This gave her pause, and she finally dropped her tour-guide demeanor. She leaned forward. “Because you have to return to the city?”
“No,” he said. “Because now I have to find Gustav. Find out more about his herb.”
They laughed and the woman introduced herself as Selene.
“I’m an escort,” she said. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go, make sure you don’t end up any more lost than you already are. First stop: Gustav.”
Simon marveled at the market as he and Selene wound their way through the tight aisles. The vegetable and fruit stands were lined up along the south side of the makeshift barrier of RVs and lean-tos. This, Selene explained, was not the result of any formal organizing principle, but because it allowed them easy entrance and egress during the day; critical for fresh, time-sensitive food.
The result was the equivalent of a produce section. Most of the vendors offered bites and samples, and Simon was soon unable to accept another, full as he was from the cornucopia.
As they walked, Simon toggled on his heads-up display to search for wireless. He was immediately overwhelmed by the flood of available signals.
“What’re all of these wireless channels?” he asked.
“Whichever one you pick, you’ll need to find the network owner and agree to terms with them. Then they’ll enable your device or give you log-in permission.”
Simon’s mind spun at the choices. In the city they had just one network, administered by a central office to ensure reliability and security. He’d been warned away from Fridley’s wireless by the AIO, and now he knew why.
They turned a corner and then another, entering a tightly packed group of stands. They approached a small truck. Its side still bore the faded markings of the ancient US Postal Service. The back doors were open, and an old, bearded man – Gustav, according to a hand-painted placard hanging over the aperture – sat inside the truck’s open trunk. A few small wooden crates were arranged in orderly stacks. A small pile of herb bundles scattered within one of the crates.
“Not many left,” he said, smiling warmly behind his thick gray beard. He and Selene hugged. “A new friend?”
“This is Simon,” she said. “This is his first day in the Freehold.”
“But it won’t be his last,” said Gustav. He took Simon’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you for coming. Are you enjoying it?”
“I am,” said Simon, though he was unprepared for the question. The market wasn’t really what he’d imagined. Chaotic? Certainly, but neither as filthy nor dangerous as he’d believed.
Gustav wore his hair long, tied up loosely by a bit of string. He had a wide, open smile.
“Can I get a picture?” asked Simon suddenly. Though the market was not exactly as expected, Gustav, the kind old coot, was exactly the caricature citizens imagined haunting the market.
“Tourists…” said Selene, sounding like she’d seen this before.
“No harm in a picture,” said Gustav politely. But his smile changed from warm to insincere in a moment. Simon loaded the pic to his HUD, to be transmitted with his report back to the AIO that evening.
“So did you want a bundle?” asked Gustav, back to the kindly-old-man routine.
“How much does it cost?” Simon started to ask, but he was interrupted. Someone with a strong grip, and hairy knuckles to match, grabbed his arm and spun him in a quarter circle. He stood facing a man a half-head taller than himself and a barrel wider.
“Welcome to Fridley,” the stranger said.
###
Kramarczuk had explained Simon’s role in the Anti-Insurgency operation. The office needed him in Fridley ahead of the incursion to report on the Freehold market before the invasion. If the Minneapolis public knew about the squalor and disorder of Fridley they would no doubt support the effort to retake it from the insurgents.
“Do I present my press credentials at the gate?” said Simon. He realized the moment he asked how naïve the question sounded.
“Radical elements in Fridley won’t allow a CommUnity reporter wandering about the settlement,” said Lt. Kramarczuk. “So you’ll pose as a tourist.”
“A tourist?”
“Certainly,” said Kramarczuk. “Every day hundreds of citizens take illegal trips from the urban zone into Fridley.”
“What for?” said Simon. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Yes, it is,” said Mackey. “They go for contraband, basically. Drugs, gambling. The sort of elicit services denied them in the law-and-order of Minneapolis.” He shrugged. “Prostitutes,” he added as an after-thought.
“We’ll get you a ten day visa,” said Kramarczuk. “Processed by the Education Procurement Office, where many of these grey market documents come from.
“We’ll want daily reports. A few hundred words each. We’ll publish them under an anonymous byline so your cover isn’t blown.”
“Anonymous,” said Simon.
“Oh, you’ll get credit once you’re back,” said Mackey. “Probably a civilian commendation, too.”
“You’ll need to communicate via direct connection,” said Kramarczuk, “rather than the wireless network.”
“Without any centralized authority over the wireless,” said Mackey, “there is no reliable connectivity in Fridley. We’ll provide a direct port for you to transmit.”
“What do I do with my wireless while I’m there?” asked Simon, imagining the viruses and other maladies that infected the unregulated network.
“Disable it,” said Kramarczuk quickly. “Before you arrive. It won’t do you any good to be connected.”
“And get a camera,” said Mackey. “Stray dogs, sick kids. Readers tend to like pictures.”
Simon thought of Martin, his brother, the AIO officer, and how disappointed he would be if Simon rejected this chance.
“Lesser men miss opportunity,” Martin liked to say, “because it disguises itself as a challenge. And challenges scare lesser men.”
“I accept,” Simon said at the exact moment Mackey began speaking again.
