Out of the Ashes

Roisseau spoke to the girl still behind the desk. “Judy, get on the horn and call the medics and tell them we have a hotshot with a pulled fuse.” He faced the crowd of newspeople.

“You're all due at a press conference in two hours. Meanwhile, I'd suggest you all help yourselves to coffee and doughnuts and soft drinks and study the pamphlets we have for you.” He glanced at Barney, sitting on the floor, moaning and holding his head in his hands. “As for you, I'd forget about suing anyone. Our form of government discourages lawsuits. You'd lose anyway.”

“I'll take this to the Supreme Court!” Barney yelled.

“Fine. Governor Raines is someday going to appoint one for us. Next twenty or thirty years. We don't recognize yours.”

“Well, who is the final authority on Tri-states law?” a woman asked.

Roisseau smiled. “Just about anyone in the area ... over the age of ten. As you study the simplicity of our judicial system, you'll see what I mean. We don't use any Latin base or legal double-talk. It's all in very plain English. If you're asking who would make the final decision on an issue—if it ever got that far—Governor Raines and half a dozen people whose names were pulled out of a hat.”

“Well, that's the damnedest form of law I ever heard of in my life!” Larry Spain said.

“I'm sure that's true,” Roisseau said. “But what is important is that it works for us.” He walked back into his office, closing the door.

Moments later, the medics came in and looked at Barney. They said he had a split lip, several bruises, a slightly damaged eardrum—nothing serious—and a severely deflated ego. They sat him in a chair, told him to check into any clinic if he began experiencing dizzy spells, patted him on the head, told him to watch his mouth, and left, chuckling.

“Very simple society we have here,” a reporter observed. “Live and let live, all the while respecting the rights of others who do the same. Very basic.”

“And very unconstitutional,” another remarked.

“I wonder,” Judith mused aloud. “I just wonder if it is.”

“Oh, come now, Judith,” Clayton said, shaking his head. “The entire debate is superfluous. There is no government of Tri-states. It doesn't exist. The government of the United States doesn't recognize it. It just doesn't 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?”