Pacifica

By Richard C. Deason

In this adventurous dystopian science fiction book, readers are thrust into a family struggling to persevere through complex events. An angry mob’s attack signals the end of a life built together. Anne and Tom Ryan are overwhelmed by their son's disappearance and forced to reevaluate all their preconceptions about freedom.

David Ryan thought he knew what freedom meant, but now he’s accused of kidnapping, sabotage, piracy, and terrorism by arguably the freest government in the world, the United States. And now the United States government has made the fight for freedom personal. David’s parents, Anne and Tom, are held in custody by the U.S. government.

Is David really a terrorist? Or is he on the precipice opening people's eyes to the true meaning of freedom and a better existence? Can his friends extricate his parents, or will their very existence be threatened?

Why does a small group of islands in the south pacific trouble the U.S. government so much? What do its advanced medical and life-extension technologies mean for humanity? Is it the start of an insurrection or the promise of incredible opportunity?

Fans of dystopian science fiction and good fiction books will wrestle with the idea of freedom. However, they may just learn that applying guiding principles alone is not enough and that an ethical code is required to guide one's actions for one’s own life.

Author, Richard C. Deason, engages fans of fiction books and utopian fiction with relatable characters who are principled but open to checking their premises and exploring or even accepting new concepts when they are judged to be rational.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 10, 2006
• ISBN: 9781463476175

Richard C. Deason

            Richard C. Deason graduated from UCLA with a double major in Economics and Political Science.  He served four years in the US Navy, then returned to UCLA to complete his MBA.   After working for several years in international banking, during which he traveled extensively in North and South America, Europe, and the Middle East, he took two years off to begin working on Pacifica.  Since then he has held a variety of positions in community banking, software development, accounting, and the credit card industry while he worked to complete his novel.  Mr. Deason has also written a play, several short stories, and some poetry.  He currently resides in the Los Angeles area.

Book preview

Part I

HILLSDALE

Chapter One

The crash of shattering glass brought Anne running toward the living room, but Bob’s strong arm caught her at the doorway and held her back. Just a minute, Mom, he said. It might be dangerous. Let me see what’s going on first. The indistinct rhythm of chanting voices reached their ears. Anne remained motionless as Bob stepped out into the room.

Another crash exploded through the silence inside the house. Mother what’s happening? Anne jumped and inhaled audibly at her daughter’s unexpected presence.

I think it’s started again—the trouble, she managed, catching her breath. Wait here. Bob has gone to investigate.

When Bob reappeared in the doorway, his face was drawn tight with concern. There’s a crowd of about thirty or thirty-five. They’re shouting and throwing rocks. Two of the front windows have been broken so far. Carol, go call your Dad and tell him what’s happening. Mom, let’s be sure all the doors are locked—whatever good that’ll do. I’ve already checked the front door. We’ll meet in the kitchen as soon as we’re done. Whatever you do, watch out for the windows!

Anne and Bob quickly made their rounds of the sprawling ranch-style house, latching windows as well as doors in an attempt to gain some sense of security out of an obviously futile gesture. No sooner had they dropped into chairs at the kitchen table than Carol burst in panting. I’ve tried and tried, she blurted, but the calls won’t go through.

Bob swore. I’ll bet they’ve cut the lines again.

No. I got a tone. It’s just that when I punched in the number, nothing happened.

Damn phone system anyway! It gets worse everyday.

That’s not the phone system, Anne said quietly. It’s intentional. They’re not letting the call go through. Probably just to scare us.

Well, they’re doing a good job of it, Carol breathed nervously. What’s going on anyway? What started all this?

Can’t you guess? Bob snipped as he tossed the morning paper toward her.

David? What’s he...? Carol didn’t need to finish. The headlines screamed her answer:

RYAN RENEGADES STRIKE AGAIN

Below which was:

COLLABORATORS IDENTIFIED; ARRESTS SOON

Carol began studying the article. Oh, no! This is the worst yet.

They all started as another explosion shattered the gloom. Yes, it is, Anne confirmed emphatically. A note of fear crept into her voice. I wish Tom were here.

The shouts outside drifted more clearly through the broken windows. Collaborators! they barked. We want justice! Death to all traitors!

What do they mean here? Carol asked. ‘...acts of terrorism and aggression against the Republic.’ What kind of acts?

Read on, Bob encouraged flippantly. As near as I can tell, they mean piracy, smuggling, sabotage, and kidnapping. Apparently he’s linked to similar kinds of things in East America and California, as well.

But David wouldn’t do that, she protested.

