The old man sighed. They say the crown weighs heavy on the head of a king. He was the SOMA—the title given to him forty years ago when he became the supreme commander and administrator of the Southern Oklahoma Militia. He was the king of the rebels, the absolute monarch of the revolutionary powers at war with Transport on New Pennsylvania. His authority was unquestioned, even by the members of the Council. He had the power to dissolve the Council with a wave of his hand—and every Councilor would happily obey him and be glad to be rid of the responsibility. He was the one who’d insisted on a governing council to begin with. There were no challengers to his power, no loyal opposition. He enjoyed complete support, which was something unheard of except in times of war. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that his universal approval would ever last past the war. But for now, the authority—and the responsibility—were fully his. That knowledge would have been crippling to a lesser man.
He had never asked for either the office or the power. Both had been thrust on him against his will, and he was not ignorant of the fact that in everything he did, he was watched—studied—on every side. And now, everyone was looking to see how he handled this business with his brother. They expected a miracle. Or they expected him to sacrifice his brother for the greater good—something horrific to imagine, but glorious and selfless just the same. Or they expected him to magically save his brother while using the opportunity to deal a crushing blow to the enemy. They all just expected these things, although no one offered him any comfort or solace—or advice as to how such miracles might come to pass.
He was an old man now, and tired. He’d tried to resign several times, but the council would never accept his resignation again while the war with Transport raged. Abdication? He’d tried that too, only to watch as the resistance faltered, headless and unable to maintain and extend the victories he’d given them over the many decades of battle. His retirement had lasted all of a month before he’d been re-drafted by universal mandate and forced back into power.
An ensign, a recruit, young and without any of the physical or mental scars of war, walked up to the SOMA and snapped to attention. “A moment, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“A report on Jedediah Troyer, sir.”
“I said go ahead.”
A slight nod. “According to intercepted signals coming from Transport, he is on the verge of being captured at any moment.”
The SOMA flinched. “Captured?”
“The TRACE team has been unsuccessful in getting him to the Amish Zone, and they’ve been engaged by a superior force in the No Man’s Land west of the City.”
“Do we have any larger units nearby that can engage?”
Now it was the young soldier’s turn to grimace. “Yes… sir, we have.”
The SOMA stared at the young recruit. “And why haven’t they been activated?”
“Based on the situation on the ground, they wouldn’t be able to guarantee the safety of your brother, sir.”
(15
NO MAN’S LAND
Jedediah Troyer screwed up his face in disgust. His sense of decency rebelled against the foulness of this man who’d captured him, this salvager who had dragged him from the wreckage of the airbus. The savage was chewing on some greenish vegetative concoction, and slobber ran down his beard and clumped in slobbery globules near the bottom of his lip.
“What the—”
The salvager cut Jed off before he could get the question out. “Being shut yourself, boy.”
More thick, mucusy goo dripped from the man’s beard as he earnestly chewed the wad of greenery.
Jed inhaled carefully, hissing, hoping not to catch a whiff of anything floating his way from the wild Englischer. “I just have to know what you’re chewing and why.”
“Shutting yourself.”
“That’s just not right,” Jed said, “and you’re making me sick having to watch you.”
“Don’t watching me then.”
Jed tried to look away, but he couldn’t for long. “Seriously, what are you chewing?”
The salvager glanced at Jed and exhaled in frustration. A large quantity of greenish viscous material flew out in various directions with his breath.
“Tobac.”
Jed furrowed his brow. “Tobacco?”
“Yes. Tobac.”
Again, Jed tried to look away, but it was like trying to not watch when his father had to pull a calf from a heifer giving birth for the first time. “Sir, you’re doing it all wrong,” Jed said.
“Shutting yourself. Being chew the tobac, and you shutting. That is all.”
“Listen, you. Whatever your name is…”
“Goa Eeguls.”
Jed hesitated. He stared at the salvager, expecting the man to explain, or at least repeat himself. The chewing had stopped for a moment. “Your… your name is Boll Weevils?”
“No. Not being boll weevils, stinking cronad. Name being Goa Eeguls. GOA. EEGULS.” He paused for effect. “Goa. Eeguls.” Pause. “Goa. Eeguls. Being understood?”
Jed narrowed his eyes and tried it. “Goa Eeguls.”
The salvager nodded his head and pointed at himself. “Goa Eeguls.”
“Is this name from your own language?” Jed asked. “Because you almost speak English, albeit poorly. Is Goa Eeguls a family name or something?”
The salvager shook his head and reached into his rough tunic—a filthy, handmade overcoat consisting of animal skins from indeterminate creatures mended here and there by reclaimed patchwork cloth. Withdrawing his hand, he produced an ancient green hand towel, and on it Jed could see a picture and some faded words. The picture he recognized. He’d seen it before, on the shirts and coats of some of the English tourists who would stop in front of the farm in airbuses and buy the Troyers’ baskets, vegetables, and furniture. The image on the towel was of something called a “football helmet.”
Football, like all major sports, was a game played at one time by the English in large stadiums all across the land. That was before the wars came and changed the world. After the wars, private travel was banned and large gatherings of people became magnets for terrorist bombs. Eventually—according to what Jed had learned from the elders and by rumor—the sporting events became available only via television, with the games and players manufactured artificially by computers. According to the English, the winners were supposedly determined secretly and fairly by private accounting firms using complicated data modeling. According to the elders, the whole thing was a sham, with the games being created and distributed by big entertainment corporations in order to keep the sheep occupied while they were being sheared. Bread and circuses.
Jed had seen a football once when he and his father took an airbus to Cruville to bid on some farmland. English children had been throwing the oblong ball back and forth in the park. One of the children would catch the ball and take off running, and all the other children would chase him and wrestle him to the ground and pounce up and down on him like wild beasts. To Jed, as a boy, it all looked like great fun.