by Ginger Booth
-o-
I tried to give some land back to the West Totoket agricultural committee. I showed them my tentative plans. I told them I wasn’t sure I’d be able to carry through for the whole season. That I might still find a way to reunite with Emmett somewhere, somehow.
My farming neighbors studied my plans and declared themselves delighted. They assured me that whenever I needed to walk away, they’d be happy to take over. We’d just split the proceeds for the year.
In other words, they weren’t any more eager than I was, for the back-breaking years of effort to convert lawn and asphalt into productive farmland. Getting the land onto the right path in spring was a lot more than half the battle.
The ground never froze that winter, so I acquired a tiller and a day laborer. I had the worker slowly slice strips of sod from the lawns, and lay them out to grow on unused driveways. For this year, I was shooting for alternating stripes of grass and forage legumes on the livestock lawns. Prepping the crop yards, without the stripes of grass, would have to wait for spring. Otherwise the rains would just wash the bare soil down into the street.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy being a farm manager, instead of a farmer. I made up the plans and acquired the tools and material. I spent a half hour or so teaching someone else step by step how to carry out the work. Then I went back to my office while they did the grueling labor for hours of follow-through. It was downright orgasmic. Especially the part where they were grateful for the chance to work for food – no guilt. My land grant came with an impressive food credit budget to pay these people. The Cocos made hiring a breeze.
I’d like to say I learned my lesson, and didn’t take on any more side-projects. ‘Uh-huh,’ as Emmett would say.
-o-
My next big distraction came from my day job. I was alone in my office at the end of January, reviewing feedback and plans on the PR broadcasts. Early signs of worthwhile competition were brewing. But at that point, we seemed to produce the most popular new ‘television’ programming in the U.S., so far as I could tell.
My phone rang. “Hold for the Speaker of the House,” my caller announced.
“The what?”
“I am speaking to Ms. Dee Baker? General manager of the Amenac and Project Reunion websites?”
“This is she,” I agreed, bemused. The most general of the managers, anyway.
“Then please hold for the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives.”
I idly clicked a record button on my computer, and put the call on speaker.
“Ms. Baker! Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” the next voice said. She sounded familiar from her speech announcing President O’Donnell’s impeachment. Not that I’d agreed to speak with her, exactly. “I’m hoping you can help me broadcast a series of statements regarding the Calm Act.”
“An honor, Madam Speaker,” I replied, lost. “But, you seem able to do that on your own?”
“My speech in December didn’t reach anyone,” Speaker Krause complained, “until Project Reunion re-broadcast it.”
“Ah. You want to speak to our viewership. Well, I’m sure we’d mention anything of interest in your broadcast.” Probably edited, I didn’t add. Though apparently we both heard it.
“I understand you will spin this for your audience, Ms. Baker. I’m not a fool,” she sniped. “I’ve dealt with the press far longer than you’ve been pretending to be a journalist.”
I contemplated the hang up button, but courteously gave her 10 seconds before applying it. I smiled for practice during the silence. You can always hear a smile over the phone.
The Speaker sighed, and apparently recalled that she was asking me for a favor. “What I’m hoping for, is to frame the announcements with interviews and a retrospective. Explain the Calm Act, its three phases, and its accomplishments. A Calm Act special report.”
This time I was honestly struck dumb.
“Ms. Baker?”
“I’m…listening,” I managed. The Calm Act’s primary accomplishment was to lose over a hundred million American lives. Apparently you can hear flabbergasted over a phone as well.
“The Calm Act was necessary,” Speaker Krause insisted. “We need to explain that. And set the stage for the final phase.”
“Final. Phase,” I echoed. What, kill off the rest of us?
“Our announcement in March, of the final phase of the Calm Act,” Krause said.
“Which is?” I asked.
“We will announce that in March,” she said primly. “But it’s important that people be properly informed, to understand what the final phase means.”
“Is it?” I asked. “I’m sorry, Madam Speaker, but I…question the relevance.”
“You what?”