Bob shrugged. You know your brother. I don’t. I’ve never met him. But obviously, he’s doing something. Do you think they’re just making it up?

I don’t know. Maybe they are.

Come on, Carol. This is Texas. The press isn’t controlled here like it is in East America. You don’t know. You haven’t even seen David in...what—twenty years? He could have changed a lot in that time.

She shook her head. No, not David. Whatever he’s done, he had a good reason.

Bob caught the flash of a tenacious devotion in her sharp brown eyes, and his tone softened. I know you loved him. He reached over and stroked the silken auburn hair that fell over her high, smoothly tanned cheekbones. But...look, sweetheart, David’s human just like the rest of us. People are people. They can change. Especially with the world the way it is now. Remembering Anne’s presence, he turned to her and said, I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t mean to be harsh. It’s just that I get upset when I see what he’s putting this family through. He’s out there doing God knows what, while we’re here working our butts off just trying to scrape out some kind of existence in all this...this craziness. I just can’t help thinking he’s got to know what it’s doing to us.

Anne and Carol remained silent. As they listened, the incessant clamor outside grew steadily louder, until Bob frowned and rose from the table. Maybe I’d better go take another look. It sounds like it may be getting worse.

Just be careful, Carol urged. Bob nodded tensely and walked out of the room.

* * *

Tom Ryan sat behind the large mahogany desk in his office staring at the wide columnar sheets in front of him. For over an hour, he had been trying to force himself to work, but without success. Just don’t think about it, he had told himself. It’s only numbers on paper, just an impersonal business audit. The people behind the numbers are irrelevant. So what if they had struggled hard to build the business? So what if they had run it reliably for over forty years, through good times and bad? So what if it had been their whole life? So what if they had been his best friends? Tom was no longer trying to force himself to work. He was trying to force himself not to cry.

Slowly, he became aware of the buzzer on his intercom. Yes, Sally, what is it?

Mr. Smathers is here to see you, Mr. Ryan.

Tom groaned in spite of himself. He was in no mood to deal with Smathers today. But a personal visit from the local Rights Commissioner was a rarity and usually portended something important. Please show him in, he said at last.

Tom! It’s a pleasure to see you, Smathers effused in a heavy drawl as his corpulent six-foot-four figure bounded into the office. Sorry to bust in on you like this without an appointment, but I do have a couple of urgent matters to discuss with you, and the telephone is so impersonal. Tom shook his thick, clammy hand, and Smathers eased into a chair. I must say, I was afraid I wouldn’t find you in. What with this mornin’s news stories and the trouble you had last time, I thought you might have stayed home. His fleshy pink face oozed into a scowl of concern. How’s the family doing? I do hope they’re holdin’ up okay.

They’re fine, Tom replied as pleasantly as he could. My son-in-law stayed home today, and I left them with strict instructions to call if there was any trouble. But so far, I haven’t heard anything. I’ll give them a call in a little while just to check.

Good idea, Smathers nodded. People are quite upset, you know. They’re in an ugly mood, and they’re demandin’ action. There’re already reports of disturbances around the city. No tellin’ what they’ll do. The police had enough trouble controllin’ the demonstrations last time. He sighed heavily, then drawled on. Yes, sir. I would hate to be in your shoes. It’s got to be tough. Why, you know, we’ve already received a dozen calls this mornin’ threatenin’ all kinds of violence if we approve any more of your transactions.

How are you handling it? Tom asked warily.

Well, sir, I don’t rightly know. We’re goin’ to have a special Council meetin’ this afternoon to talk about it. I know that some of the members are pretty concerned.

About what? Tom was becoming angry. You know I’ve always fulfilled my commitments, fully and on time. You have no reason to question me on that.

Now, now, Tom, Smathers soothed. Of course I know. You’ve performed admirably. And I’ll do what I can. But, y’know, we have a duty to the citizens. As part of our mandate to protect the rights of the people, the Rights Council has the responsibility of ensurin’ that the contracts and transactions we approve are fair and equitable to both sides. That means we have to judge the character of the persons involved. It’s the law. Now, if the members of the Council had reason to believe that a person might be aidin’ a criminal, especially a traitor tryin’ to overthrow the Republic, it would be their moral and legal duty to raise questions about his character and to disapprove any dealin’s with him.

But, Willard, you have no evidence to suggest....

"Now, just hold on, Tom. I’m not sayin’ that applies to you. I know you’re not involved. But there are people who think you are. They know you’re opposed to some of the Republic’s policies, and they think you’re at least sympathetic to David’s actions. The Council has to be sensitive to the public’s concern. Surely you can agree that we can’t have people thinkin’ the Council is helpin’ a traitor. It would destroy our credibility. We would all be thrown out.

