Out of the Ashes (30 page)

“No!” Bridge laughed. “Where in the world are you people getting these off-the-wall questions?”

“But you people do place a lot of emphasis on religion,” Judith said. “Right?”

Bridge shrugged. “Some do, some don't. Hell, people! Prostitution is legal here.”

The newspeople all looked at each other, not believing what they had just heard.

“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.