by Ginger Booth
“What was your first reaction, Colonel,” Kalnietis asked, “when you learned of Dane Beaufort’s final words? What were they exactly…”
“‘We know what God demands of us,’” Emmett supplied. “I don’t know what he meant by it.”
“I understand,” Kalnietis assured him. “But what was your first thought?”
Emmett struggled with that a moment. I reached over and squeezed his hand for moral support. “I thought it was a mistake,” Emmett finally said. “To play the religion card. That was a bad idea.”
“So the two of you share the same religious beliefs –”
“No,” Emmett cut Kalnietis off. “Well, partly. We were friendly, but not friends. Because of our religious beliefs. Dane was more…mainstream…for an evangelical. Intolerant, homophobic, blame the victim. Right-wing reactionary politics. I believe Jesus Christ is my savior, and He asked us to judge not, lest we be judged. Dane and I crossed swords a few times over politics. I was too liberal for his taste.”
“So you’d call yourself a liberal evangelical Christian?”
Emmett replied crossly, “I call myself Emmett MacLaren. Labels are just a lazy way to judge people. But my convictions are on the left side of the born again bell curve, yeah.”
“Was this a strong hostility between the two of you?”
“No,” Emmett said. “Friendly, but not friends. No hostility.”
Kalnietis moved on. “So, you last saw each other at Resco training?”
“No,” Emmett differed again. “I trained at south-central muster in Memphis. Trainer, actually. I transferred to New England the following month.” Emmett looked thoughtful. Kalnietis waited for him. “Just a random thought.”
“Please share,” Kalnietis invited.
“There was a flame war on Amenac. On the Resco forums,” Emmett explained. “Between the northeast and the south-central Rescos. I was thinking the last time I talked to Dane was during my SAMS year at Leavenworth. But no, it was during that flame war, in the spring. Just a few months ago.”
“Explain this flame war?”
“Oh, it was…no, it wasn’t stupid,” Emmett waffled. “During muster in Memphis, Sunday after church, we got together for a sort of panel discussion on using religion. As a Resco. It was an important talk, I thought. Anyway, it came up on the Resco boards. The northeast muster hadn’t covered religion. Not surprised. People up here take separation of church and public life for granted. In the Bible Belt, or even in the Midwest, it’s just not that way. Religion is always a part of life. People talk about it. It was hard for me to learn, at West Point, then coming back a couple years ago. Have to censor myself. Don’t mention Jesus Christ.”
“The flame war?”
“Oh, I got in trouble by saying yeah, we need to enlist religious leaders, but maintain Resco authority above them. The more I explained, the more I got flamed by the northerners. The southerners already understood, and backed me up. And Dane Beaufort emailed me. Said he wished he’d been to my muster instead of stuck with the damn-Yankees. Some other things.”
“Such as?”
Emmett shrugged. “Dane was ticked off that I had a gay room-mate my second year at Leavenworth.”
“Major Cameron?” Kalnietis confirmed. This IBIS agent knew a surprising amount about the SAMS who vetted the Calm Act. Emmett and his classmates worked hard to keep their past secret, especially Cam. Officially, Cam was in ILE that year, not SAMS. Even the other SAMS weren’t aware of his role.
“Yeah. Anyway, Dane’s email brought that up again.” Emmett had his phone out, to search his vast collection of emails and texts. Apparently he found the exchange with Beaufort, and reviewed it. “Dane was concerned that Dee wasn’t a good Christian woman. Probably meant sex out of wedlock. I asked him how it was going, with communications restored outside Penn.” He paused and re-read Beaufort’s reply, and worried his lip with his teeth. “He said the public still didn’t have access. But it was an eye-opener for him.”
“In what way?” I asked. Kalnietis frowned faintly, but probably would have asked the same.
“Didn’t say.” Emmett handed the phone over to Kalnietis, so he and Gianetti could read the originals.
“What do you make of the Bible quotes at the bottom of his emails?” Kalnietis inquired.
Emmett shrugged. “Nothing. You can hook a random Bible quote generator to your email.”
“Is that professional, for a Resco?” Kalnietis suggested.