Listen, Tom. Rest assured that I’ll use my full influence in your behalf. But I’ll be honest. If they ask me how I’m so sure that you’re not involved, I’ll have to tell them it’s because you told me so and I’ve known you long enough to have complete faith in your honesty. You’ll have to admit, that’s not much evidence for them. Fact is, they’re liable to laugh me right out of the Council. It’s goin’ to be tough, real tough. But, don’t worry. I’ll stick by you to the end.

Is that what you came to talk to me about? Tom’s voice was hard.

Tom, Tom. Relax. Nothin’s been decided yet. Who knows, it might work out fine. And look, even if the worst happened, you’ve got friends. I’m sure the government would work somethin’ out for you. You’ll be taken care of. Don’t worry. Tom didn’t respond, and Smathers continued, Oh, by the way. How are you coming on the Carpenter audit?

Tom’s tone didn’t change. I told Brad yesterday, I would get it out as soon as I could. And I will. You can tell him that this constant badgering will only slow things down.

No, no, Tom. You misunderstand me, Smathers crooned affably. Why, I told Brad that I simply didn’t believe you were draggin’ your feet, that I had complete confidence in your dedication to the job. I just wanted to check for myself, so that when Austin calls, I have the facts. That’s all. You understand the importance of this. I mean, of course Brad is anxious to get this wrapped up. The whole thing is very embarrassin’ for him, and indirectly, for the administration, too. You know how things are in Austin these days. Brad’s got to protect his position. He can be very helpful to us here in Hillsdale. We don’t want to jeopardize that, do we? He needs our support.

Tell him not to worry, Tom rejoined. He’ll get his inheritance.

Smathers ignored the disdain and smiled broadly. Well of course, that’s not his primary concern. But you’ll have to admit, he did a lot to help his father. In a way, he earned that inheritance. Why, without Brad’s intervention, the old man wouldn’t even have had a business, what with his refusal to go along with the new policies and his black market activities. John was an ornery old cuss. But young Brad did his duty by him. He stuck his neck out more than once to get the old man out of scrapes with the law.

To protect his own...job.

Of course he had to protect his career, Smathers allowed as though no alternative were conceivable. You can’t blame him for that. He worked hard for what he’s achieved. He couldn’t allow that to be screwed up just because his father was a malcontent. You know, Tom, you underestimate Brad. Oh, I know he’s a little impatient at times. But he really thinks a lot of you. He recognizes the calmin’ influence you had on his father, and he appreciates all the cooperation and good advice you’ve provided.

What choice did I have?

Smathers looked astonished. Why, Tom. You had any choice you wanted. After all, this is a free country. But, I must admit, I’m a little surprised at you. I would have thought you were delighted to help Brad after all he’s done for you. He’s gone out of his way to keep your family out of the middle in all this trouble with David. Without his help, you could have had a pretty rough time.

I didn’t realize that was a special privilege. I always thought it was the function of the government to protect its citizens in a time of trouble.

Why, so it is. So it is, Smathers intoned unctuously. But that duty is to all the citizens. This is a democracy, after all. The government embodies the will of the people. It has to be aware of the competin’ rights and interests of its constituents and take actions that benefit all of society. That means it has to make hard decisions, especially in times like these where the people perceive a serious threat to their safety and well bein’. I mean, passions can run high, and people can make mistakes. They’re only human, after all. That’s why it’s so important to have someone in the right place who can watch out for you and help you when you need it. Smathers smiled reassuringly. Tom, believe me, Brad is your friend. Whatever happens, just do what he says. Be assured that he’s lookin’ out for you and your family. He paused for emphasis. Tom made no attempt to speak, and Smathers resumed brightly, Now, let’s talk about the audit. Where do we stand?

After a moment, Tom leaned forward and looked at the sheets on his desk. He spoke in a dry, statistical monotone. All the field work is done. I have the preliminary statements and work sheets right here. I have to go through all the numbers and verify procedures, then I’ll be prepared to write my opinion.

When do you expect to have it done?

Tom hesitated and looked up at Smathers. That’s hard to say right now, he said slowly. Why don’t you give me a call this afternoon after your Council meeting. I should have a better idea by then.

