Out of the Ashes

exist.”

Several Jeeps pulled into the parking area. The reporters watched a half-dozen Rebel soldiers—male and female, all in tiger-stripe—step out of the Jeeps. The soldiers were all armed with automatic weapons and sidearms.

“Really?” Judith smiled. She pointed to the Rebels. “Well, don’t tell me Tri-states doesn’t exist—tell them!”

FOUR

Before leaving the reception center, each member of the press was handed a pass marked: VISITOR— PRESS. It was dated and signed by Roisseau.

“Don’t lose those passes,” he cautioned them. “You people don’t have permanent papers with prints, pictures, and serial numbers. Our equivalent of social security.”

“Why are those papers necessary?” a reporter asked.

“We’ve given asylum to many so-called criminals from bordering states. Some of the police from those states have tried to come in after them, undercover, slipping in without our knowledge. They didn’t make it, but it did force us to go to a permanent ID.”

“I don’t… quite understand.” Judith looked up from the pamphlet she’d been reading. She was very interested in this state. “What kind of so-called criminals?”

“As you have probably read, or heard, our laws are different from yours. Very different. In other states, if you were to shoot a punk trying to steal your car, your TV set, or whatever, you would be put in jail and charged. Not here. There is a full investigation, of course—we’re not animals—but we do believe that a punk is a punk, and that a person has the right to protect what is his or hers from unlawful search or seizure. Using any authorized weapon.”

“How many children have been shot?”

“None. Our children are taught, not only in the home, but in public schools, the difference between right and wrong—as we see it.”

“You said authorized weapons…?”

“Rifle, pistol, knife, hands, fists, feet… whatever is available. Our citizens”—he smiled—“do not possess nuclear weapons.”

Barney shuddered. He had discovered how swiftly events could occur in this state. All over a little joke.

“Explain those permanent IDs,” Roisseau was asked.

“Each ID is numbered, the same number is on the person’s bank account, driver’s license, home title. That number is placed in a central computer bank. Along with the number is placed the person’s vital statistics. It’s very easily checked and almost impossible to hide an identity.”

“What comes next, Sergeant: tattooing at birth?” It was sarcastically put.

Barney resisted an impulse to tell the reporter to please watch his mouth.

Sergeant Roisseau smiled patiently. “No, sir, it’s past 1984. Your government is the one who turned on its law-abiding, taxpaying citizens, not ours.”

“What is the penalty for carrying a false ID?”

Roisseau’s eyes were chilly as he said, “It’s unpleasant. I hope you all have a nice stay in our area. It will be as nice as you make it.”

A member of the armed forces of Tri-states rode in each van and bus. As they pulled out of the reception center, a soldier rose and faced Clayton Charles’s group.

“My name is Bridge Oliver. During the ride to the governor’s house, I’ll try to answer as many questions as possible and show you some points of interest.

“Coming up on your left is the first emergency telephone on this highway. You’ll find them every four miles on every major highway in the Tri-states. They are hooked directly to an army HQ in whatever district the motorist is in, and each phone is numbered. Pick up the phone, give that number to whoever answers, state the nature of the problem, and someone will be there promptly.”

“That isn’t anything new,” a reporter said. “It’s been tried before in other areas… before the bombings. Vandals usually ripped the phones out. Destroyed them.”

“Sir,” Bridge said, “in other states, punks and hoodlums were—and probably still are—pampered and petted by judges, psychologists, counselors, and petunia-picking social workers. Vandalism, in your society, under your laws, is accepted, more or less, as part of a young person’s growing up. We do not subscribe to that theory. As you have been told, and will be told a hundred times more during your stay here,”—until you get it through your goddamned thick skulls, Bridge thought—“crime, lawlessness, is not tolerated here. Our children are taught that it is wrong. They are taught it in the homes, in the schools, and in the churches.”

The same reporter who had asked about tattooing at birth, now asked: “What do you do when you catch them, shoot them?”

Barney looked out the window while Judith busied herself with a notebook.

Bridge held his temper in check. Ben had told his people to expect sarcasm and, in certain instances, open hostility from some members of the press.

“No, sir,” Bridge said quietly, “we don’t shoot them. I would like all of you to understand something. Some of you—maybe all of you—seem to be under the impression that we here in Tri-states are savages, or that Governor Raines is some sort of ruthless ogre. You’re wrong. We’re all very proud of what we’ve done here: jobs for everyone who wants to work; our medical system; elimination of poor living conditions; but we’re also somewhat of a law- and-order society. Not as you people know law and order, true, but we’re not monsters.

“We do a lot of things quite differently from what you people are accustomed to. But that’s all right, because it works for us.”

“That’s all very good, Mr. Oliver. And, I suppose, commendable, to your way of thinking. But I would still like to know what happens to the kids when they’re caught. Just for having a little fun.”

“Fun?” Bridge questioned. “Fun? Is destructive vandalism your idea of fun?”

“It certainly isn’t a criminal offense.”

“Isn’t it? What’s the difference between stealing a great deal of money or ripping out a piece of expensive equipment that might save someone’s life?”

The reporter shook his head. “I don’t intend to argue the question with you. It still doesn’t answer my question.”

Bridge sighed. “After they’ve all been warned, repeatedly, not to commit vandalism, and taught it in the schools, we attempt to find out why they would do so. Is it because of their home life? Are they abused? Do they have a mental problem? We try to find out and then correct the problem. But they will also work while we’re doing that: painting public buildings or working for the elderly, picking up litter—which, if you’ll observe, we don’t have much of—public-service work of some kind. But they’ll give us twenty dollars of their time for every dollar they destroyed.”

“That’s rather harsh, don’t you think?”

Bridge shrugged and tried not to smile. He knew their way of life, their philosophy, would not be understood by many of the younger members of the news media. About half of the newspeople now converging upon the Tri- states area were in their thirties, the products of the permissive ‘60s and ‘70s, which Bridge knew, only too well, was a time of poor discipline in schools, disregard for law and order, a downgrading of patriotism, morals, values. One could blame the time, but not wholly the individual.

“What about the police?” a woman asked. “I haven’t seen any.”

“We don’t have police,” Bridge said. “We have peace officers. And really, not many of them.” He smiled, attempting to put the people at ease. “Here,” he tried to explain, “the people control their lives. We have very few laws, and they are voted on by the people before they become laws. A fifty-one/forty-nine percent for and against won’t make it here. It’s got to be much clearer than that. That may be a majority in your system, but not here.

“Living here is very simple on the one hand, and very difficult—if not downright impossible—if you’re the type