“If Project Reunion did as you asked, and filmed a special on the Calm Act, I don’t believe you would care for the results.” I let that hang for a few moments, then continued, “Here in New England, we no longer recognize the authority of the U.S. Congress. Because of the Calm Act. There is no President. I don’t know what the Supreme Court is up to, and I don’t really care. But to say what I would like to say about the Calm Act – what I know to be true about the Calm Act – is a violation of the Calm Act. Catch-22.”
She snorted haughtily. “Well, I don’t know what you think you know about the Calm Act –”
“More than you think,” I interrupted. “Madam Speaker, Project Reunion is open to doing the same sort of treatment for your…announcements…as we did for President O’Donnell’s. But if you open up the Calm Act for discussion, there will be truth spoken. Possibly more truth than you bargained for. Are you willing to inform HomeSec that Project Reunion is free to discuss the Calm Act? Candidly? Are you prepared to hand over the full text of the Calm Act, and let us publish it, with commentary? And do I, on Project Reunion, have any desire to publish that at this time? I suspect the answer is No. As my mother used to say, ‘all that is true is not necessarily helpful.’”
After a long silence, Krause asked, “You no longer recognize the U.S. Congress?”
“You passed a law intended to cause the deaths of 40 percent of the American people,” I replied acidly. “And then you hid in an ark, to exempt yourselves from the consequences.”
“That was necessary to assure continuity of government –”
“You achieved discontinuity,” I said flatly. “You do not represent me. Or anyone else.” With an effort, I backed off a little, and allowed, “But we’ll be interested to hear what you have to say in March.” So that we can hang you with it.
“I see,” Krause said. “No, I don’t suppose this will work. Good day, Ms. Baker.”
Still shaking with anger, I called Carlos Mora next, blessing him for his forethought in buttering up Homeland Security these past few months. I played my recording for him.
His first comment was, “Glad I’m not the only one with anger management issues. Dee, next time someone pisses you off like that, try to get off the phone. Say you’ll call them back or something. Granted, that’s not easy when you’re furious.”
“Yeah, no,” I agreed. “Carlos… Is it in PR’s best interest to open this can of worms?”
After a pause, he answered tangentially. “Is Emmett coming home next month to plan?”
“Yeah, for a couple weeks,” I agreed. “Is Link doing this plan-a-thon thing for New England, too?”
Emmett had told me General Cullen wanted to meet March’s announcement with his own concrete plans, for what New York–New Jersey intended to do after this phase of the Calm Act was over. Cullen’s officers were required to submit proposals before March 1.
“Yeah,” Carlos replied. “Our theme is dismantling the interior borders in New England. Including Boston-Prov. Reintegrating as a regional economy. That’s our response, no matter what Congress says. The future. Where we are, where we’re going. Washington’s out of touch, but we’re on the ball. Dee, send me this recording. I’ll talk to HomeSec and set up a steering committee
meeting for PR. Let’s define our own special report for March.”
Chapter 28
Interesting fact: The North Atlantic Oscillation climate pattern causes Europe and North America to alternate on cold winters. That winter was especially warm for the U.S., but possibly millions died of record-breaking cold and snows across Europe and Russia. Overall, of course, the year was the warmest on record. Again.
God, it was good to have Emmett home in February! Sort of.
I mean, it was wonderful having him home. That was an unqualified, enthusiastic win. For a couple scant weeks, we actually got to live together, eat together, hold each other. A few days here and there wasn’t long enough for him to ever unwind. Emmett wasn’t in combat in New York – or at least, he never admitted any combat to me – so he didn’t exactly suffer post-traumatic stress. Except that everything about the conditions in the Apple Core was traumatic, and Emmett was under crushing stress all the time.
I don’t know how real Army wives did it. You’re so eager to see your man again. Then he comes home and you’re tiptoeing around on eggshells trying not to spook him while he spins down. At least Emmett cried easily. That was probably one of his greatest strengths, that he could recognize when he was miserable and overwhelmed and just cry, and let it go. If he ever lost the ability to cry, I’d worry for him.
