us sticks our hand over that line to shake with the other guy, is that some kind of incursion that’s going to cause an international incident?”

  “Best shake right over the line just to make sure,” said Lomax. They suited the action to the word and sat down. “You’ll note we have separate coffee-makers,” said Lomax, pointing to the counter behind Bobby. “That way neither of us can accuse the other of poisoning him.”

  “That ever happened?” asked Bobby Three.

  “Not here,” said Lomax. “I heard some funny stories about what used to happen up in Great Falls some years back.”

  “I told him we had to bring our own,” said Sweeney, going over to the coffeemaker and pulling a packet out of his pocket to start a brew. He then washed out two cups in the sink and dried them; they hadn’t been used in some time and were dusty.

  “So, sheriff, I hear you guys have some visitors from New England,” said Bobby easily. “You want to talk about them, or about our two star-crossed lovers?”

  “Mostly about our visitors, but while we’re on the subject, any chance you can keep that randy Johnny Selkirk on your side of the Road?” asked Lomax. “I know the Tollivers. Wendell’s all right, he’s the kind of feller who gets along with everybody and thinks the past should stay in the past, but Danielle’s mother Alice is a devout church lady of the traditional kind. She wouldn’t think much of any man of twenty sniffing around her sixteen-year-old daughter, which I can’t say I blame her for, and as to a Northman—well, she’s fit to be tied. As far as Alice is concerned, you’re every one of you Lucifer’s minions on earth. I understand she’s thinking about sending Danny off to school in North Dakota somewhere to get her away from Johnny.”

  “That might solve the problem,” agreed Bobby. “Trouble is, John Selkirk is also something of an import-export entrepreneur.”

  “I know it,” said Lomax sourly. “When he’s coming back from a run he likes to go through Boulder at ninety miles an hour on his final approach. He keeps on doing that shit and I catch him over here, I’m locking him u
p.”

  Bobby resisted the urge to bristle. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. “The point I was making is that Johnny’s runs generally take him to Minneapolis or Milwaukee or Chicago, or at least the white suburbs thereof that are outside the Bremer walls and minefields. If he knew where Danny was in Dakota, he might stop by for a visit on his way back.”

  “The main problem is the grandfather, Elwood Tolliver,” said Lomax. “He’s been limping for forty years, and you can carry an awful lot of grudge on a bum leg for that long a time. Not to mention that the kid is the grandson of the man who made him that way. If he catches Johnny and Danny together, especially if it’s in flagrante delicto so to speak, then depending on who can get to their gun faster, one of them’s going to end up dead. I know you guys take a more laid-back view of a little casual personal bloodletting, but that’s not the way it works in this part of Montana. We do things the old way. We’re still part of the civilized world, and when somebody shoots somebody else, then the law steps in. No offense.”