“There’s one other thing,” Mackey was saying. “There’s a counter-intelligence operation you should be aware of.”
“What’s that?”
“A mole,” said Kramarczuk. “The insurgents have turned a previous journalist. We’re not sure how much current operations are at risk.”
“Probably not much,” added Markey.
“Will I need a gun?” asked Simon. He had no Rule of Journalism that applied to this situation.
“Not unless something goes very wrong,” said Kramarczuk.
“And I’m sorry to say that at that point a gun won’t help, anyway,” said Mackey. “It’s lawless. The moment guns are drawn you’d better just duck for cover.” Then the pair laughed.
###
“You’ve been brought before a market tribunal by Kennick,” said a leather-skinned woman in unadorned work clothes. “I am Maria, and I will be leading this session.”
Simon rubbed his left temple. He had pulled away from the hulking, hairy man who’d grabbed him, and a scuffle had ensued. Last he remembered, he’d take a punch to the head and been dragged through the market on his back.
Maria was seated behind a long, wooden table, flanked by two men: one in an old-fashioned cowboy’s hat and the other Gustav, he of the notorious herb.
“What are the charges?” said Simon.
“Kennick will make his accusation, and this tribunal will establish whether the accusations have merit. If they do, we will petition a verdict from those freemen gathered here.”
Simon thought back to Minneapolis. Some of his favorite vid dramas were, in fact, procedurals about the process of law and order in the city. He knew that plenty of trials in Minneapolis took place in secret, behind closed doors, with only prosecutors and city officials determining the fate of the defendant.
When a trial in Minneapolis took place publicly it was meant to send a message to the populace in general, and they were accordin
gly full of much pomp and ceremony. Long declarations about the rights of the accused. The judges, officers of the court but employees of the State as well, wore ornate robes and presided like Kings on their thrones, dispensing justice, punishment, and impartiality in uneven doses.
This tribunal, on the other hand, in front of an unadorned table, with these three ordinary folks sitting in judgment, was the opposite of everything Simon expected of a court, and he immediately questioned its authority simply on the basis of its simplicity.
“By what charge do you bring Simon Chase to the tribunal?” said the chief inquisitor to someone standing behind Simon.
Kennick, the hairy-knuckled brute who had dragged Simon across the market, was standing in the semicircle that surrounded him. He took a half-step forward to stand next to Simon. He stank of sweat.
“Espionage,” Kennick said.
The charge chilled Simon, not only for its sentence – death, if the verdict were guilt in Minneapolis – but for its accuracy.
But the crowd laughed. “Not again,” someone behind him muttered.
“A grievous crime,” said Gustav solemnly, though his eyes shone mischievously.
“By what evidence?” said Maria.
“I observed the American taking photographs in the market. He began at Brio’s shop. Then proceeded to the administration building. Then to Gustav’s truck.”
“A full itinerary,” said the man in the cowboy’s hat, “but not espionage. Tourism, at best.”
“His camera,” Kennick held up the small device, “is requisitioned by the city’s Anti-Insurgency Office. I matched the serial number to their quartermaster.” He stepped forward and handed it to Maria.
“A tourist with an AIO camera,” said the cowboy.
They were in an open area of the unheated administration building, and in the cool air most of the congregated freemen wore their jackets and caps. Kennick had stepped in front of Simon to present his case, and he wore only a flannel shirt; Simon could see his broad back rise and fall as he listened to the tribunal. He imagined the black hair on Kennick’s neck bristling as they passed around Simon’s AIO camera.
Gustav looked at the small plastic device, turned it over in his hand, and then handed it back to Maria. “He may be an AIO spy. Or a journalist. Whatever their confounded plans call for.”
Simon winced at the comment. The tribunal knew of the AIO’s plans?
“He’s a threat to the market…” said Kennick.
“He’s no more a threat to the market,” said Maria, “than the drones circling overhead right now. How many naïve young people have they sent into our midst?”
“Spies…”
“Tourists,” said Gustav. “In fact, Simon was about to buy a bundle of my herb when you arrested him.” He smiled kindly at Simon.
“He’s photographing the market. His intent is to send those back to the Americans.”
“Whatever his intent,” said the cowboy, “it isn’t a crime by the rules of the market.”
“He’s done you no harm,” said Gustav.
“Agreed,” said Maria. “Kennick is ordered to pay Simon $10 restitution for his assault and arrest. Simon is free to go.”
And, just as quickly as the impromptu assembly of freemen had congregated, they dispersed, returning to their kiosks and their fruit stands. Simon felt his face flush, embarrassed that he’d been caught but released nonetheless; surprised as he was at the mercy of the tribunal.
Kennick was still in his accusatory posture, half turned toward Simon. He now turned to face Simon again, his mouth set in a straight line. His jaw was tight. It was the look of a man in a battle for self-control. He took a step toward Simon, towering over him. Simon fought the instinct to take a step back. Instead he straightened his back and looked up at Kennick.
“You owe me $10?” he said finally. He hadn’t intended it to be a question, but it seemed like an absurd claim, after all of this.
“I do,” said Kennick after another five seconds of interior conflict. He took Simon’s left wrist, flipped his hand palm-up, and dropped a thick metal piece. “I need to get back to my stall.”
