20-20: A Retrospective View Of The Near Future

20-20

a retrospective view of the near future

Copyright 2014 Michael J Kubat

Smashwords Edition

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This is a work of fiction. Any and all characters, organizations, corporations, and institutions in this novel are the products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used without any intent to describe their actual persons or conduct.

The author accepts no responsibility for readers’ attempts to read more into this story than is actually there.

~~~~~

for Tommy, and for Melody

~~~~~

[The state] is a Volksgemeinschaft in which the individual has

no rights but only responsibilities.

Friedrich von Hayek, The Road to Serfdom

~~~~~

PART 1

Rivulets

dramatis personae, in order of appearance:

Bagrat Hassan Ormolu (mentioned only) -- former U.S. Congressman (2005-2007), last vice-president (2007-2008) and president (2008-2012) of the United States; last head of the Democratic Party; first head of the Global Ormolu Democracy (GOD) party that had split off from the Democratic Party; first president-for-life of the United States (2012-2014); first Director of the North American Anti-Imperialist Federation (NAAIF) that remained known by the nickname GOD (2015), first head of World Government (2015-2016), died under mysterious circumstances in 2016 while attending a meeting of the Global Circle of the Faithful.

Jonathan Elliot Hale -- 39, recently retired commander of the naval commandos, native of Shelby, Virginia.

the Sleep Allotment Coordinator (SAC) -- low-level GOD operative in charge of the New Shelby hostel. No further information (nfi).

Carroll Jayne Ellery -- 47, Captain of GOD militia, commanding officer of GOD militia forces in Special Subregion SSR351A.

Borel Ormolu Roshtal -- 29, Second Lieutenant of GOD militia, aide-de-camp (ADC) to Captain Ellery.

Moira Pennington -- 24, staff corporal of GOD militia, acting militia communications officer (commo) and cryptologist of SSR351A Mother Base; assumed command of the GOD militia communications facility (comfac) after her predecessor had been arrested and sent to an Intensive Re-education Facility (IRF).

James Rogers -- 17, private of GOD militia, assistant to Corporal Pennington, dubbed fresh fish or freshie for being just out of basic training.

Old Gershon (mentioned only) -- shopkeeper in the former unincorporated township of Merritt.

Saresha Ormolu Benedek -- 46, First Commissar (1Com) for Special Subregion SSR351A; formerly youth community organizer for the now-disbanded Democratic Party, later a rising star in GOD; assigned to GOD Special Information Acquisition Branch, quickly rose to command it; assigned as 1Com for SSR351A after her predecessor, Holly Cline, had been arrested for crimes against GOD and executed.

Pilar Santos -- 35, Benedek’s private secretary for nine years, former youth community organizer and children’s care specialist in Women’s World.

Florestan -- 51, prisoner in an Intensive Re-Education Facility (IRF), former journalist and blogger. His files were a particularly comprehensive repository of knowledge of pre-Ormolu events and a stern critique of Ormolu-instigated transformation of the country.

The Old Man -- 93, escapee from a clandestine GOD experimentation program that sought to increase human longevity and improve tractability; recluse, spiritual leader of local resistance.

Miller Cash -- 33, sergeant of GOD militia, friend and lover of Pilar Santos.

Alana Deshear, RN -- 41, GOD operative, graduate of the GOD Politico-Medical Institute, outstanding community organizer and political monitor but a poor nurse.

Stanislaus Boleski, MD -- 66, chief medical officer for SSR351A, nicknamed Troglodyte or The Trog.

the medical orderly -- nfi.

Michael Medridge -- 37, Resistance, nicknamed Mike Mike.

Melody Fraser -- 35, Resistance, Mike Mike’s partner.

Carl Eley -- 46, Resistance.

Bobby McAteer -- 42, Resistance.

Tommy Delman -- 21, private of GOD militia, assistant to Second Lieutenant Roshtal.

~ 1 ~

The Return Home

All owe me gratitude and loyalty, for now I truly am like a god, standing over all the peoples and the world itself, unerringly guiding them Forever Forward.

Bagrat Hassan Ormolu, Ormolu Verities, Preface

~~~~~

When, in September 2019, Jonathan Hale returned from the Asiatic wars, he had found his former home to be so different, so utterly alien, that it might as well have been on a different planet. During his nine-year absence, his home town of Shelby had been completely obliterated. A new Shelby town now stood on the site of Merritt, previously a few unincorporated households clustered around Old Gershon’s general store on an intersection of two secondary roads, several miles away from old Shelby and from the riverlet in which Jonathan used to fish and swim as a boy.