“I wouldn’t do it,” Emmett allowed. “But those were personal emails, to another born-again Christian. Nothing inappropriate.”
“Isn’t it odd, that most people still didn’t have Internet access?” Gianetti inserted.
Emmett nodded gratefully. “Yeah. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. In the Apple Zone, most people only have meshnet.” The Apple Zone was the region we’d just left, encompassing North Jersey, New York City, the northern suburbs, and Long Island – inside the epidemic control borders. The region the Calm Act walled in to die before Project Reunion.
Emmett continued, “Seems strange for Pittsburgh. But Tolliver interdicted Internet for the whole state, before the war. I thought they kept internal comms, though.”
“Was Pittsburgh in particularly bad shape?” Kalnietis asked.
Emmett shrugged. “I was focused on the Apple.”
“Would you have expected Pittsburgh to be in bad shape? It was a large city.”
“Not that large,” Emmett countered. He took his phone back and brought up the stats. “Only 300k in the city. Big metro region, couple million people. But that’s stretching into West Virginia and Ohio. Plenty of agriculture. Hell, they even have fuel. Lots of fuel.” He sighed. “New York, New England – we could wish for this resource profile.”
“I understand Rescos, like yourself, use a 10-point scale to describe the ‘level’ of an area,” said Kalnietis. “With this profile, what level would you expect, under a ‘good’ Resco?”
“Level 6 to 9,” Emmett replied. “Sky’s the limit, really. But Schwabacher said Pittsburgh was fishy.”
“The governor-general of Ohio?” Kalnietis confirmed. “‘Fishy’? What do you think he meant by that?”
“Don’t know,” replied Emmett. “But he was the one pushing for me to come out here. Taibbi – Penn’s governor – didn’t argue.” Emmett looked pained. “Taibbi didn’t seem to know much about Pittsburgh. Anyhow, Ohio and Penn have a re-industrialization plan, centered on Pittsburgh. One of the main planks of Schwabacher’s 5-year plan for the Ohio valley. But Pittsburgh was already ‘fishy’, and now this.”
“But you report to General Cullen, in New York–New Jersey,” Kalnietis probed. “Or do you revert to New England, after Project Rebuild in the Apple Core?”
Emmett sighed. “I work for the Army. Somebody’s Army. I was due for reassignment. So they figured I was available. They asked me to do this first.”
Gianetti stepped in again. “Why would the hero of Project Reunion be reassigned out of New York City?”
“I was expecting Long Island or North Jersey,” Emmett allowed. “Cullen wants to spread out his senior Rescos. He wasn’t happy having two of us in one city. It’s Ash Margolis’ home town, and he’s senior to me. So we agreed I’d stay to get the Apple Rebuild off to a good start. Then leave the Apple Core to Ash and move on.”
“You’re not offended by this?” Gianetti pressed.
“Relieved,” Emmett replied. “Not my kind of town. Just felt obligated. I care about the apples – the survivors there. Been through hell. Admire them, you know? Couldn’t leave in good conscience until they were set on a good road.” Emmett still had mixed feelings about leaving them, his heroes, and it showed on his face. “But Ash is solid. They’re in good hands.”
“So what do you see as your assignment in Pittsburgh, Colonel MacLaren?” Kalnietis redirected. “And how can we help?”
“Well, I hope IBIS can tell us why Dane Beaufort is dead,” Emmett replied.
“The mechanics of it. Who killed him. They want me to figure out whether he was a good Resco, what he did right and wrong. Assess Pittsburgh. And recommend whether Pittsburgh should get a new Resco. Default is no.”
“No?” Gianetti asked sharply.
“No,” Emmett confirmed. “A Resco is a privilege, not a right. The default is that they’re on their own. Sink or swim.”
“But they’re in good shape to survive that,” suggested Gianetti, “based on their resource profile?”
“That’s the crux of what I have to answer,” said Emmett, “in my recommendations.”
“What law governs that decision?” Kalnietis asked.
“None that I know of,” Emmett replied. “Resco is a military posting. General Taibbi can assign a Resco wherever he sees fit. The murderers will be executed, though. Under martial law.”
“What would happen if General Taibbi were at fault?” Kalnietis asked delicately.