I see. Smathers chuckled softly. Fine, fine, I’ll do that. He slapped the arms of his chair. Well! he exclaimed cheerfully as he pulled himself to his feet. I’ve taken enough of your time, Tom. I better let you get back to work. He shook Tom’s hand warmly and started toward the door. Then, he stopped abruptly and turned back. You know, it’s really curious, isn’t it, about old John Carpenter? I mean, here he is with a successful business, a nice home, a son who’s important in government—he has everything goin’ for him, then all of a sudden he just blows up. Smathers shook his head. No, sir. It just doesn’t make any sense. You were his good friend. Do you have any clue as to what happened?

Tom dropped his head and replied with a deep sadness. No, I don’t. He was very despondent during the last couple of years, but he wouldn’t talk to a soul. He sighed heavily. It was as much a shock to me as to anyone.

Well, he always was sort of crazy. I guess he just finally went off the deep end. It was really strange, though. After he holed himself up in the house and started shootin’, they brought Brad over to try to talk to him. But he wouldn’t listen. He just started yellin’. At first, it was just insults, but then he said somethin’ very interestin’. He said that Brad wasn’t half the man his brother was and wouldn’t ever be. Now what do you suppose he meant by that? I thought Skip—that was his name wasn’t it—Skip? I thought Skip had disappeared somewhere in California several years ago and hadn’t been heard from since. Do you have any idea what he was talkin’ about?

A...are you sure? gaped Tom in surprise. I never heard that. I don’t remember seeing anything like that in the paper.

Smathers waved it off with his hand. Oh, we couldn’t allow that to be printed. It wasn’t newsworthy and it could only have served to hurt some people. But there was more. He said to Brad, he said, ‘David’s goin’ to get you. You can be sure of that. David’s goin’ to get all of you.’ Just like that. Then he started shootin’ wildly. Now why would he say that, I wonder?

Tom stared at Smathers in complete astonishment. At length, he stammered, I...I don’t know. The only thing I can think of is that he used to be very fond of David. They were a lot alike, he and David. Tom was quiet for a moment before he continued thoughtfully, I remember, when David was in high school, and even later when he would come home from college, the two of them would spend hours together in John’s study talking philosophy and politics. Then at one point—it was shortly before David went away for the last time—John became very upset with David. I never was sure why; John wouldn’t talk about it and David said it was just a philosophical disagreement. Tom shrugged. We all had disagreements with David’s philosophy. His ideas were a little out of the mainstream, to say the least. But he was young and hot under the collar, so I didn’t think much about it. But then, when all the trouble began—when his activities first started to become public, John got extremely angry. He said David had thrown away a perfectly good career—David had had a good position at the time with an engineering consulting firm out in California. Anyway, he said David had thrown away his career and was going to get himself killed for no reason—for something he couldn’t do anything about. I never saw John so agitated. I mean, we were all very upset, of course. But there was an anger, an intensity in John that seemed way out of proportion. After that, he just clammed up. Never talked about David again, and would leave the room if the name was even mentioned. Tom shook his head in bewilderment. That’s it. You know as much as I do from there.

What about Skip? Did he ever mention Skip?

No. Not after Skip’s last visit. Skip had followed David to college in California and only rarely came back to Hillsdale. On his last visit, he and John apparently had a big fight. Skip returned to California, and as far as I know, they never saw each other again.

Smathers stroked his chin pensively. Hm, the old man seems to have had more interest in David than in either of his own sons.

I don’t know about that, Tom said. But I did get the impression sometimes that he envied me for being David’s father.

Well, that’s all very interestin’, Smathers noted, abruptly returning to his normal jovial demeanor. But I really mustn’t disturb you further, Tom. I know you want to call your family and get on with your work. Thank you for allowin’ me to interrupt your busy schedule. I’m sure I’ll be talkin’ to you later. Goodbye. With that, he smiled widely, nodded and left the office.

Tom stood looking after him for several moments, then turned to the phone. He yanked up the receiver and punched out a number, but nothing happened. He pressed the cutoff and tried again. Still nothing. Damn phone system anyway, he exclaimed. He hit a button on the intercom and to his secretary’s answer, said, Sally, I can’t seem to get through to my home. Would you try to get my wife, please, and put her through to me?

Right away, Mr. Ryan.