Unwinding didn’t seem to make him any happier, though. After a few days, he was no longer taut as a bowstring. No longer breaking out in tears several times a day. But the difference between planning Project Reunion, and planning the future of the Apple Core, was just day and night. In October, he’d been a whirlwind, inspired and inspiring, a man on a mission. In February, he worked splayed out on my living room floor. He glowered at my big display, sifting through untold gigabytes of data. A mountain of crumpled paper grew in the corner around a wastebasket, plans scratched out and scrapped.
I helped him sometimes, when he could slice off a concrete subproblem for me to take and run with. That morning I’d provided him with maps of where to clear out the city canyons for flood plains, allowing margin for storms and a 10-foot ocean rise. Which communities needed to move, which subway lines to close and fill with rubble.
I thought that was constructive. I thought it would improve the city immeasurably, to level out the building and asphalt clutter, and surround it with greenbelts and marshes. Granted, the residents might feel differently. And although leveling buildings was easy enough – we had the munitions – clearing rubble, and turning the poisoned industrial brownfields back into living land, was not. Emmett thanked me with a kiss, subdued, and rubbed his head while he rummaged the maps, as though he were trying to rub away an incipient head-ache.
I kissed the crown of his head, as he did to me when I was working, and went out for a walk. Noon was my call-Cameron time of day, and today I thought I could use it.
“What can I do, Cam?” I asked, after describing my unhappy not-hubby. “I know, I know. ‘Ask him that.’”
“Well, you could ask him,” Cam allowed. “Sounds to me like funk, though. Emmett on a mission is a force of nature. And he doesn’t funk easy. But if he doesn’t have a vision of how this could work, a theory, a germ of a plan – then this planning is just torture. Although…”
“Yeah?” I prompted.
Cam sighed. “I probably shouldn’t say this. But I will. What if it’s not New York that’s bothering him? You…aren’t planning to move into the city with him. Are you.”
I froze. Even my breathing was shallow. “I… He hasn’t asked me to do that.”
“He hasn’t asked you to do that,” Cam theorized, “because he loves you and considers it tantamount to inviting you to live in hell with him.”
I stood on a driveway, toeing one of my sod stripes. There was drizzle and ball lightning that day. I’d learned to ignore those. Sometimes ball lightning exploded near you. Usually it didn’t. Even the explosions hadn’t killed me yet. After a while I just got tired of living in fear of the damned things. They existed here. So did I.
“Did you ask Dwayne to move to hell with you, Cam?” I eventually asked.
“No. His idea,” Cam said. “When Dwayne heard about the conference on saving New York, he asked if we could sign up to save Hoboken. His home town. Then during the conference, I thought maybe Long Island might make a good compromise. He jumped on the idea. Long Island isn’t hell, Dee. My plans are coming together nicely. I think this year will be a lot of fun. Lot of work. But a lot of fun, too.”
“You don’t like the city?”
“No,” said Cam emphatically. “Four years at West Point, and I went down to the city twice. The first time was New Year’s Eve, a million strangers at Times Square. Hated it.”
I’d lived in Stamford for several years, about the same distance. I wasn’t tempted to try the New Year’s in Times Square thing even once. “I wish Emmett were going to Long Island,” I breathed wistfully. “New York… Cam, I love him. And I wanted to help New York. But living there…”
“Maybe that’s what you need to talk to him about,” said Cam. “But you know – I’d love to have you and Emmett here on Long Island. Just saying.”
“Is it up to him?” I asked, hardly daring to whisper it.
Cam laughed. “Was it up to him to save New York? Dee, Sean Cullen is our commanding officer. Not our mommy, not a dictator. When your boss gives you a job you can’t do, it’s up to you to tell him, and renegotiate. But in this case, it’s not that Emmett can’t do it. Not exactly. And he probably wants to do it. Sorta kinda. He also wants to be with you.”