“War,” Emmett replied. “That’s what happened to his predecessor, General Tolliver. Until Taibbi’s forces killed him. Depends on how bad Taibbi was, of course. Cullen and Schwabacher wouldn’t bother to fight him, unless he was a problem for them.”
“So if he were just a Pennsylvania problem…”
“Pennsylvania would have a problem,” Emmett confirmed. “That’s the theory. At any rate, I’m not here to judge Governor-General Taibbi. Just offer suggestions.”
“I see,” Kalnietis said neutrally. “And you, Ms. Baker? I understand you’re Colonel MacLaren’s partner?”
“Yes,” I said sunnily. “Just keeping my sweetie company.”
“Uh-huh,” said Emmett wryly. “That’s not fair, darlin’. Agents Kalnietis and Gianetti are on our team here. Agents, you already caught the part where Dee is one of the principals behind the Amenac and Project Reunion web empires? Set up meshnet communications for the whole Apple? Among other tricks.”
This seemed to catch the IBIS agents off guard. I was a bit miffed and unimpressed that they hadn’t looked into me as closely as Emmett. Perhaps they thought they already knew who I was. As what, a Project Reunion reporter and love interest for MacLaren the hero?
“That’s about it for tricks,” I soft-pedaled. Looking inoffensive and unimportant was my usual strategy. It’s easier to be devious when people aren’t watching you carefully.
“Co-author of Project Reunion itself,” Emmett added.
“What do you mean, co-author of Project Reunion?” Kalnietis asked.
“She co-authored the plan with me,” Emmett clarified. “It was her idea in the first place, to use Tom Aoyama’s quarantine scheme to save New York. We were partners on it all along. The governor-generals asked me to bring Dee to Pittsburgh. Civilian perspective. Dee knows more Rescos and Cocos – community coordinators – than just about anybody.”
“Does that mean I get paid for this trip?” I inquired sweetly.
Emmett tapped the letter in his pocket, appointing him a temporary Colonel of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. “Got 90 meal tickets. Want some?”
“Meal tickets?” Kalnietis asked.
“One year’s food for one adult male,” Emmett clarified. He shrugged apologetically. “That’s what Rescos get paid. Our own food too, of course, but Dee and I grow our own. The meal tickets are to invest as we see fit. As a light colonel, I get 75 meal tickets in New York–New Jersey. Only 1800 calories a day there. Penn pays 2500 calories a day on a full meal ticket, darlin’.”
“Sweet!” I said. “Huh. Then I wonder if a meal ticket is worth much here.”
“Didn’t he just say it was worth more?” Kalnietis asked, puzzled.
I smiled at Kalnietis ruefully. “If Penn can afford 2500 calories a day, people can’t be very hungry.”
Chapter 3
Interesting fact: Pennsylvania was home to tens of thousands of Amish and Mennonite farmers, expert in low-tech sustainable agriculture, quite a prize at this time. They concentrated closer to Philadelphia.
For most of the ride through Pennsylvania, Emmett was glued to the window, taking notes on his phone and taking photos. I found the view rather repetitive myself, after Philadelphia. Lots of trees and fields. Increasingly hilly. Occasional towns. Aside from the picturesque Amish now and then, Pennsylvania looked an awful lot like New York and New England. Eight hours of it was more than sufficient, and I dozed off half the time. We both grew more alert as we passed into the urbanized landscape of Pittsburgh.
Suddenly we stopped. We were in a rail plaza of some kind, but with no passenger platform. It appeared to be an industrial district, possibly rail heads for coal and ore trains into the old steel mills. But those giant dinosaurs lay quiet, the smokestacks out of business.
Emmett waited a couple minutes patiently, then raised his voice to prompt, “Report.”
Captain Johnson, in charge of our train car of soldiers, replied, “Conductor isn’t sure why, but track signals told him to stop here, Colonel. He’s inquiring. No answer at Pittsburgh. Send out scouts?”
“Not yet, Captain,” Emmett replied. He took out his phone and tried our local contact, but got no answer. “Stay here, darlin’,” he advised, and clambered over me to confer with the IBIS dining car.