Tom switched off the speaker and stared out the window. Heavy gray clouds hung ominously over a colorless turmoil of jutting treetops and rooftops which gradually subsided in the smoother swells of leaden hills beyond. The density of billowing foliage was the only indication that this wasn’t an icy, mid-winter day. The office itself seemed suddenly to sway with the scene outside, and its surging ebb and flow thrust up through Tom’s body and pounded the bulwarks of his mind with an influx of competing thoughts. His career was now gone, his family was under constant threats, his life was a shambles, his friend.... Tom’s slim six-foot frame sank back into the softness of his large leather chair. He couldn’t think of those things now. He had to hold them back. For his own sanity, he had to keep them dammed out. But the tide became stronger and more turbulent. And through it all, one name kept surfacing, then submerging, then resurfacing again, as the embodiment of the central current, the unifying thrust, the controlling direction around which all other considerations swirled. John, his friend. Oh, don’t think about it, he scolded himself aloud. But the dam could no longer hold. His life-long friend was dead.

The memories deluged him with the force of a raging torrent. John Carpenter at five, at eight, at twelve—fifteen—nineteen. It was all as clear as though it had happened yesterday. They had grown up together right there in Hillsdale—best buddies from pre-school through high school. Then Tom had gone to the University and John, to SMU. But they still kept in touch, even managing weekends together from time to time in either Austin or Dallas.

John was the flamboyant one, the exuberant rebel, the fun-loving prankster. But a prankster with a purpose. He never tired of asking the question, Why? It was a habit that particularly annoyed his parents and friends, especially as they seldom had a good answer. When they would finally get fed up and hurl the question back at him, John would throw his head back and laugh—then answer the question precisely.

By contrast, Tom had always been serious—the tenacious scholar, the hard working student who never missed a detail. It was a quality that fascinated John. No matter how complex the problem, Tom could always work it out to the last logical connection. His love for puzzles and mysteries was renowned. And much to the irritation of his fellow students, he always skewed the grading curve upward in his math and English courses.

Together, they were a deadly pair. Tom thrilled at John’s ingenuity and capacity for enjoyment, while John was amazed at Tom’s ability to quickly grasp the implications of any new idea. John was the innovator, the creator; Tom was the practitioner, the implementer. John saw the big picture; Tom saw how to make it work. Their best pranks were perfect integrations of John’s ideas and Tom’s planning.

Tom had always known that he would return to Hillsdale. It was his home, the place where he was comfortable. Here he could happily pursue his accounting career among people he knew and respected. He wasn’t a dreamer or crusader like John. He knew he couldn’t conquer the world, and he didn’t have to. Hillsdale was his context; accounting was his purpose. Hillsdale embodied the values he had learned in church and school. Accounting let him use all his powers of logical thought. Hillsdale provided security, accounting provided joy and a sense of achievement.

The day he learned of John’s plans to return to Hillsdale and open a hardware store, Tom was horrified. John the visionary, John the white knight, the man of passion, of ambition and excitement, was going to run a hardware store? In Hillsdale? He couldn’t believe it! John was supposed to go to Dallas, or Houston, or even New York. He was destined to be a large contractor, or an oil magnate, or maybe chairman of IBM. How could he do this? Why was he doing it? For the first time in Tom’s life, the question Why? had a personal meaning.

John’s response was totally unexpected: "You’re going back to Hillsdale? But why? My God, man! You’re so logical and practical. You can do anything you want, anywhere you want. Look at me. I couldn’t possibly hope to do what you can do. I’m just an idealist, a dreamer. I want to live in a world that doesn’t exist. Reality isn’t like that. I’ve got to be practical. Hillsdale offers me the opportunity to build a good life away from the threat of competition from the real brains—the pragmatists, the people like you."

But what about challenge, excitement, a sense of satisfaction? Won’t you miss that?

John laughed. Not his usual hearty laugh, but a different laugh. One Tom had never heard. It had an undertone Tom could not identify. An undertone that left him cold. "Tom, I’ve always been so frivolous, always out for a good time. I just figured the world should be fun and exciting. But it’s time to grow up. I have a responsibility, a duty to raise a family and help build a community. I’ve got to get serious about the world, like you.

Look, if I can be successful in the hardware store, maybe add a couple of other businesses along the way, I’ll have a comfortable life and I’ll have contributed something. Then I’ll have my sense of satisfaction. He winked at Tom and shrugged. Besides, I can still have fun. There’re my friends in Hillsdale. And San Antonio is only forty minutes away.

Tom’s protests were to no avail. John had an answer to every Why? But the answers were not complete. Tom sensed there was something missing, but he had no idea what it was. He was elated to know that John would still be around, but at the same time it was almost...frightening. But, why? What was he missing? And why was it so important that he find out? For the second time in Tom’s life, the question Why? had a personal meaning.

The question flamed in his mind for days, and even months, afterward. But slowly as the years passed, it died down to a forgotten ember, buried under the ashes of day-to-day cares and responsibilities. Occasionally it would flare up again, fueled by a new idea or fanned by a fresh observation. But the intensifying chill of the world around him would quickly extinguish it and again inter it in the gray residue of its most recent conflagration.