Old Shelby had been a charming riverside town, with picturesque houses and modest businesses lining Harbor and Main Streets that crossed one another at a sharp angle in the middle of town. The town expanded away from the river by way of a few side streets that led into the surrounding countryside. In the old days, people had ambled along the sidewalks, greeting one another and stopping to chat. Vehicles of all ages and descriptions had plied the brick and asphalt streets. A few small barges and boats were usually moored at the remaining functional wharf in the half-silted harbor. Greenery - trees, patches of grass, tiny gardens, hanging baskets - was everywhere.

In contrast, the new town featured a severe east-west, north-south grid with gated and guarded city walls. Few people apart from militia and government operatives were abroad. The civilians Jonathan encountered walked with their eyes down, seemingly in a perpetual hurry. Only a few official limousines and militia trucks moved on the streets. There were no parks, playgrounds or other expanses of green, no trees within the high town walls. All the buildings looked the same and everything, even the sky itself, was shabby, bleak and leaden in color.

Jonathan’s family was gone without a trace. Two days of research in the chaotic and gap-ridden town records had yielded no clue to their whereabouts. Jonathan did find some names that were familiar – old friends, a few distant relatives – and tried to find them, but none among those whom he had tracked down claimed to know him.

All seemed uneasy in his presence.

All closed their doors in his face at the first opportunity.

Jonathan found this heart-wrenching. Enough scuttlebutt had reached him overseas over the years to make him aware that everyone at home had quickly come to hate the GOD regime, but nothing had prepared him for the degree of alienation and fear that he now saw in people’s eyes. Nothing allayed the pain; not even reasoning (correctly) that any contact with a former serviceman of the old government was dangerous.

Yet, dejected as he was, Jonathan still refused to give up hope, telling himself that surely someone, somewhere, might have a kind word or a cup of coffee, or even, mirabile dictu, a cot, for a veteran who had fought so hard and had shed so much of his blood for his country.

But such was not to be. When, on yet another dreary afternoon yet another door had closed before him, Jonathan stood awhile, staring at its peeling paint, unable to decide what to do next. He did not have the strength to pursue another lead that day. In the end, he simply turned and began to walk, not caring where.

My country's soldier, he thought bitterly.

But what country?

Ever since he had debarked on the West Coast, had been officially registered and then transported by GOD militia to his former home, he found that nothing was left of the old United States of America. Two back-to-back civil wars followed by massive invasion and violent occupation by World Government forces had reduced the entire continent to a devastated and thoroughly picked-over backwater territory of the Worg. Anything left of value had been divvied up as gifts to invading generals and as private fiefdoms for the hyper-rich and privileged supranationals who had considered the nation-state to be obsolete and who for decades had been the main ideological and financial engines behind the Worg.

Jonathan had no idea how long he had walked, or where. But as the few grimy solar-powered streetlights came on and soon began to wink out, the streets rapidly grew dark, and he realized that he must get indoors or be arrested. He returned to the main square and once more checked in at the windowless government hostel that glowered next to the municipal hall. Once again, he patiently filled out reams of paperwork, ignoring the hostile glare of the Sleep Allotment Coordinator. SAC, he thought wearily, how appropriate for someone assigning beds. But he said nothing, for he knew that humor – any humor – could and would be construed as criticism of GOD and was subject to severe punishment.

On this day, Jonathan’s assigned bed turned out to be on the top floor, just under the hot roof. He dragged himself up five flights of stairs, found the bed and slid his rucksack into the locker next to it. He secured the locker with his own lock, not with the cheap Chinese one the SAC had given him. He wrestled his boots from his aching feet and lay down recumbent, arm over his eyes. He hoped that sleep would come soon, but he tossed for hours before finally drifting off, hounded by faint echoes of war cries, explosions, animal screams of pain and dying buddies’ fruitless calls for help that grew more faint as life drained from them.

