by Ginger Booth
“Maybe not. You deserve a lot of credit though.”
General Cullen cleared his throat behind us. Emmett sighed. “See you tonight. Dress up for dinner. Sorry to keep you waiting, General.”
Emmett and Cullen headed for a door flanked by a beckoning Niedermeyer and an admiral.
I enjoyed the rest of the resource presentations. Aside from Emmett, most of the Rescos were in the auditorium most of the time. Even Niedermeyer was back as master of ceremonies after a half hour or so. The whole Connecticut Resco flock disappeared into a separate lunch meeting. I enjoyed lunching with some out-of-state Rescos. After the pool party, we were all comfortable with each other.
Reg Washington, from New Jersey, presented on seed bank and livestock sperm bank initiatives he coordinated. An upstate New Yorker was apparently taking point on our natural gas pipelines, while a western Massachusetts Resco focused on power plants. The New Hampshire Resco reported on the depleted status and prospects for the North Atlantic and coastal fisheries. And so on. Some of the presentations were brief updates and requests for help.
The two contentious talks were on land use reform, and prisoners. It was during the land use debate that it finally dawned on me that not all of these areas were as well under control as Emmett’s turf. Northern New England and parts of western New York were still on a pure barter basis, with not even tax credits for currency. Southern New Jersey still struggled mightily with looters. Tens of thousands of gang members had escaped Philadelphia to terrorize the countryside. Poughkeepsie was under the iron thumb of control freaks, to my mind, while the Resco for northwestern Connecticut, Litchfield County, was reassigned at lunchtime as an assistant to Emmett. He’d managed no traction outside a single township, and even that was due more to the gran caravans than anything he did. The arks and their surrounding troops and fields ruled the northwestern corner of Connecticut.
The land use speaker explained what Emmett had tried to tell me in the apple orchard, that there were minimum viable sizes even for sustainable farms. Unlike Emmett, he believed larger farms – vineyards more than orchards in his area – should be broken up, and smaller farms merged, for improved yields and greater fairness.
I waded in on this one. “I can’t really speak for Emmett. But I do know he’s looked into land use reform in southern New Haven, and decided not to act. It has to come from bottom up, or he’d just make too many enemies. As a subsistence farmer myself, I whole-heartedly agree. No one’s taking my scrap of land, and telling me to trust someone else to provide me with food. Not now. No way.”
Pops – our Resco neighbor toward New York – backed me up. “I can speak for Emmett, and me. We can’t lead by pissing people off. I can’t think of a better way to alienate them, than trying to steal their land. Maybe this would play better in rural areas. I don’t know. In suburban Connecticut, I do know. We can’t afford to lose our leadership with the people.”
Niedermeyer was a good moderator. He allowed time for a variety of opinion to be vented, then cut it off. “I think it’s clear we’re not ready for a Northeast-wide policy on land use reform. This is a subject where the resource coordinator model shines, I think. You Rescos really know your own regions and your own people. And we can all learn from each other’s experiments. So let’s go slow and learn something. Thank you for the excellent presentation.” He led polite applause.
“Major Cameron, I believe you’re up next. Prisons.”
Lt. Colonel Mora glowered as Cameron took the stage, the young Resco for the thinly populated northeastern Connecticut counties. Mora had been alright in the morning, just a bit sheepish over his behavior the night before. But he’d been in a dark fury since the lunchtime meeting.
Cameron did a masterful job reminding us about things everyone knew, and didn’t want to face, about American prisons. Before the borders we had more people in jail per capita than any other country in the world. Most of them served long sentences for victimless crimes – drugs, usually. Most were non-white. Most, upon release, were homeless and unable to get a job. Half were back in jail within a year or two.
And no, I realized guiltily, until now I hadn’t spent a moment wondering what had become of them. I forced myself not to fidget, and instead attended to what Cam was telling me. I was a citizen. I had the right and duty to sit in judgment on my fellow citizens, much as we all hated doing that.