Tom met Anne in his sophomore year at the University. John met Marion a year later. They were married in a joint ceremony right after the two men graduated. The women mirrored what each man found admirable in the other, but they had their own distinct personalities. Anne was sunshine itself, from her fiery strawberry hair and glowing white skin to the brilliant gaiety of her laughter. Her dazzling blue-white eyes and her incandescent enthusiasm radiated warmth and energy. She had John’s flair for imagination and joy, but it was tempered by a judicious practicality and determination. She was a perfect match for Tom, a blend of uninhibited originality and diligence that gave her a full appreciation of Tom’s love for logic and order and his admiration for John’s good-humored zeal.

Marion was the flip side of Anne. She was down-to-earth and hard headed, yet she thrived on fun and excitement. John was her idol, and she labored tirelessly to help him bring his ideas into reality. Together, they established the hardware store through long hours of hard work, and later, they added a lumber business and a farm equipment dealership which provided them a very comfortable existence for several years—until external events began to intrude.

They weathered the first recessions well. But when the downturns became longer and deeper, when the recoveries became no more than lulls in the general decline, John and Marion found it increasingly difficult to make ends meet, despite their fairly insulated local economy. Transportation delays and materials shortages began to interrupt their supplies with greater frequency, while local bankruptcies forced write-offs, extended payment terms to their customers, and lost them sales. Finally, when the August Insurrection engulfed the cities of the midwest and east, they were cut off from their suppliers completely.

Their response was to work harder and longer, and by sheer tenacity and the strictest dependability, they held the business together. Fortunately, Texas and the far West were largely unaffected by the Insurrection, and when trade agreements were finalized between the California Group and Texas, the Carpenters were able to replenish some of their depleted inventory. But by then, they had gone through most of their savings and mortgaged their house just to keep things afloat.

At the same time, Tom’s accounting firm flourished. In prosperity or in liquidation, businesses had to be audited, taxes had to be calculated, statements had to be prepared, and government reports had to be filed. The deterioration around them and the panicked, haphazard attempts to do something confronted people with a profusion of new rules and regulations, new forms and reports, which put Tom’s skills in logic and detail greatly in demand. And sorely tested them, for it was no longer enough to know what the rules were, but whose rules were to be followed. Confusion reigned as the country was rapidly disintegrating into a multiplicity of bickering -archies and -ocracies, each proclaiming to have ultimate solutions which it proposed to institute by some variation on the well-worn theme, brute physical force.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the Kansas City Accord was signed and the Texas Republic was constituted, but the relief was short-lived. It quickly became apparent that the economic difficulties were not going to subside, and that over and above these was a completely new set of political problems. Tariffs and trade restrictions were immediately enacted by each of the new Autonomous Commonwealths, as were a wide variety of internal tax and regulatory schemes. The result was a series of trade and rhetoric wars which closed some borders for a short time, but never evolved into actual fighting, largely because the only Commonwealths with Peace Forces of any size were East America, Texas, and California. Texas and California already had a working agreement, and East America was still embroiled in trying to restore order and begin some sort of reconstruction in the aftermath of the Insurrection.

The Carpenters now faced an entirely new situation. To get supplies, they had to deal with the new government-created Purchasing Cooperatives, which had been established to ensure equal access to such goods by all Texas businesses. They also had to have their business and property registered with the Rights Office, which was set up to secure the protection of property rights, and they had to have each transaction approved by a local Rights Council, which Councils were instituted to protect citizens from being out-negotiated by unscrupulous operators. There were fees for all of these services, and since participation was a privilege, the participant had to demonstrate that he was a good citizen of sound moral character. Of course, in practice, the system meant that those who knew and supported the right people were the most equally protected.

John was irate. He had built the business up on his own efforts and knew he didn’t need the protection that was offered. Over Tom’s strenuous objections, John refused to participate, which was his legal right since the system was voluntary. However, he quickly found that the black market alternative was unreliable and very risky. When he finally faced the inevitable and tried to join the Cooperative, he was informed that dealing on the black market was prima facie evidence of poor citizenship and low character and that it would be very difficult for him to be admitted unless he got good references, which were not cheap.

