Beyond Armageddon: Book 02 - Empire (13 page)

           
In a chair next to Evan sat Angela West, a woman—like Evan—in her early thirties. The dark roots hinted her blond hair might not be natural and the thick make-up surrounding her smile suggested she remembered a few tricks from the news business of old.

           
While giving his tie and hair another good straightening, Evan made small talk.

“How long have you been with the National Broadcast Network?”

           
“I’ve been with NTN since we started in
Harrisburg
last year.”

           
He knew the answer but asked anyway, “You have outlets in
Pittsburgh
and
Baltimore
now, don’t you?”

           
“Yes.
Baltimore
is still at low power though, not much of a signal. We have couriers, though, who run tapes to the independent stations that are popping up all over the place. Our interview today will probably be seen by at least half the free population.”

           
“That’s great,” he finally found satisfaction with the knot in his tie. “I’m just surprised you wanted to talk to me.”

           
“Mr. Godfrey, you’re a member of the governing council and at the same time run what could fairly be called an ‘opposition’ newspaper. If that’s not an interesting interview, I don’t know what is.”

           
“Please, call me Evan.”

“Are we ready yet?” she asked the cameraman.

 
“I’m rolling in three…two…one…”

 
“Evan, you began
The New American Press
almost two years ago. Why did you get into the newspaper business and how would you describe your editorial slant?”

“Well, Angela, history has taught us that a free and independent press is a critical component in ensuring human rights, the rule of law, and in pushing for equality and dignity for all people. The more media outlets we have with participation from as many people as possible then the more likely we are to build the type of society humanity deserves.”

“I see,” Angela accepted the first part of his answer.

“As for editorial slant, I think that’s the wrong description. We do have an agenda. Our agenda is to bring to light as much information as possible—good and bad—about what is happening in the world, what the future holds, and to offer alternative ideas.”

“Would you consider your paper more liberal or conservative?”
           
Evan vigorously shook his head. “Angela, I don’t believe those terms hold any meaning in this new world. My editorial board includes people who, in the old world, were left-wing activists as well as what politicos would have considered neo-conservatives. In the past, those types of people were diametrically opposed, but both shared a fundamental belief in representative government, a free economy, and an open society. Issues that would have divided these groups in the past—issues like social policies and programs—are simply dead right now.”

Angela nodded politely but let him speak.

“Instead, many of yesterday’s political groups find themselves drawn together by a common cause; the cause of improving life here within the boundaries of what is now officially being called The Empire. A name to which I am vehemently opposed, by the way.”

 
“So despite the fact that you were personally appointed to the governing council by Trevor Stone himself, you are opposed to much of what his government is doing?”

Evan offered a gentle smile.

“I’d have to disagree with what your question infers. Know that I have been fighting alongside Trevor since the early days. Indeed, I consider Trevor a friend and I will always remember the day when he led a rescue party that saved my life. I would also mention that I fought alongside him at the Battle of Five Armies and was a part of his forces when the infamous battle for
Wilkes-Barre
took place.”

“But you have been very vocal in questioning his policies.”

“Yes, I have a lot of questions about the direction we are headed in. As a student of history, I know that even the most benevolent dictatorships are still dictatorships. It is dangerous for all parts of our society to be so dependent on one man. Consider that our food supply, fuel and energy resources, health services—why just about everything in our lives funnels through one council with one man at the head of it. That’s simply too much for one person. Besides, what happens—God forbid—if Trevor dies in battle? Who is next in line? What makes us believe that fortune would smile on us with two great leaders in a row?”

Angela, still nodding politely, asked, “So you feel there needs to be some sort of electoral process? Perhaps a new version of the house and senate?”

“That is a grand idea but we need to start small first. Why don’t individual towns and villages elect their Mayors? City councils? Why not elect regional governors instead of having them appointed?”

“The speed and urgency of the war has made it a necessity.”

Evan shook his head in polite disagreement.

“That presents another set of questions. Questions I’m not afraid to ask because, like Trevor Stone, I am focused on saving humanity and rebuilding our civilization.”

“Such as?”

Evan enjoyed the opportunity to explain. “During World War II why didn’t we invade
Europe
to save the French immediately? Why did we wait until 1944? The reason is that we needed time to mobilize.
America
needed time to gather supplies, to train soldiers, to get together the necessary components to ensure victory.

“So I ask, why are we in such a hurry now? As important as it is to free enslaved humans and find survivors, it is also important to build our infrastructure, to muster our resources, to plan for contingencies. Right now, we are little more than a loose connection of outposts; small cities and villages scattered across a dangerous wilderness. The bonds between these isolated communities are thin. Just traveling from one place to another is a life-threatening trip.

“Instead of building on what little we have, we rush forward. While this leads to some glorious victories in places like
Raleigh
, it also saps our strength at home. I worry that we are trading quick results for long-term failure. The retreat last spring is a good example, we’re fortunate to have stopped the Hivvans then, but what about the next alien offensive? I worry we are expanding our boundaries but that we are not strong enough to defend them.”

“What is it you propose?”

“Well, Angela, those decisions are not up to me. That’s the point. I believe we need to build democracy again. History has shown that functioning democracies have always waged just wars better than have dictatorships. I believe a representative government could better handle our domestic issues and would lead to victories in the war that would be lasting. I cannot say the same about what is happening now. I am very concerned for the future.”