When morning came, pale and humid, Jonathan was still asleep. He slept through the lunch hour and well into the sunless afternoon. Yet when he finally awoke, he felt like he had had no rest at all. The hardships that had befallen him since he had been mustered out in Chandra Bose City had been great, but they had failed to crush him. Even all the horrors which he had glimpsed from the cattle car while he was being transported home from the West Coast did not destroy his spirits, for he kept clinging to the hope that the devastation he was seeing was not universal; that other regions of the country, or at least his own home, had been spared.

What finally did break him was the shock of finding his home just as ruined as the rest of the country.

And after his unsuccessful search for kindred souls, it struck him that he was now utterly alone and rootless and, what was more, feared by the populace and hated and constantly monitored by GOD authorities. The cold, hard reality was that now he had neither past nor future, and that now his entire life now had no meaning; indeed all of it had been for naught.

This state of limbo his mind could not compass. He began to feel that he might go mad - was going mad. What kind of rational decision could he make now that his sanity was slipping away? Surely, if he sought any decision now, his desperation would prompt him to turn himself in for Incorporation.

And that, he knew, would be the last choice that he would ever have to make.

In the end, Jonathan found sufficient presence of mind to reject this terminal option. That modest victory gave him a modicum of strength. He decided to avoid making any decisions until he had regained sufficient emotional balance to be able to face whatever lay ahead.

When the SAC came, Jonathan was lying curled up on his side, trying to think but sliding back into sleep.

Up with yew, the SAC said, glaring. Odders have right to sleep, too.

Jonathan looked up at her. He thought that she filled out the regulation blue GOD coverall nicely, but that was all that could be said of her. Her airs were typical of the multitudes of insignificant GOD creatures that identified body and soul with their bombastic titles. She was a card-carrying member of the legion of nobodies elevated far beyond their natural abilities because they had made themselves into mindless followers of the Global Ormolu Democracy elites that now ruled this continent.

Just another doggie, then. Ignore, keep silent, stay completely neutral.

"Up. Now. Yew no longer have no privileges. No unearn icer male privileges," she added, puffing up.

Jonathan considered responding but put the idea out of his mind. Reacting to a doggie was worse than futile: it was undignified, and especially unworthy of a battle-scarred commando.

I’m getting up, he said quietly.

The doggie was not mollified. I knows your kind. Parasites. Suck from the people. Should be all wipe out.

Is she spoiling for a fight or just stupid? Jonathan wondered. He bet on stupidity, but these days stupidity, when combined with authority, was more dangerous than simple aggressiveness. He let it be, swung his feet to the floor and rose.

The doggie, seeing him tower over her by a head, took a step back. Tryin’ to scare me? I call help, don’t worry, if yew do somfing.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and sat down to put his boots on, hoping the doggie would go away. But she returned to the attack. Yew dissin me with dem eyes of yours. Mebbe security teach yew respeck.

Is there a bath house here?

No bath.

A cantina?

"No for yew. Food here for deservin’ people. Yew only get to sleep here a few times, and this is last time. Odders have rights too."

Of course.

Jonathan was getting tired of this. He needed to leave, in case the woman was setting him up. In theory, GOD guaranteed decent treatment for veterans, especially members of special forces like himself who, if bent to obey the new self-appointed master race, could be particularly useful. But under GOD, rules changed constantly. What was white yesterday could be black today and back again tomorrow, and the first time a man usually found out was when doggie bullygirls were clapping him in irons.

And this doggie could be just the kind of catalyst local authorities needed as an excuse for relentless persecution.

When the SAC finally grasped that she would get no reaction from Jonathan, she sniffed, tossed her head and stalked away. Jonathan found a restroom and drew a glass of water. He dropped a few crystals of disinfectant into it, drank most and brushed his teeth with the rest. Cold water on his face and the back of his neck brought him closer to wakefulness. He washed his face and neck, hands, feet, and crotch, then dressed, shouldered his pack and walked out of the dismal building into the dismal day.