I studied Pittsburgh through the windows. Like the rolling Pennsylvania landscape, it wasn’t greatly different from a familiar New England mill town. Steep hills rose to either side beyond the industrial district, covered with deciduous trees and wood-frame houses. But where our train sat was the basic, standard-issue concrete, brick buildings, and gravel rail bed of Rust Belt industry, from a time gone by before I was born. Deserted.
Someone in Army camouflage, with a rifle, scampered between two buildings. “Captain Johnson?” I called. When I had his attention, I pointed out where I’d spotted an armed someone.
“Alright. Stay down, Ms. Baker. Look alive, guys. Shooter spotted.”
From what I overheard, apparently the train conductor was leery of going forward against the signals without some kind of explanation. That was how rail collisions happened, and a number of lines converged in Pittsburgh. For all we knew, we were honestly giving another train right-of-way. And although our train carried passengers and a few container cars of produce, that wasn’t the norm. Most trains passing through Pittsburgh these days carried coal and fuel. A collision would be a disaster.
That explanation didn’t seem to gibe with armed militia sneaking around behind the buildings, though. Not a single civilian was in sight, not even driving by on the bridge. I’d never seen a city this devoid of people. Barely one person in ten remained in Brooklyn, and it was downright lively compared to this.
I jerked upright to the sound of gunfire, from down the train in the produce department. The door between cars shushed open and Emmett’s voice came up the aisle behind me, complaining over the phone. “Now got active shooters… Are you in charge of this militia or not?… We’re at…” I held up my phone showing our location on the map, and Emmett conveyed this information. “Could call in an air strike if I wanted. Seems overkill.”
Emmett sank into the seat across the aisle from me, and gestured for me to scoot toward him, away from the window. “No, councilman. That was not a joke… Enough. Call me with an all-clear into Union Station.” Emmett cut the call. “Captain Johnson? Looters attacking the food. Help the transit guards kill them, please. Try to wing a couple for questioning.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Johnson replied promptly. There was some typical grousing among the soldiers about how protecting the food shipment wasn’t their job. Johnson shut them up and got them moving down the train toward the gunshots. Emmett gazed at me ruefully.
“Never a second chance to make a first impression,” I quipped, with my best attempt at a cheerful smile.
“Uh-huh,” said Emmett. “Joker on the phone seemed to think I was their new Resco. Commanding these people attacking the train was my job. Why does everyone want to make their fucking problems my problem today? Pardon my language, darlin�
�. This is just irritating.”
“Emmett? You just ordered our guards to kill people,” I said. “Kill people in uniform. That’s not ‘just irritating.’”
“Uh-huh.” I continued to stare at him, concerned, until he conceded, “It’s not ideal. Dee, I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised. Not because I was thrilled to be there. I felt as useful as galoshes on a fish. But there wasn’t any way to go except forward, and Emmett had enough to deal with at the moment. “Let me know if I can help.”
He reached over and squeezed my hand. The level of gunfire increased markedly, with some yelling, maybe five cars back. Emmett asked me, “How far are we from Union Station? That’s where we’re going.”
I swallowed and looked it up, trying to focus on the task and not cringe at each barking shot. “Only two miles. We could walk,” I reported wanly.
“Uh-huh. I don’t trust the weather today,” Emmett quipped. The gunfire gradually died. His walkie-talkie pinged him with a report of mission complete. One non-serious injury, two prisoners in hand, and a green light from the conductor to continue. Of the attackers, a good dozen were bleeding or dead on the ground, the rest fled. “Good work, Johnson. Tell the conductor to proceed when you’re aboard.”
“So this councilman at Union Station?” I inquired. “Did he arrange our hotel reservations?”
“Uh-huh,” Emmett agreed. “Can’t wait to meet him.”
-o-
Captain Johnson sent out our brace of prisoners first under guard, to kneel on the platform, fingers laced behind their heads. I was relieved to see that they weren’t bloody. Our reception committee stood uncomfortably before them while our troops fanned out to check security at the train station. When they gave the all-clear, I finally exited the train car with Emmett and the IBIS team, and a few soldiers reserved as our bodyguards.
