by G. R. Carter
Tired and hungry men, women and children huddled together under the shattered ruins of a fallen past, waiting to see if they would be accepted here as permanent refugees. Ration bars like the ones despised before the Reset made up their daily diet, now gratefully consumed as a delicacy. Each contained more calories than most had consumed at one sitting for weeks or even months. Tension crackled as parents desperately longed to get their children out of the damp and dirty environment before sickness set in. Even the most advanced medical staff in the modern world wasn’t able to save most if they caught deadly hygienic diseases.
Each person wishing to move west into ARK territory submitted to a facial scan from the RenOne supercomputer operating in the heart of what everyone referred to as the City. While it held no record of a person’s sins in the years since the Reset, it could identify undesirables from the pre-Reset criminal databases still stored inside. Neither Malik nor Robbie had earned criminal records in the years before the power went out, but they both had surely been under surveillance by law enforcement as front men for the GangStars. No one knew for sure what ARK did with those flagged as undesirables, but the camp was rife with rumors. Some never returned from their interviews…best not to take the chance.
Malik and Robbie kept their heads down, performing assigned tasks required to receive daily rations. Each refugee had to work: fishing in the river’s backwaters to help supplement camp rations, cleaning barges used to carry cargo and people up and down the rivers, even work groups that were escorted out of camp to pick fruit or dig coal. Those who showed the most intelligence and initiative were given priority in the application process for residency. Trying not to draw attention to themselves, Malik and Robbie did an okay job but refrained from becoming model employees, waiting for an opportunity to move on.
Their chance finally came when Grand Shawnee representatives arrived at the camp, looking for volunteers to move to the rapidly expanding province. The Red Hawk Republic needed experts, or strong backs, to help improve their industry and economy. There was an interview process but no computer scans. The Grand Shawnee crew didn’t have the technology or the time to wait. So with ARK's permission they set up an information tent to find prospective workers.
“We’ve got to go down there and get a ticket east,” Malik said to his cousin.
Robbie didn’t look convinced. “Somebody is goin’ to recognize us, sure as shot. I heard they’re making you fill out an application. Even if they don’t have that computer, I bet they still are smart enough to keep track of names. You know they’ll figure it out somehow.”
“Then we’ll just change our identities. Come on, Robbie, there’s no way they’ll figure out who we are with paper records. Think about it!”
Robbie did think about it, trying to work through the problems as best he could. “I’ll agree with you on one thing, cuz: we got to get out of here! I guess it’s worth the stretch.”
“Of course it is, now let’s go take their tests. Just do the best you can, and I’ll insist you’re coming with me. Think of a name and a backstory. Whatever you come up with is fine, but you have to stick with it from here on out. Even in private, we have to be who we say we are. Understood?”
Robbie shook his head, trying to think of someone he always wanted to be. “Okay, I got it. You’re Mark and I’m Brian.”
“Those are the best names you could come up with?”
“I thought you’d like it. Common names blend in well, right? Keep attention off us,” Robbie said with a satisfied smile.
“I did say that, you’re right. It’s just that going by ‘Mark’ the rest of my life…”
“Okay then, Marcus. That better?”
Malik, now Marcus, smiled and nodded. “Marcus” at least sounded slightly more cultured. “Marcus Neilson and Brian Nielsen. Sounds okay, we’ll get used to it.”
“I hate to lose our last name more than my first name. Seems like we’re giving up who we are.”
Marcus nodded. “We are, Brian. But it’s a new start for us. We’ll just have to be the founding members of the Nielsen family now.”
Fresh identities in mind, the two made their way down to the registration tent, receiving clipboards with a five-page test. Some questions were multiple choice, some written, but almost all were science- and math-related. Watchful eyes kept anyone from sharing answers, and Marcus was done long before Brian made it to the third page. Fifteen minutes later, a man in a uniform with “SSS” on the sleeve was calling out Marcus’s name.
“Marcus Nielsen! Marcus Nielsen, are you here?” Marcus finally shook himself out of a daze, realizing they were looking for him.
“I’m here, I’m here,” he said, rushing up to the desk. “Sorry, I haven’t slept much recently.”
“Is that right? Well I’d like to see how you score with a night’s rest, then! You score off the charts for intelligence, Mister Nielsen. I’m flattered you wanna come with us, but can I ask why ARK hasn’t taken you yet?” the polite young man asked Malik.
“Well, you may have noticed that there isn’t a whole lot of diversity over there,” Malik answered with some truth.
The Shawnee rep simply smiled with a subtle nod. “Well, Mister Nielsen, you’ll find that the only color we’ve ever hated here is the Grays, and even they’re our friends now,” he said, relaxing. “Welcome to Grand Shawnee.”
Malik stared at him, curious. “Whatever happened to the name ‘Little Egypt?’”
Another smile with the answer, “Governor Olsen decided it was time for a change. Trying to leave the old ways behind and get rid of the stereotypes been plaguin’ folks like us. So he and some marketing-types came up with a name that’s a far sight better'n Little Egypt. Don'tcha think?”
“Indeed it is. Governor Olsen sounds pretty savvy.”