Stupid doggie, Jonathan thought as he walked. Yet for all her abusiveness, he felt no malice toward her. She was just an automaton, outwardly alive but with the blankness of the Incorporated in her gaze. And how could anyone be upset with a brain-damaged Incorp?

Doggie. There was something to that. Jonathan chuckled. Typical popular wit: crude but effective. And, of course, underground. GOD spelled backward is dog, therefore doggie. Slavishly devoted, licking your boots, panting with joy whenever you snapped your fingers or waved a treat.

But still, it was a travesty. Jonathan loved and respected dogs, real dogs, because they also symbolized strength, steadfastness and unconditional love.

Like love of country.

Jonathan shook his head. In a regime like this, all things, even the most intimate ones, were completely perverted. Nothing remained sacrosanct except the irresistible power of the Global Ormolu Democracy, an all-powerful political party that cleverly and perversely called itself GOD.

Jonathan’s stomach growled, reminding him that he had not eaten for two days. He did have a few rations left in his pack, and his meager loot from the wars was still safely stowed in his belt; but that was his iron reserve for a time when there truly were no other options. Even though he already knew it to be irrational, he still could not resist the hope that he would find a friendly place to live or that, at the very least, someone would feed him for free once or twice out of old friendship, or compassion, or possibly even gratitude.

As before, Jonathan’s efforts were in vain. He tried two more familiar names that he had culled from his research. At one address, there was no answer; at the other, the familiar-looking woman who had opened the door told him that no one there knew him. And even if they did, she whispered, they would not admit to it. And smash went the door.

Jonathan stood awhile, then walked awhile, weighing his options. His steps took him past an empty storefront in an old-style building at the corner of First and Central. He had gone past it the day he had arrived and thought it oddly familiar, but decided it was just another business that had been closed down. This time, however, he stopped and put his eyes close to the dusty glass of the display window.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but could make out nothing. He then looked around carefully to make sure he was alone, and tried the door. It was warped but, to his surprise, unlocked. He pushed harder. The door resisted, but then its hinges creaked and it shuddered open, admitting him.

~ 2 ~

The Exurg Message

Bourgeois ideas of equality are irrational, oppressive, reactionary and criminal. People are not equal: certainly not because some bourgeois document so states. Those with power have it because they were destined to do so, and must therefore be obeyed. All encounters are dialectical: those with more power – upper comrades, in the timeless words of Angka Loeu – have the duty not just to rule but to change the lower comrades, that is, those with less power.