Angela pointed out, “You’re a part of that governing council. Doesn’t that make you part of the problem?”

“I would gladly trade my position on the council for free elections. No one person should be above the will of the people. That’s why I publish
The New American Press.
It is a means of covering all of the topics from all angles. We certainly give Trevor Stone his due for everything he has accomplished. We just hope to encourage him to return to the tradition of freedom we once held so dear.”

–

           
Another summer day turned into a summer night.

           
Evan Godfrey drove his armor-plated Mercedes-Benz sedan along empty boulevards until reaching Kidder Street, once a thriving thoroughfare on the north end of town but badly mauled during the Battle for Wilkes-Barre and then again during the Battle of Five Armies, as evidenced by the rubble of the Wyoming Valley Mall. Four years ago, Jon Brewer detonated that shopping center to destroy an army of insane robots.

           
He passed a handful of trading posts where torches and portable lights illuminated merchants ready to barter the fruits of scavenger hunts for ration cards, ammunition, or any number of personal services. He saw a couple of horseback riders and several bicycles, but only one other car; gasoline was a luxury.

           
Those horses and bicycles would soon disappear, as would the merchants. As day turned to night, the threat of nocturnal predators threatened, no matter how thorough the efforts of their K9 guardians.

           
He arrived at “Tortelli’s Restaurant and Bar,” built from what had once been a Red Lobster.

           
Instead of seafood, the new establishment specialized in the same thing every local restaurant specialized in: beef dishes, chicken dishes, soup, and the occasional salad when enough greens came in from the farms.

           
The Tortelli family ran the business. Dad cooked, mom hosted and served, the kids cleaned tables, and the oldest stood behind the bar serving home brewed beers.

           
Tortelli’s Restaurant and Bar earned official recognition from the council, meaning they redeemed food rations there and they received supplies from government stockpiles.

           
Evan, who had given his contingent of human bodyguards this night off (and he refused any K9 protection), entered the front door where a chalkboard greeted him. Messages for customers read, “We don’t need any more pots, pans or silverware, thank you,” and “Looking for size 11 sneakers or work boots…also need children’s clothing.”

           
Shoes—particularly children’s shoes and heavy boots—were some of the most coveted items in the new world. Most people walked around in badly torn, stained, and poor-fitting sneakers or loafers. Even most soldiers made due with casual footwear as opposed to boots.

           
Evan walked through the candle-lit restaurant to the bar area. The air carried a combination of scents including something burning and something rotting.

           
He nodded to the bartender who mixed his usual drink. While gin held its constitution over the years, the lack of fizzle in the glass suggested flat tonic water.

           
Instead of asking for payment, the bartender scribbled a mark in a ledger next to Evan Godfrey’s name. Most customers would pay—through barter—for their drink before the first sip. A precious few earned credit from larger trades, such as a gallon of gasoline, a roll of old-world toilet paper, or services along the lines of landscaping or equipment repair.

           
Writing Evan’s name was merely a formality. After all, Evan served on the council, the same council that designated Tortelli’s a ration redemption point, which ensured a high level of traffic. Evan’s tab was covered.

           
He found a quiet booth in the corner and waited several minutes until his appointment arrived: a white man just about six feet tall with thin brown hair, a lanky body, and small, sharp brown eyes. He wore a sport jacket that covered a shoulder holster where a 357 Magnum hung.

           
“Hello Ray, what took you so long?”

           
The waitress—Mrs. Tortelli—knew to get the newcomer a glass of homemade beer. Like Evan, the tab made no difference because it paid to have friends in Internal Security.

           
“Don’t you just get to the point? Yes you do. But you are going to love why I’m late.”

           
Evan sipped his drink then placed it on a coaster atop the wooden table.

           
“Now you just have to tell me.”

           
“I will, I will. But what have you got for me?”

           
Evan told him, “I’ve got you an appointment with Dr. Davis. Just like I promised.”

           
“Yeah? Everything?”

           
“Novocain. Nurses. Everything. They’ll have that tooth taken care of in no time.”

           
Ray raised a hand to his cheek and said, “Good thing, too. This was starting to drive me nuts. How long is the wait?”

           
“For most people, about three months and they don’t get Novocain. For my friend? Well, let’s just say the name ‘Ray Roos’ is at the top of their list. Go in whenever you want. Go tomorrow, if you like. You’ll probably be out of there in two hours or less.”

           
“Isn’t that fantastic? Yes it is,” Ray thanked Evan.

           
“Now, what have you got for me?”

           
 
“I got a shitload for you. Most of it is no problem because it’s general knowledge in I.S. But today’s stuff, well, find a creative way to bring it up because it can be traced back to people like me. You know,
officers.”

           
“C’mon now,” Evan pushed. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

           
“Okay,” Roos leaned forward. “First off, ammo is way low in just about every field office north of
Maryland
. A couple of H-K handlers refused to go out with the K9s because they didn’t have high-caliber rounds for their big guns. So the friggin’ dogs were doing the sweeps on their own. Now what if they ran into a Hostile One-Fifty Seven or a Goat-Walker? They couldn’t handle those. For Christ’s sake, military units can’t handle those things most of the time.”