Help arrived from an unexpected, and not altogether welcome, source. John’s son Brad had just received an important promotion into the Rights Office in Austin for his loyal and active support of the new Texas administration. As Brad had frequently felt embarrassed by his father’s often open hostility to what the government was trying to do, he now saw an opportunity to bring prosperity back to the family and at the same time to eliminate his father as a thorn in the side of his career. With that in mind, he drove to Hillsdale for a weekend with his parents, during which John and he spent several hours together locked away in the study. Tom was never sure what had been discussed in that meeting, but the results had been dramatic. Within a week, John was accepted into the Purchasing Cooperative, and his business began to pick up almost immediately thereafter.

In hardly any time at all, John and Marion were back on their feet. The mortgage was paid down and their savings had been fully restored. However, a substantial change had come over John. Suddenly, the man of radiance was only a reflection, and in the place of the old enthusiasm smoldered an amorphous melancholy, which seemed to deepen in direct proportion to the increasing success of the business. Occasionally, when the Ryans and Carpenters would get together, the old humor would flare up and John’s eyes would sparkle their old, familiar impishness. But such outbursts were brief, and as quickly as it had come, the enthusiasm would wane and his features would again be consumed in a heavy, ashen pall.

Tom tried desperately to rekindle some of the passion he had loved so much. But John’s only response was to withdraw further into the unreachable nether world to which he had condemned himself. His dismal visage darkened steadily, until at last, Tom was convinced that his motive force had burned itself out completely, leaving the mechanical reactions of his body as the sole remaining evidence of life. But enough fire was left to generate one last eruption, one final explosion of anger and defiance. And now John was dead, drowned in the steely reality of a deluge of bullets.

Tom was slumped in his chair, arms hanging limply at his side. Graying strands of formerly black hair hung across his forehead, and the spark in his piercing hazel eyes had dimmed. The angular face that was normally alive with the glow of a healthy Southwest bronze now drooped in the dark shadow of exhaustion. All his energy was gone, drained away by the receding flow of his recollections. Tom suddenly felt every one of his sixty-six years. He was beginning to comprehend the utter hopelessness that John must have felt, he thought. But then something rebelled. He shook his head vigorously and with the utmost effort, succeeded in drawing himself upright in the chair. No, he couldn’t let go, not now, not like John. He had to be strong, for his family’s sake if not for his own. They depended on him. He wouldn’t fail in his obligation to them.

Suddenly, he heard the voice of his secretary as though from a great distance. He looked up, startled to find her standing in his half-opened doorway. She peered at him anxiously from a pallid face. Mr. Ryan, she called out urgently, Mr. Ryan, are you okay?

Oh, Sally, Tom began, still a bit dazed. Yes, yes, I’m fine.

Don’t scare me like that, Mr. Ryan. Didn’t you hear the intercom? I buzzed and buzzed, but you didn’t answer.

I’m sorry, Sally. I didn’t hear it. I guess I was lost in thought. What is it?

Your wife, you asked me to call your wife. Her voice was tense. I tried several times, but the calls wouldn’t go through. Finally, I called the phone company, and they said service had been interrupted to that area because of trouble, but they couldn’t tell me what it was. So I called the police. All they would tell me is that there had been some demonstrations around town, and that certain areas had been cordoned off. But the radio is talking about riots and property damage. Mr. Ryan, I don’t know what’s going on!

Tom was on his feet, pulling on his suit coat. Sally, I won’t be back in the office today, and I don’t know if I’ll be in tomorrow. As soon as I can, I’ll call you. In the meantime, please turn over any urgent matters to the other partners.

Sally acknowledged the instructions, and Tom rushed out of the office. As he waited impatiently for an elevator to arrive, his mind raced with the steps he would take in logical order to get to his house and protect his family. All his emotions were gone, and in their place was a heightened awareness of his every sense perception. Every object, every thought, every action had a seeming double reality to it, a vividness that occurs only at times of great stress. The only thoughts in Tom’s mind now were those necessary to his immediate goal, to the actions required to ensure his family’s future. One such thought kept nagging at him, insistently trying to break through all the others. At first he tried to ignore it. But finally as though with a will of its own, it burst through in a flash of blinding light. It wasn’t so much an idea as a question—the question. David was gone—why? John was dead—why? Tom’s career was finished—why? His family was under siege—why? He suddenly knew he had to find the answer, and that the same answer held the key to all those events. And for the third time in Tom’s life, the question Why? had a personal meaning. Only this time, quite possibly his life, and the lives of his family, depended on the answer.

Chapter Two

The crowd has grown to well over fifty, and it’s still growing, Bob exclaimed breathlessly as he hurried back into the kitchen.

What happened to your arm!? Carol cried out, pointing to the red trickle running down Bob’s thick upper arm.