Bagrat Hassan Ormolu, Ormolu Verities, Volume 33

~~~~~

Just as Jonathan was waking up, the Militia Commandature received a coded high-priority message. Because the code clerk was in the infirmary, the commandant, Captain Ellery, did not receive it until early evening.

PRIORITY EXURG

SER4400569348SHQ

F: NDGMAF

T: ECRSSR351A

CONFLVL05SMILEYESONLY

INRE: JONATHAN ELLIOT HALE

A. INRE MUSTERED OUT M09D25CY, ENR HOME URLOC.

B. INRE FMR CDR OF OLDRGM NVL LRRP BN. UNK IF ARMED BUT RUTHLESS ICER KILLER.

C. NPR. CONSIDER DEADLY, POTENTIAL DISCO. A&D FIRST SIGN OF HETERODOXY, ANMETAC.

PRIORITY EXURG

DECLAS SKED: N/A

When Ellery read the message, he got so faint from rage that he had to sit down for a moment.

Roshtal, bring me that comms NCO, he bellowed at his ADC, waving the tan onionskin.

She’s back in the infirmary, Commandant, Roshtal said. I just checked on her. Obvious symptoms of pneumonia, made worse by malnutrition. The rations…

I don’t care if she’s dead, Ellery shrieked so loudly that passers-by outside the headquarters building looked up toward his window. She’s going into re-ed. And there’s no malnutrition here. Research proves that GOD food rations are completely wholesome, and far better than anything these people have ever had. The science is in on that subject. Are you questioning the tremendous gains we’ve achieved under the progressive rule of Ormolu and his successors?

N-n-no, Commandant. But… the adjutant tried one more time.

"Get! Her! Here! Now! That’s an order, lieutenant, or you’re going into re-ed with her."

Ellery’s face, high-colored to begin with, was fairly incandescent now. He was leaning forward over his desk, his teeth bared.

Second Lieutenant Roshtal, frightened out of his wits, saluted hastily and darted out. He was back sixteen minutes later, escorting a thin woman half in uniform, half in hospital garb. She was swathed in several blankets but still shook with the chills. She tried to come to attention in front of Ellery’s desk but swayed back and forth so much that the adjutant had to support her.

Corporal Pennington, you have failed in your duty, the commandant said matter-of-factly when he had ignored her long enough to feel that he had the upper hand.

Because of high fever, Pennington was close to hallucinating, but she was still lucid enough to be horrified. Apart from disloyalty to GOD, failure of duty was the worst thing a serviceperson could be accused of. Commandant, I…

Silence! A critical ExUrg message came in today, and it didn’t get to me for hours. Because you had failed to train your backup properly, we now have an old regime killer loose in the area. And look at this! ANMETAC! Any method acceptable to deal with him! What do you have to say for yourself?

Nothing, Commandant, Pennington said. In a meeting of equals, she might said that, ever since her assignment to SSR351A nearly a year ago, she had put in a request for an assistant every month, that it had been denied each time, and that she had therefore spent the last year living, living in the communications facility to ensure nothing was missed. She could have told Ellery that he had only approved her request earlier this month, but that the assistant, a frightened puppy straight from indoc, had only arrived four days ago and without any security clearances. She might have pointed out that there had hardly been enough time to show him where the latrine was; let alone perform a background investigation, obtain the results, clear him and start training him.

But she knew Ellery and his ferocious temper. She also knew that, under GOD, there were no meetings of equals, merely an unending series of manifestations of power by one person over another. She recalled vaguely that Ormolu Verities referred to it as the upper comrade-lower comrade dialectic. Here, Commandant Ellery was the all-powerful upper comrade. And so, instead of responding, she as the lower comrade made her face blank and submissive, thinking only of her cot. When Ellery pressed her for a confession, she readily admitted to guilt that was not hers, then patiently waited for whatever verdict the Commandant would be pleased to pronounce.

Ellery chewed on his pen for a while. Three weeks extra duty, he finally said. Prone to vicious rages he might be, but he knew his precarious personnel situation, and he was not about to leave comms and decoding in the hands of an uncleared fresh fish. Restricted to duty station. That’s all. Get yourself out of here before you infect everyone.

Corporal Pennington, so relieved that her knees almost gave out, tried a salute and an about-face, but fared poorly. Lieutenant Roshtal put an arm around her shoulders and steered her out of the Commandant’s office. Lucky dog, he told her outside. Get the freshie to set you up a cot in comms, and bring you everything you need.

I’ve had a…cot…in there for over…ten…months now, Pennington mumbled. What do…you think he’s…been doing ever since he got here?

So you’ve had a servant, just like in the bourgeois era, Roshtal quipped.

Pennington, too sick now to feel any more horror, left Roshtal’s words alone. She simply allowed herself to be half-led, half-carried to the comfac where the freshie, a sallow-faced product of Women’s World and militia indoc, took charge of her. He herded her inside and let her collapse onto her cot. He tucked her in as tenderly as he knew how, then turned to face Roshtal.

Take care of her, Roshtal said, unnecessarily. The freshie saluted decently enough, holding his salute so long and so woodenly that Roshtal felt vaguely embarrassed. He returned it sloppily and hurried back to headquarters, where he spent the next thirty minutes mustering the courage to ask the Commandant what else was in that all-important message. He never got that chance because the Commandant had gone to a political meeting that was to last through the day.

~ 3 ~

The Abandoned Store

The people everywhere will labor for the greater good of the global community. It does not matter where, it does not matter if voluntarily or not: labor they will, not least because only socialist labor can set them truly free. To ensure that quotas and priorities set by the global planning system are met, all laborers will be congregated in industrial armies, which will be housed in city or rural communes, close to enterprises that need their labor. That is efficiency, that is true progress.

Bagrat Hassan Ormolu, Ormolu Verities, Volume 20

