Resistance: The Gathering Storm

The administrator watched as the couple left the diner, spoke with each other, and parted company. The lunch wasn’t a big deal, not really, but it was currency of a sort. The kind of deposit which, when combined with similar payments, would eventually add up to a promotion.

The thought made him feel cheerful as he left the diner, tucked the Post under his arm, and returned to work. The world might be going to hell in a handcart, but his life was good.

It was necessary to transfer once before arriving in downtown Denver—and both of the electric trolleys were crowded. So Hale stood, as did most of the men aboard, allowing women and elderly people to sit. Based on information gleaned from the driver, he knew that the Customs House was located on Broadway, and that the trolley would stop across the street from it. So he was ready as the trolley came to a halt.

“Customs House, post office, and main business district,” the driver intoned. “Please watch your step.”

The bi-fold doors opened, Hale took two steps down, and hurried to get out of the way so that other people could board. Having cleared the back end of the trolley, he could see the Customs House on the far side of the street. It consisted of two matching five-story buildings, divided by a long, gently sloping flight of stairs that led into the courtyard between them. And, much to Hale’s surprise, a long line of people stretched from the inner courtyard out onto Broadway, where it turned the corner and ran down 19th Avenue.

There was no way to tell what the people were lined up to do, and based on how diverse they were, it was impossible to guess.

He went down to the corner, waited for the light to change, and crossed the street. A whalelike blimp could be seen in the distance, propellers turning slowly as it patrolled the western suburbs. A staff sergeant stood in front of the Customs House. He had a round face and his cheeks were a ruddy red. The noncom saluted as Hale approached. If he was curious about the officer’s golden yellow eyes, he managed to hide it.

“Good afternoon, sir… Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Hale replied, having returned the salute. “I was hoping to visit the Bureau of Displaced Persons. Could you tell me where it is?”

“It’s at the other end of that line,” the sergeant replied, as he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “It seems like everybody’s looking for somebody,” he added soberly.

That was true. And he was one of them. Now that Hale knew Susan had survived the attack on the Rocking F Ranch, he was hoping to find her. According to the newspapers he’d read, a central registry had been established by the Department of the Interior’s Bureau of Displaced Persons. The problem was that there were millions of people to keep track of—many of whom were suspicious of the government-run program. In fact, the group called Freedom First had gone so far as to suggest that rather than trying to help family members find each other, the registry was simply one more effort by the Grace administration to strip the population of its freedoms.

Hale had no way to evaluate the truth of that allegation, but he was determined to find out if Susan was alive. “Yeah,” Hale said as he glanced at the line, then back again. “I guess there are a lot of folks in that position. I’m looking for my sister.”

“I hope you find her, sir,” the noncom said, and he sounded sincere. “I’ll have Private Yano take you to the head of the line.”

Hale shook his head.

“No, that wouldn’t be fair. I’ll wait like everybody else.”

“Okay, sir,” the noncom replied doubtfully. “But you might want to bleed your tanks first.”

It was good advice, so Hale entered the Customs House via another door and paid a visit to the men’s room before returning outside. After following the line all the way around the corner onto 19th and down the block, he fell in behind a woman in a tattered overcoat. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his overcoat to keep them warm.

As they began to notice him, those around Hale peppered him with questions about the fighting, as if expecting everyone in uniform to know everything that was going on. Some of them had been listening to broadcasters like Peavy, and believed that the Chimera were on the run, while others had been tuning in to clandestine broadcasts by Radio Free Chicago, which was operated by Freedom First. They held the opinion that the stinks had crossed into Nebraska, and were pushing south.

Hale tried to set the record straight as best he could without revealing anything he shouldn’t, but he soon discovered that both groups were wedded to their beliefs, and unwilling to budge.

He had now been there for a couple of hours. Time passed slowly, and the line moved ahead in a series of spasmodic jerks, as a steady trickle of people were processed at the other end. The air grew steadily colder as the sun fell toward the mountains. After another hour and a half or so, a pair of women pushed a cart along the line. It was loaded with a big urn, and as the two handed out cups of hot coffee, they did what they could to cheer people up. Hale wanted to pay, but one of the women shook her head, and smiled.

“It’s what we can do, Lieutenant. I hope you find the person you’re looking for.”

But if the line attracted nice people, it attracted others as well, including all manner of salesmen, beggars, and fanatics. At one point a wild-eyed man waving a Bible walked the length of it. “Listen to me!” he demanded loudly while bits of spittle flew from his purplish lips. “The truth about President Grace can be found in Revelation 13:9-10: ‘If any man have an ear, let him hear. He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword!’”

The man might have said more—no doubt would have said more—if three men in plainclothes hadn’t arrived to take him away. Which was good riddance in so far as Hale was concerned. He was inside the courtyard by that time, and glad that he wouldn’t have to depart prematurely to keep his date with Cassie.

Fifteen minutes later the main line split into three shorter lines, each of which led to a wooden table with a computer terminal sitting on top of it. The man waiting to greet him wore a tag with the name Crowley on it. He had dark hair, a badly rumpled white shirt, and a potbelly. The light from the screen made his face glow. He didn’t bother to look up. “Name?”

“My name is, Hale… Nathan Hale.”

“Not your name,” Crowley replied irritably. “The name of the person you’re looking for.”

“Oh,” Hale said. “That would be Susan Farley. That’s spelled F-A-R-L-E-Y.”

The keyboard rattled as Crowley entered the name. His eyes blinked as words appeared. “I have five of them… You got a birthday?”

“March 7, 1920.”

“Nope,” Crowley replied. “Not even close. Next!”

“Wait a minute,” Hale objected. “She’s from South Dakota. Do you have any Susan Farleys from South Dakota?”

“Yes, I do,” Crowley answered insolently. “But she’s sixty-three years old. Now step out of the line, or I’ll call security.”

So after waiting for more than five hours, Hale was forced to leave the Customs House empty-handed. It appeared that either Susan had been killed during the trip south from the ranch, or had chosen to keep her name off the national registry, which wouldn’t be surprising, given the Farley family’s fierce sense of independence.

It was dark as Hale made his way to a southbound trolley stop, and joined the crowd there. He had slightly less than an hour in which to reach Cassie’s place, but figured he could make it as long as the trolleys were running on time and he was able to board the first one to come along.

Fortunately, they were running on time, and he was able to board the first one, which put him back at the Federal Center with fifteen minutes to spare. Just enough time in which to stop at a neighborhood store and buy a bottle of wine, since flowers weren’t available. Then with a cold wind nipping at his face he followed the grocer’s directions over to Virginia Avenue and Cassie’s apartment house.

As Hale entered the lobby he was nervous. Because no matter what he told himself, he knew Cassie was smarter than he was, and it would be easy for him to make a fool of himself. So with a sense of dread he climbed a flight of stairs and knocked on her door.

There was the click of high heels on hardwood, followed by a momentary rattle as she turned the knob and opened the door. Suddenly all of Hale’s fears melted away when she smiled and planted a