Cameron explained how he’d formed courts with juries to review and release the drugs-only offenders. They didn’t fare well after release. In fact, 70% were dead, most from overdosing on the ubiquitous oxycontin made available for suicide. Others were shot as looters. That left 8,000 violent offenders who could not be released. He’d consolidated them by danger level, half the inmates into three quarters of the prisons, to relieve overcrowding. And he moved the guards to the exterior of the facilities, just to keep them in. About 5,000 inmates still survived the societies that emerged within.
They grew some food, and Cameron supplied about half rations. They earned more by hiring out as work gangs, generally in chains. They had visitors. Some volunteers taught them trades. AA and other 12-step groups kept up regular meetings.
“So I have labor available. I invite you to make use of this resource.” Cameron ended there. He looked like he hoped for the best, but didn’t really expect it.
The Rescos stared back at him. I was fairly confident that this was not, in fact, how they’d dealt with the other state prison populations. I doubted that was how Mora wanted to handle Connecticut’s inmates, either.
“Thank you, Major Cameron,” I offered into the silence. “For taking care of these people.” I was pretty sure Emmett would have encouraged Cam, if he’d been there. “Question. You mentioned Niantic – the women’s prison, right? – and helping with the New York relief effort?”
“Yes!” Cameron leapt onto my question gratefully. “I’ve moved the remaining women, so the whole women’s prison is available. We can use that for prisoners taken during the relief of New York. And as a retraining facility.”
Colonel Mora couldn’t hold it any longer. “Cameron, for Christ’s sake, we’re going to shoot them in New York, not take prisoners.”
“Since Emmett MacLaren isn’t available, let’s skip this part,” Niedermeyer directed.
It didn’t work. The room erupted into an ugly debate, between men who’d murdered or authorized murder on defenseless inmates, and had to believe their choice was the right one.
After about 5 minutes of this, Niedermeyer jumped onto the stage, and yelled, “Enough, gentlemen! Thank you, Major Cameron. Please take your seat. Next presentation.” It was time for mid-afternoon break, but he knew better. If he’d released us for break right then, the fight would just resume.
I stood and offered Cameron a hug as he came back to his seat in front of me. “We need to save New York, Cam,” I whispered in his ear. “I can’t care about those prisoners either, anymore, and it scares me. Thank you for being brave enough to care.”
Tears stood in his eyes as he hugged me back. He understood.
“You look gorgeous,” Emmett said, hanging in the bathroom doorway. He’d found a few minutes to change for dinner at the motel. “I’ve never seen you wear makeup for real.”
I shot him a funny look. “I wore makeup this morning for the presentation.” I knew what he meant, though. For morning, I’d just used eyeliner and subtle lipstick. For dinner, I’d started with foundation to douse the summer freckles, contoured with blush, and made my eyes and lips pop with color. My dress was the same architecturally pieced and pleated coat-dress I’d worn to present earlier. I’d only brought the one dress, drafted and sewn myself out of striped navy duck cloth, bought during my trip to Vermont last year with Adam. For day to evening conversion, I used makeup and pearls.
“You’re not wearing a uniform! I love it.” I turned to admire him.
He mockingly did a model swirl, offering me several views. The khaki pleated front chinos could have been tighter, an
d showed creases from the luggage. His rosy-tan basket weave cotton sweater was perfect, though, with a grey herringbone wool blazer. “You clean up very nice, Major MacLaren.”
“About that –” he began. He was interrupted by another knock at the door. He shook his head, and headed for the door. I trailed him.
“Hey, Colonel!” Cameron beamed at him, as the door opened.
“Hey, Cam!” Emmett exchanged handshake-plus-hug with him. “Sorry I missed your talk. I heard it was rough. You alright?”
“Colonel?” I inquired.
Cam grinned. “Hadn’t got that far yet, huh? Emmett got a promotion at lunch!”
“Was just about to tell her, when this knock interrupted me,” Emmett said.
I flung my arms around him for a hug and kiss, and got lipstick on his face. “Congratulations!”
“Well deserved!” Cam said.
“Eh. Time will make light colonels of us all,” Emmett said. “But thank you. Look, Cam, we have a dinner date with the Niedermeyers, so we don’t have much time. Your presentation?” He looked at Cam intently, checking for hurt. I loved that about Emmett. He needed to expedite it, but he’d make time for Cam.