~~~~~

Jonathan, invisible behind a tumble of crates in the back of the abandoned store, rummaged quietly by the red light of his flashlight. He was looking for something, anything, that would give him some sense of rootedness in this alien wasteland. At length, he found some old invoices. He sat down to look them over, then chuckled and shook his head. So this was Old Gershon’s general store that had stood at the Merritt crossroads. That was why it had looked so strangely familiar the first time he had passed by it.

Wonder why they kept the building? Jonathan mumbled. Why not replace it with something new and crappy, like the rest of this town?

He leaned back against a wall, closed his eyes and began to reminisce. If Gershon was still alive, he had to be well over ninety. He remembered being scared to death of the gruff and forbidding old man, until one day he got to know him through an accident.

It happened like this. Jonathan was riding his bike through Merritt, much as he had done since he was five. On this particular day, however, the skies had unexpectedly opened up, with bolts of lightning following in such quick succession that the sky had seemed on fire. Jonathan, then eleven, had pedaled desperately to reach shelter, but his front wheel had gone into a water-filled pothole right in front of Gershon’s. He went flying over the handlebars, landing outside the door with such a thump that, for a while, he was utterly disoriented. As he lay there in the driving rain, he saw the door open. The old man came out and knelt next to him and he, Jonathan, thought that this was his last minute on Earth.

But the old man just looked him over, then pinched his toes. Can you feel that?

The petrified Jonathan managed a nod.

Good. Anything feel broken?

Jonathan tried his arms and legs. The old man, now streaming with rainwater that cascaded down on Jonathan, carefully felt about his neck. H’m. I’m no doctor, but it doesn’t look like you’re going to die. Can you get up? He extended a large, gnarly hand. After a moment of hesitation, Jonathan took it and felt himself pulled to his feet. The old man wrapped an arm around Jonathan’s shoulders and gently steered him inside the store.

After a bit more doctoring, a phone call to his parents and a change of clothing, Jonathan had begun to feel right at home. Some fabulous candy that the old man had produced from the pocket of his worn sweater helped the feeling along. From that day on, Jonathan understood that he was free to dive into that pocket any time he came calling, and life had become that much more wonderful.

Jonathan opened his eyes, sighed and returned to rooting in the rubbish. Nothing seemed of interest until he came across a set of small, unlabeled tubes with screw tops. Not knowing what they were, he did not try to open them, but wrapped them in a spare set of socks and put them in his rucksack. He would have a chance to study them later. The real surprise was something he thought was an old tinderbox. He opened it, expecting to find flint and steel, but he saw fine dust instead. He put his finger in it and sniffed it carefully. It seemed completely harmless; but a few minutes later, his eyelids began to droop. Damn, I’m tired, he thought, sliding to the floor. His last thought was for the battery in his flashlight; he groped for it feebly but never managed to switch it off.

Several hours later, Jonathan awakened with a crick in his neck, having dropped off in an awkward position. But he felt tremendously refreshed. That kind of freshness was such a distant memory that he could not recall the last time he had experienced it. In fact, he was so relaxed that he had to struggle into a sitting position and to wipe off strings of drool that were escaping from the corners of his mouth.

And then he heard the whisper, soft but clear, even urgent.

We’ve been waiting for you.

Jonathan, too relaxed to be able to muster a response, merely sat there, wondering vaguely who they were and why they were waiting for him. Then he fell asleep again, sleeping through the night and most of the next day. When he woke up, his first thought was of the whisper, but concluded that it was nonsense: the powder in the box must have been some kind of hallucinogen.

Jonathan’s stomach growled, loudly and unexpectedly. He forgot the whisper and bent his thoughts to more practical matters. In the field, a rumble like that might have given him away and possibly gotten him killed. And since this place was no longer home but battlefield, too, he must conduct himself accordingly.