“Oh, he is. You’ll really like’m, even I got to meet’m once. I marked your app for priority processin’, which means you’ll probably get to meet Mrs. Olsen herself. She does the hirin’ for the A&I staff. Oh, that’s Ag and Industry.”
“Is that his wife?” Malik asked.
“Nope, it’s his mother. Governor’s wife is a big shot, too, though. Lots of connections to important families. Just had another child, a boy this time. S’posed to be a big party for all of us after fall harvest,” the interviewer said. “But Mama Olsen calls a lot of the shots.”
“Great. I hope I get to attend. Sounds like a perfect opportunity to get to know people.”
“Oh, yeah. I bet even the high-ups from other countries are gonna be there. Red Hawks, ARK, Blackhawks…well, Blackhawks aren’t really around anymore. Maybe even the leaders of America. Never met any of them in person.”
“Is that right? Well I think I’ll definitely try to be there, then,” Marcus said with a smile. Maybe the Path was open once again, he thought. I doubted, but maybe I just had to have patience.
The next morning, the Nielsen cousins boarded an eastbound train comprised of one old steam locomotive and ten passenger cars. The interiors were crowded but not cramped. Each bright silver car began life as an Amtrak passenger car, so while the seats were a bit ragged and bent, at least there were seats.
“How many times would we have killed for a ride on something, instead of walking through the brush and the swamps and the cold? Just wish the rest of the boys could have made it with us,” Brian said, staring out of his open window. There appeared to be no way to close it even if he wished to.
“We’ll just have to live the best we can for their sakes,” Marcus said. “I think I’ve got an idea why we’re here.”
He kept one eye on the armed man with the same SSS symbol on his arm he’d seen earlier. He had a shotgun cradled in one arm, sitting in a separate seat up by the door. He constantly scanned the passengers looking for any sign of trouble. Marcus wondered if there had been problems on previous journeys. Only well-funded groups could afford trained men to ride along on trips like this.
Their journey only covered seventy-five miles
, but there were three stops for refueling, maintenance and bathroom breaks. The tracks were deteriorating with minimal upkeep since the Reset, so the train stayed under twenty miles an hour at all times. No one previously traveling on foot complained, and the prospect of safety mixed with the constant clanking and rocking put most into the deepest sleep they had experienced in recent memory.
Sleep escaped the Nielsens, though, who by now were conditioned to operate on little rest. Over the course of the seven-hour trip to Mt. Vernon, Marcus laid out his ideas for their next steps, Brian listening in fascination. Brian was bright enough but seldom thought strategically. The blank slate he provided helped his older cousin think through practical details he hadn’t imagined, one reason the two matched well.
Marcus would talk for a while and then take in the scenery around them. Farms had sprouted along the tracks, enjoying the relative safety that came with frequent patrols to keep the rails clear of obstruction. He could see carefully pruned apple and peach trees almost within arm’s reach of the rails. Then a cluster of homes would appear, apparently a small town at one point in the past, now surrounded by tall earthen walls with fence and parapets on top. Safety in numbers still ruled their world. Occasionally he would see a Fortress Farm, though they weren’t as common here as they were in Red Hawk territory. He knew that would be changing, too. Wherever the Red Hawks landed they built those infernal concrete nests. Maybe he would grow to love them since he was now going to be under their watchful eye.
The cousins remained concerned about being recognized. After all, they had once engineered the near-destruction of the Red Hawk capital. But there were plenty of people who looked like him where they were going and he still held the belief that most people in power would look right past him. He was just another refugee fleeing into their open arms from the evil bandits. “Rateaters,” he heard the Red Hawks call people from the cities. “Ditchmen,” for those like the ones he had set loose from the prisons after the power went out.
Brian finally succumbed to exhaustion and the rhythm of the ride. His eyes closed slowly and then his head drifted to the side as he began to snore. Marcus just continued staring out at the countryside, thankful he had been given a second chance to control his destiny. Continuity was really true. Something was guiding him towards a bigger future. He just had to survive the trials put in front of him, which he had so far. He regretted doubting that now, but it wouldn’t happen again. He would remain faithful no matter what.
His mind drifted to Marti, then to Jalen. Regrets filled his mind briefly, wishing they were still with him, but knowing he would have never made it out alive if they were. His mind wandered through the streets, hanging out with all the old crew and glad to be back together again.
He awoke with a start, aware he too had finally fallen asleep. Hissing steam and the clanging bell confused him for a moment, his mind clouded from fatigue. He imagined he was in the old Western movies he watched as a kid. He was one of the few in his neighborhood who liked John Wayne, and modern day reminded him of the outlaw west distorted by the genre. This was real life, except now telling good guys from the bad was a lot harder for most. No black hats or white hats, but lots of gray area; most folks who survived the starving days after the Reset had done things impossible to imagine before.
After waking Robbie—no, his name is Brian, my cousin Brian, son of my father's brother, James—he reminded himself, the two walked calmly off the train onto a platform buzzing with energy. People moved with purpose, a level of activity matching what he had seen in ARK territory. Marcus chuckled to himself subtly, feeling like he had dropped into the middle of a mechanic convention. Tan and blue coveralls surrounded him, each color worn by at least one out of every three men and women passing by at a hurried pace.