Simon looked at the heavy piece in his hand, minted $10 by the market.
“What’s your business?” said Simon as Kennick walked away. Rule #2: Constant Questions
Kennick stopped and perked up a bit. “My wife and I sell quilts.”
“What kinds of quilts?”
“Heavy ones. The kind to get a traveling family through a winter. Cold weather is coming.”
Simon considered, for a moment, following him back to his stall to buy one of the quilts. Then he remembered Selene, his escort. She was standing at the entrance of the building, waiting for him.
###
When Simon had told Martin about his assignment, Martin did not crack a smile – he wasn’t the type to openly display emotion when he could transition into a moralistic lecture instead – but the wrinkles around his eyes seemed to tighten slightly. Simon took this to be approval.
“Insurgency is the great threat to our security,” he explained as they sipped at their beers the day before Simon’s departure. “You’re doing our nation a service by letting citizens know about the squalor within the settlement.”
“I don’t understand why anyone would live there,” said Simon. He was genuinely curious about it – given how poor, and disorderly, and dangerous the Freehold was, it seemed odd anyone would choose it over the safety and comfort of the urban zone.
Martin shook his head, implying for a moment that he was actually giving the question serious thought.
“For the most part criminals and malcontents,” he said.
“And insurgents?”
“Yes. A small number brainwashed into a subculture that rejects the importance of community and replaces it with a primitive devotion to ‘individualism.’”
“Quaint.”
“It is, but don’t let the old-fashioned allure obscure the insidiousness of it. It threatens everything the North American Union stands for: stability, community, cooperation.”
“How will I tell the criminals from the insurgents?”
“Your mission isn’t to know the difference. Just report on the conditions, send back your reports, and the Anti-Insurgency Office will handle the rest.”
###
The sun was setting over the west side of the market. Selene and Simon found a sturdy, old, wooden bench on the roof of the administration building. They each carried a small carafe of hot coffee.
A flock of geese flew overhead, a southbound V. Simon had spent the entire day with Selene, walking the market, browsing the overwhelming varieties of goods and services for sale. They had watched an impromptu debate between two competing religionists. Simon had bought a knit cap for himself and a scarf for Selene.
“It’s amazing you have coffee,” said Simon after they had settled in on the bench overlooking the market. Another flock of geese squawked from somewhere to the east. “And so cheap.” He’d calculated the exchange rate and figured that the market sold coffee at less than half the price available in Minneapolis.
“There are Travelers up and down the continent,” said Selene. “Like those geese. We travel from Oaxaca to Omaha. Baja to Binghamton. We all trade the goods at markets like this one and it ends up here.”
Simon turned on the bench, to look south toward Minneapolis. It was only fifteen miles away, and in the twilight the skyscrapers of the city rose up like dark chess pieces. The center of the city was brightly illuminated by city lights, but most of the peripheral towers of the urban zone glowed dimly, such was the effect of the city’s energy conservation programs.
He looked at the market below, at the vendors as they packed up their stands.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
“Packing up. The Freehold is disbanding tonight.”
She had said it so calmly that it took Simon a moment to register what she’d said.
“Tonight? Why?”
/>
“The AIO is planning an invasion.”
Simon winced, as if struck. Now that he thought about it, he knew it was true. But it wasn’t planned for another week.
“They’re going to arrive tomorrow,” Selene said.
“Why?” he asked.
“To rescue you.”
“Me…” He realized that he didn’t have news access, that he hadn’t logged on to a network all day, that he hadn’t sent or received a message since he’d left Minneapolis early that morning.
Selene shared her log-in for one of the market networks, and Simon quickly jumped on the net. He scrolled through his HUD’s net browser, skimmed the first couple news articles he found. The news sites screamed headlines about the coming incursion:
CommUnity Journalist Kidnapped
Terrorists Strike From Fridley
Insurgents Seize CommUnity Journalist
Public Outcry Over Latest Attack
Security Forces Vow To Rescue Detainee
He found a video of his brother, Captain Martin Chase.
“The insurgency must be rooted out,” he explained to journalists. “My brother is the latest of a handful of journalists who have been seized by terrorist elements within Fridley. We will act decisively to bring our people home and bring their kidnappers to justice.”
Simon shut down his HUD.
“I can stop this,” he said.
“This has been their plan from the beginning,” said Selene. “There’s nothing you can do at this point.”
“The commander is my brother,” he said. He stood up and began to gather up his things. “He’ll listen to me. It’s a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake,” Selene said, but Simon was already moving. He looked out over the bustle of the market, at the stands and the caravans. He thought of Gustav’s herb, and Kennick’s quilts, and the myriad other goods and services available in these chaotic, anarchic, unregulated blocks.
He knew he had to act quickly to save it.
“I’ll be back,” he said to Selene. “I’ll be back in the morning.” And he ran before she could say anything else to stop him: descended the ladders from the roof back down to the market level, wound through the carts and the kiosks, to the open lot on the west side of the market, where the line of cabs waited to return tourists to the checkpoint.
Anarchy Rising: The Clarion Call, Vol 1 (Volume 1) Page 11