“Thanks, Cam,” I said in a small voice, and signed off with him. I sadly reflected that Emmett and I should have had this conversation months ago. Since we hadn’t, that probably meant that both of us were afraid to talk about it.
-o-
“Emmett? Can I help?” I asked, when I got back. He had a resource spreadsheet open on the big screen, calculating something. I took this as a good sign. You need a fairly good handle on a problem to set up an equation for it.
“Sure couldn’t hurt, darlin’,” Emmett replied. He pulled me down to the floor beside him, leaning back on the couch, and put an arm around me. He kept control of laptop, mouse and keyboard. Typical. I ordered my itching fingers not to make a grab for the mouse just yet.
“New theory,” he said. “Spreading resources too thin is a complete waste of resources. If it’s not enough to make a dramatic difference, it’s…piffling. Piffling won’t get us anywhere.”
“I buy that,” I agreed. “Kind of like the community coordinators here in New Haven. You assigned them big areas, but they each chose to control a choke point and do it well.”
“Right. Sort of right,” Emmett agreed. “This time, all the communities I’ll bother with already have militia control. Or cops or whatever. Instead, we’re focused on uplift. A half dozen communities, uplift all the way to level 5. As cores, to work out from.”
“Level 5 being,” I said, frowning, “more or less equal power to townsfolk and militia, sharing economic benefits equally. Right? Why six?”
“One for each borough,” Emmett said. “Calling the Jersey cities on the Hudson a sixth borough. So anyway, I think the six can get to a pretty good model community standard of living. And thin coverage elsewhere. Restore the water mains and sanitation, power and Internet, at least to community centers, part of the day. Food deliveries.”
“Food deliveries in return for work?” I asked.
He nodded. “We have plenty of work.” He sighed. “Then I only have to find food-earning work for the people in the model communities. The rest can clear rubble. At first.”
“You hate this plan,” I observed. This plan called for city-wide public welfare in return for public works projects, funded on charity from outside the city. As Resco plans went, prizing local sustainability above all, this plan rated an epic fail. “There isn’t any real reason to suppose these model six communities will uplift the others. Instead of the
weight of the others dragging them down.”
“Uh-huh.” Emmett sighed and rubbed his neck. “Have a good walk?”
“Yeah. I had a long chat with Cam…” I was reluctant to bring up the moving-to-New-York thing directly. Especially if Emmett was finally coming to some kind of peace with his planning process. “Emmett? Did you visit the city much while you were at West Point?”
“Hell, no. Country boy,” replied Emmett. “Field trips upstate, outward bound type stuff. Rock climbing. Camping. Skiing. Hunting. Loved upstate. Hated the city.” He gnawed on a thumb.
His phone rang, and after a few words, Emmett put General Cullen on speaker. The general invited us both to a Resco planning session, at the hotel in Greenwich again. Someday he hoped to have a convenient location in New York instead of Connecticut. But for now, Greenwich was more accessible, with Emmett and Cam coming through Connecticut, and Pete Hoffman coming up from New Jersey by water.
“Dee, I’d be most grateful if you could attend,” said Cullen. “I’ll invite the wives and husbands as well. But you’ve always been an equal partner with Emmett on Project Reunion.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I hate to give up any of my few days with Emmett.”
“Agreed,” said Cullen. “And meeting in person like this will slow things down. But I think it’s worth it to get better plans. Emmett, feel free to take a few more days at home to compensate for the meeting.”
No doubt about it. Sean Cullen was better than Ivan Link at making his people want to do their damnedest for him.
-o-
The meeting in Greenwich was more intimate than I expected. General Cullen wanted to decide policy with his top Rescos, not hold a convention. Colonel Pete Hoffman attended from New Jersey, Lt. Colonels Ash Margolis of Poughkeepsie and Tony Nasser of Buffalo, plus Emmett and Cameron and myself, and that was it – seven people in a comfortable hotel meeting room. Unlimited snacks and water, plenty of elbow room for computers and paper and putting our feet up on spare chairs.