Four guards with short-barreled shotguns stood surrounding his and Brian's group. The men were the hulking type, with no emotion on their face and the stare that looks through you rather than at you. These four wore a type of beret tilted to one side and a mottled camo coverall instead of the more common colors worn by workers outside. On each man’s left shoulder held the SSS emblem again. On their chest was an embroidered spread of seven feathers, arrayed in what would appear to be a traditional Native American headdress. He glanced from that to a flag sharing the same emblem and the word “Grand” above and “Shawnee” below.
“Funny, isn’t it?” a man standing next to him said.
“What’s funny?”
“They’re using those feathers as a symbol for the Shawnee Indians who lived around here long ago, but the Shawnee didn’t use any of that. Seems like if you were going to thieve some cultural heritage for your own iconography, you’d get it right. But I guess there’s not many history professors around to argue anymore.”
Marcus looked over to see if the man was kidding, but the stranger remained stone-faced, still staring at the flag above.
“I’m guessing that’s what you were?” Marcus asked.
“Yep. Before the Reset I was Native American studies. I got laid off when they closed most of the universities in Iowa. After the government collapsed I helped advise the Blackhawk Confederation on how to best use history and symbolism to keep everyone together in a unified group,” the stranger sighed.
“Did it work?” Marcus asked. He was curious about those kind of things himself, once intending to use it with the Springfield area while building his own empire.
“Would I be here if it had worked?”
Marcus burst out laughing. The man’s dry sense of irony gave him a brief release from constant worry. He thought for a moment before speaking, making sure he was about to introduce himself with the correct name. “Marcus Nielsen’s my name, may I ask yours?”
“Professor Louis Renaldo. I don’t go by 'Doctor' anymore, otherwise the mouth-breathers want me to look at their rash. I only mention the title because I could tell you were an educated man.”
“How’s that?” Marcus asked, wondering if somehow he was drawing unwanted attention to himself.
“Your eyes are up, trying to figure out what’s going on here. I watched you study each one of the symbols, trying to put it together. Even though you probably knew you’d be told soon enough, you wanted to get ahead of the game, be thinking about what’s next and how to improve your situation. Common refugees stare at their feet, beaten down and homeless. Like whatever happens now is just going to be one more disaster.”
“You don’t think it will be?”
“Oh probably. I just spent months floating down rivers and living in refugee camps so I didn’t have to live with the Jihadists. Though I wonder if I didn’t trade one batch of religious nuts for another variety,” Renaldo said.
“My understanding is you better keep that opinion to yourself,” Marcus warned him. The refugee camps were a hotbed of rumors. One of the big ones was that Little Egypt, or Grand Shawnee, they were calling it now, was run by religious types who believed the Reset was God’s way of punishing the wicked. No drugs or booze or gambling or prostitution allowed. Church of your choice was mandatory each Sunday morning, but there was only one variety available.
“You gonna turn me in to those guys?” Renaldo said again with an upraised eyebrow and tilted head. He nodded over to the armed guards. “That’s the Shawnee Security Service, just so you know. Everyone calls them ‘Tri-S.’ The irony of history escaped whoever came up with that name.” Marcus laughed again, Renaldo seemed to keep his sense of wit in the midst of desperation.
“Attention, prospective citizens,” came a voice from over Marcus’ shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed the woman’s arrival while talking to Renaldo, but now studied her for any clues he could use.
She was tall with a jet-black afro cut short. Her posture suggested money, power, education or probably all three combined. Without looking at anyone in particular, she was looking at everyone together, the mark of someone unafraid to speak to a crowd of strangers. She didn’t wear coveralls, but instead a white button-dow
n dress shirt tucked into a long dark skirt. It was the kind of suit you’d expect to see a corporate vice president wear before the Reset, though flat shoes replaced what would have been high heels in that world.
“First of all, I want to welcome you all to the Grand Shawnee. I imagine you’ve heard lots of things about us, most of which were probably true at some time in our past,” the woman said, smiling with a look that was mesmerizing to all the men and half the women in the crowd of refugees. A few relieved chuckles rippled through as people recognized an icebreaker. Marcus could see Renaldo smile a little out of the corner of his eye, like the man hoped things might not be so bad here.
“I will warn you, though, this is a workers' province. We do not have government assistance; you will work for your food and shelter. Anyone who doesn’t want to do that is welcome to board the train back to the camp you came from. ARK will generously welcome you back,” she said, this time with a smile a bit less inviting.
“No?” she said as she paused, “Good. Then we’ll all get along very well. The work here is fair. We’re digging coal, cutting timber and raising crops. All important work for this province and for the Republic as a whole. Each of you will begin your citizenship classes within six months from now, Governor Olsen guarantees it. How quickly you want to make that progression will be up to you.”
Marcus suddenly stiffened at the word “progression,” one so dear to his religion. Subtly, he noticed Renaldo have the same involuntary reaction, then quickly both men got a handle on their emotions. The older man looked at Marcus, and in an instant both knew what the other had to hide from all those around them. He simply nodded as if to say “maybe later.” Marcus returned the gesture and looked back at the woman in charge.