Jonathan crept to the storefront window, concealed himself behind a tumbledown display case and looked outside. The day was gloomy, with visibility further obscured by a fine rain that fell silently. He nodded. This meant an added measure of security since fewer people would be out and about in such poor weather. He was about to return to the back of the store to raid one of his two remaining MREs when he heard distant yelling and tramping of boots. He hunkered down behind the display case and waited, apprehensive yet curious about this unexpected disturbance in a town that seemed completely dead.

The noise drew nearer. Then several militiamen with their weapons at the ready came running around the corner of First Street and took up positions on both sides of Central. Two of them were so close to Old Gershon’s door that Jonathan concluded that they had come for him, and he steeled himself for one final fight. But to his relief, a densely packed column of people came trotting around the corner, with more militiamen on either side. One man stumbled and fell; he was beaten with rifle butts until he rose again, trailing blood, and rejoined the column.

Trying to get out of work, one of the militiamen by the door to Gershon’s said, chuckling.

Yeah, the other answered. Where dem icers off to, anyway?

This group is for diggin'. Canals and such, and… said the first militiaman. Then an officer came running by, yelling: Rejoin, rejoin! and the two militiamen hastily moved their weapons to port-arms and fell in behind her. Complete silence returned.

Jonathan remained behind the display rack, brooding. What had he just witnessed? Was this whole city some kind of prison?

And then it struck him. All kinds of terrible stories from home had reached the deployed forces, but the troops tended to ignore or minimize them because paying any attention to rumors would quickly reduce them to nervous wrecks. A civil war in the U.S. followed by an invasion from the south? From the south? Give me a break. Probably a bunch of Latinos got shot by vigilantes while trying to cross the Rio Grande, and then there was a riot on both sides of the border. Maybe it lasted a week. Martial law? All right, maybe in the affected area. Large-scale devastation of the whole country? Fine, some sympathetic rioting in the larger cities, with militants burning a few blocks. Some of the old hands, who remembered the Los Angeles riots of 1991, were willing to concede that the destruction might be more than a few blocks, but the whole country? Unthinkable. Unthinkable, even when communication from friends and families began to falter and then ceased altogether. Occupation? The death of an entire country? America? No. Impossible.

One of the craziest rumors that had made its way to the operating forces – even to the commandos who, being far out in the countryside, were almost always incommunicado – was the story of the prison city. The prison city was supposed to be a city-sized concentration camp into which able-bodied people were herded and then deployed to any local area that required labor. Crazy rumor indeed; except that New Shelby, with its barrack-like buildings, heavy militia presence and guarded walls fit the description perfectly. For Jonathan, the spectacle of a group of people being driven like cattle to some work site had clinched it. He had already seen too much of the devastated America to know that even the worst of the rumors were true.

Jonathan slowly returned to the back of the store, opened an MRE and began to eat. If he watched his appetite – it was harder now – he had enough for three more days. The water in his canteen, enough for two. After that, he would have to find more food and water, but he was sure that he had enough time to come up with a solution. Until then, he would hunker down in the store – or so he briefly thought.

What changed his mind was a sudden thought that that column of trotting slaves might have contained his parents. This depressed him to the point of paralysis, but the depression quickly morphed into anger.

But Jonathan had no use for such emotional luxuries as depression or rage. He knew that, for a fighting man, they were prescriptions for a quick death. The only solution was to find closure. Which, for him, could only be had through action.

And so, the following night, Jonathan sneaked out of Old Gershon’s store via its back door, scaled the city wall at a poorly guarded location that he had spotted when he had arrived and struck out for the ruins of old Shelby. Maybe there were clues to be found there, and then, then the intrusive thoughts of his people could somehow be put to sleep.

~ 4 ~

Benedek and Ellery

In the global community, the requirements and rulings of GOD ideology, as embodied in, and implemented by, the World Government, prevail over all other considerations. Armed forces everywhere shall ensure that all military operations support ideologico-political goals. To this end, political commissars shall have unlimited authority to circumvent the military chain of command.