“No surprises.” Cam shot him a grin, that leaked sadness around the eyes. “Dee inspired me, though. I’m putting in for a transfer, boss. I kind of liked Long Island today. I cut some deals. Tolland can tack on to Hartford County, and Windham onto New London. You asked at lunch if we wanted to make changes. I’m answering.”
I was horrified at the thought that I might have inspired him to do this. Northeastern Connecticut – sparsely populated Tolland and Windham Counties – was safe and orderly. Inside the city epidemic borders, including Long Island, he’d be the first Resco ever.
Emmett stared at Cameron searchingly. “Uh-huh. Does this have anything to do with me replacing Mora?”
“It surely does,” Cameron agreed. “I’d follow you to hell and back. Let’s add Long Island to your turf. If you didn’t have Dee, you’d do it yourself, Emmett. You know you would. But it’s better this way. I can start now.”
My horror shifted to Emmett. Leave New Haven, after all he’d done to make it work? But his attention was riveted on Cameron.
Emmett nodded reluctantly. “Alright. When?”
“Need to pack some munitions. May have some Cocos to come along. Few days?”
“Jesus, Cam.” But Emmett held out his hand to shake on it, and fell into another man-hug. “God speed. Thank you. We’re damned lucky to have you.”
“I will send prisoners!” Cameron warned, wagging a finger as they broke off the hug, eyes bright with standing tears. “I’ll let you get on with dinner. Good night, Dee.”
“Good night, Cam,” I said. “I hope to see you again soon.” That seemed unlikely.
He smiled and took off down the hall. Emmett closed the door thoughtfully.
I placed a hand on the small of his back. “It’s 6:50,” I pointed out.
Emmett nodded abstractly, still thinking. “What did you say to him?”
“That we need to save New York. Because I can’t care about the prisoners anymore, and that scares me. I thanked him for caring.” I gulped. “I didn’t really mean anything by it, Emmett. Not – this.”
He snorted softly, with a sad smile. He brushed my hair gently with his fingertips. “I’m surely glad that you’re on my side, Dee Baker.” He rallied. “Dinner,” he confirmed. “We’re late.”
“I hope it’s a nice quiet dinner, with no politics,” I said wistfully. “A bit of wine, good food, good company...”
He nodded. “I could use a break from the roller coaster. I doubt we’re going to get it, though.”
10
Interesting fact: Pennsylvania’s agricultural output was 15 times that of tiny Connecticut, with a population only 4 times larger. In particular, Pennsylvania grew wheat, oats, potatoes, and beans. New York wasn’t far behind Pennsylvania, producing 11 times as much as Connecticut, but with a population 7 times larger. New York grew fruit and potatoes.
The storefront windows of an upscale bistro beckoned us warmly. This didn’t quite manage to evoke a sentimental return to wealthier days and fancy restaurants. Behind us, the cold New London street was pitch black and deserted. The footing was slippery and treacherous under wet fallen leaves. A misty wind whipped at us, salted from the Sound. The restaurant’s golden candle-lit interior felt like a jack-o’-lantern grinning out of the haunted dark brick block.
Stepping in, I whispered urgently to Emmett, “Who’s the older Resco? He wasn’t at the pool last night.” I’d seen him in the auditorium the day before. I couldn’t remember whether I’d seen him today. They wore neither uniforms nor name-tags tonight, drat it.
“General Ivan Link,” Emmett murmured back. “He commands the New England borders. And the New England Rescos, sort of.”
“What, all of you? He didn’t sit with the brass,” I said, vexed.
Every time I thought I finally understood what was going on at this summit, the tables of power seemed to tilt again. Cameron’s suggestion of Emmett leaving New Haven to tame New York, not just a rescue operation, had left me uneasy. I wasn’t entirely sure what Emmett’s promotion meant. On the drive, he’d passed it off as a work in progress, but he coordinated the other Connecticut Rescos now instead of Mora. So far the summit days had been long on events and news and changes, and awfully short on explanations. I was growing wistfully eager to get home to normal. The next normal, anyway. Each new normal had a short shelf life, these days.