Bagrat Hassan Ormolu, Ormolu Verities, Volume 2

~~~~~

Saresha Ormolu Benedek, First Political Commissar or simply 1Com, was tapping her knuckles on her desk. A big fish had just slipped through her fingers, and she was very unhappy. The problem was a message that was similar to Ellery’s, except that she had received it via special channels set up specifically for high-level political personnel by the CGS/UPS, the Unified Political System communications of the Committee for Global Security.

Her concern was not so much with the disco Hale on the loose but with the message itself. Like Ellery’s, it had come late despite its top priority level; and the simultaneous tardiness of a message on two different comms systems was a real problem. The systems did not in any way interconnect, thus a technical problem that might have affected both was out of the question. The only other possibility was human error, or rather human interference. In other words, sabotage by reactionaries who had burrowed their way into the very heart of GOD.

Benedek sighed. The class enemy never sleeps, she reminded herself. But her report on this matter must be carefully neutral: let the upper echelons worry about reaching conclusions. She herself need not stick her neck out like that: she would simply take more vigorous action locally to root out the counterrevolution.

Not that she was overly concerned about repercussions. She had impeccable standing in GOD, she was at the pinnacle of her powers, she had friends in high GOD and Worg echelons and, most important of all, very discreet contacts among the leadership of the liberation forces. Someone would pay, but it would not be her. If worse came to worst, that ridiculous worm Ellery would take the fall.

Well, she thought, time for another security sweep throughout her Subregion. Maybe that will also haul in the fish that had, for the time being, gotten away.

But why would the counterrevolution, weak and disorganized as it was, risk a new security sweep by interfering so blatantly in GOD communications? Did it mean that they were keenly interested in a mustered out old regime navy commander like Hale? If so, why? Was there a long-term conspiracy at work here, and were they specifically waiting for him to return? Was the delay intended to give him enough time to disappear?

Benedek made a decision. Santos, she yelled.

First Commissar! special secretary Santos yelled back, barging through a door a moment later.

What took you? Benedek growled.

I was outside milking the goats, Santos said with an innocent grin, smoothing her skirt.

What a load of crap, Benedek growled, but could not keep herself from smiling. Santos had been her secretary for years now, and often they joked together as if there were no difference in rank. Or no revolution. Theirs was practically a private language. Which had its advantages in complex situations.

It suddenly struck Benedek that Santos was more like her little sister. Hmm, I like that, she thought. My little sister. Just let’s not ever tear off the necessary veneer of my station and privilege. Not when and where it counts.

Get me Ellery, Benedek said. Time to have a little fun, she thought.

Now, or make an appointment?

Now.

Ellery, perspiring and breathing heavily, stood before Benedek in less than ten minutes. No one, but no one kept the 1Com waiting. He stood at attention, holding his salute stiffly until she finally lifted her head from some papers she had been studying, favored him with a long and penetrating look, and nodded. Then he was able to breathe more normally, but not for long.

Tell me, Captain Ellery, Benedek asked, leaning back in her chair. Tell me, if you would, what do you remember of your immediate predecessor, Major Xiang, and the manner of his sudden departure?

Ellery felt a sudden weakness in his knees.

~ 5 ~

En Route

De-development of hostile areas – and all areas must be considered implacably hostile until pacified and liberated – must be total. Newly liberated people’s familiarity with their surroundings must be so completely smashed that their only option will be to turn to agents of GOD for help even with simple orientation, not to mention survival. The most efficient way to accomplish such creative destruction is simply to turn local militias loose with plenty of explosives. In such things, their imagination is always without limits.

Bagrat Hassan Ormolu, Ormolu Verities, Volume 1

~~~~~

Jonathan, moving cross-country, struck out for old Shelby. He did not object to roads per se, but as an old campaigner, he habitually thought in terms of exposed-not exposed. Being on a road was far more exposure than he liked, especially since he had concluded that being back home was as bad as being in a war zone. You never knew who the enemy was or where the next attack might come from. Jonathan had no time to reflect on it at the time, but he was re-experiencing what hundreds of millions of citizens of past revolutionary regimes had found out before him: the simple fact of life was war, and your government and its organs were your most implacable and merciless foes.

The distance from