Emmett shrugged, out of time to explain further, as we joined the table. It was the only occupied table in the restaurant. Marine Corporal Tibbs, wearing a white steward suit this evening, handed me a small menu card, as Emmett pulled out a chair for me.
“Tibbs!” I said in astonishment.
Deeply amused that I ignored the general to focus on the waiter first, Emmett turned to let me introduce him to Corporal Tibbs. Then he steered me into my chair and introduced me to General Link. I already knew the other five – Pam and John Niedermeyer, Adam Lacey, Ash Margolis – avm89 online – from Poughkeepsie, and Pete Hoffman from South Jersey.
I smiled and smiled, and said pleasantries, and waited for a little lull, and unfolded my napkin into my lap. Emmett and I leaned our heads together as though for a little lovers’ confidence. Emmett’s jacket and my gold pashima shawl – woefully inadequate to the plummeting temperatures outside – further shielded our lover’s laps. And we both pulled out our mock-MP3 players, which buzzed silent warning like mad.
I don’t know which Amenoid put these little gizmos together, but they tracked hostile communications. They were cleverly designed. Tibbs had seen them at the security checkpoint. They’d been stashed in our laptop bags and wound around with ear buds. So Tibbs hadn’t given them a second thought. Tonight they lived in my little gold clutch purse and Emmett’s jacket pocket.
Someone at the table was transmitting. We both used our devices, a couple feet apart, to determine that it was Link.
“He was clean all day,” Emmett whispered to me, under guise of nibbling my earlobe.
I leaned over, draping us better in my pashima shawl, and nibbled his ear while he quickly checked his messages, then sent a priority text to our security gang: TRACK ASAP #1. I’m good with tech, I really am. But Emmett ran southern New Haven County from his phone. The man was a wizard at it. We were done before Pam tapped me on the shoulder.
“Get a room, Dee!”
“I’m sorry, you know how it is,” I confided to her. “Oh, I love your necklace, Pam. What a beautiful seagull.” And it was. Pam wore a dark green knit sheath dress, with a couple big wooden buttons decorating cuffs on elbow-length sleeves. A detailed palm-sized seagull, painted in true-to-life colors, hung on her breast, from a chain bearing beads of carved driftwood.
“It’s an albatross,” she said. “You’re different tonight, Dee.” Her eyes narrowed.
I had to hand it to her, she was righ
t. I’d been feeling awkward, diffident, out of my depth, at this summit. But not any more. My attention was riveted, my sense of humor fully engaged.
“An albatross!” I said. “As in the Rime of the Ancient Mariner? John, did you hang an albatross on your wife’s neck?” The phrase meant an annoying burden, and a husband could certainly qualify.
We all laughed cocktail-party laughs, though I question whether half got the obscure literary joke. Adam stole a second glance at Pam’s bird, as though considering something. My own memory had been recently refreshed on the old poem. A firebrand on Amenac, who went by The Great Pumpkin, used a bit of the Rime as her tag line: ‘He prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast.’ The Great Pumpkin wanted us to declare the Northeast an independent nation, seceding from the U.S. She had an enthusiastic following. I would have asked Pam if she was a fan, if our conversation wasn’t being transmitted.
“To Lieutenant Colonel Emmett MacLaren!” Niedermeyer toasted. We all joined the toast. I wondered why Emmett’s new boss General Link didn’t beat Niedermeyer to it. As a supervisor myself, I mentally awarded Link a D for effort. Emmett would never have made that mistake. I’d seen that in Cameron’s eyes.
“Emmett,” said Margolis afterward, “you missed the most controversial presentation of the summit today. Bet you thought it would be yours.” Emmett laughed obligingly. Margolis continued, “So what did you do with your prisoners?”
“I got off easy on that one,” Emmett replied. “New Haven only had pre-trial prisoners. So we got some judges together, hashed out some rules. What punishments I was willing to offer. What crimes not to bother with any more. We threw out most of the cases. Got it down to a few dozen prisoners. Then we handed them over to the townships for trial by jury. Some of the damnedest trials. The townships really surprised me. But – it was up to them, not me. I insisted that whatever they decided, it had to be local. If they chose to keep a prisoner, they had to provide their own jail cell. Several towns are still holding them.”