Oh, that’s nothing. Just some flying glass. The living room is a disaster. There’s glass all over everything. Several more windows have been broken.

Yes, we heard. It sounded like some were broken back in the bedrooms, as well, Anne asserted. What’s going on? Are they moving toward the house?

Bob ran a large hand through his tousled black hair and sat down at the table. He was a big man, standing well over six feet, but strong and in excellent condition. He had lost almost none of the hardness in his muscles since his football days in college over twenty years before. His blue eyes were intense as Carol dampened a rag and began applying it gingerly to his cut. It’s strange, but they’re just chanting and throwing rocks from the sidewalk. They don’t seem to be inclined to approach the house. I tried to get right up to the window and look up the street. I just caught a glimpse of a vehicle parked at the curb a couple of houses over that looked like a police van, but about that time, the crowd saw me in the window and started screaming louder and hurling rocks. That’s how I got this. He indicated his arm by moving his elbow forward.

Careful, admonished Carol. I’m trying to wash it out. I better go get some antiseptic and a Band-Aid. I’ll be right back.

No, Carol. Stay right here. Bob was adamant. It’s just a scratch. It’ll be okay.

But it’s still bleeding a little. Here, at least hold this tissue over it until it stops.

Bob complied, then resumed speaking to Anne. Now why would the police stand by and watch them destroy the house? If it was just a demonstration, maybe I could understand. But they’re doing damage.

The uproar outside seemed to grow suddenly louder, and several windows were heard to shatter at once. The three of them jumped up from the table and bolted for the front room. Bob reached it first and blocked the doorway with his big frame. He needed only one glance through the gaping hole that had been a large picture window at the front of the house. Get back! he ordered. They’re charging the house. We better get the hell out of here. Quick, let’s try to get out the back.

But where will we go? Carol cried. We can’t get far on foot.

If we can get down the alley, I have a key to the Carpenters’ house, Anne returned calmly. The house has been closed up since the...uh, shoot-out. If we’re careful, we should be able to stay there unnoticed for quite awhile.

Good, let’s go, Bob declared. Where’s the key?

In a drawer in the kitchen, Anne replied as she pivoted back through the doorway. In seconds, she had retrieved the key, but as they turned to go, a loud banging on the back door wrenched gasps from all three of them.

Oh, my God, we’re surrounded! Carol yelped.

Just a minute, Bob commanded as he headed for a side doorway leading from the kitchen. Let me take a look out the dining room window.

The banging was repeated, but this time a voice was heard calling out Anne’s name. It’s Tom! Anne and Bob yelped simultaneously. Anne threw open the door and ran into Tom’s arms. Thank God you’re here! was all she could say.

What’s going on? Tom asked brusquely.

The crowd is attacking the front of the house, Bob stated quickly in the staccato tones of a military aide giving a field report to his general. The sound of screaming voices and shattering glass added all the punctuation that was needed. We were just on our way out when you started knocking. I suggest we get out of here right now.

Where to?

Anne held up the key. To the Carpenters.’

Let’s go, Tom replied without hesitation. He took Anne’s hand and led her out into the backyard. Anne and Bob followed immediately, closing the door behind them.

They quickly crossed the yard and entered the alley, watching carefully for any sign of human presence. To the waning cacophony of shouts and breaking glass at the front of the house was now added the sound of sirens and bull horns, but the fugitives had no time to notice. Without uttering a word, they hurried down the alley to a heavy wooden gate in a large flagstone wall, two doors down from their own.

The gate’s closed and locked, Tom indicated in a low voice. We’ll have to go over the top.

Let me be sure it’s clear, Bob said in the same hushed tone. He pulled himself up and peered over the gate. It looks quiet enough. Let’s go. He climbed swiftly to the top of the wall. Tom boosted the women one at a time as Bob grabbed their arms, pulled them up, and lowered them gently into the yard. Then he helped Tom up, and the two men dropped down gingerly next to the women.

They moved quietly up to the back door of the large white two-story house. Two boarded-up windows and a couple of innocuous holes in the white woodwork next to the rear entrance were the only indications of the violence that had fractured the tranquillity of the lush green grounds just a few weeks before. Anne inserted the key into the bolt lock and turned it. The bolt slid back easily. She then unlocked the door handle and pushed open the door. Bob slipped into the small entryway, cautioning the others with a forefinger to his lips. Anne and Carol followed without a sound, and Tom closed the door gently, relocking it from the inside.

Signaling the women to wait by the door, Bob and Tom proceeded to inspect the house. Every room was in disarray, with drawers pulled out and cabinets hanging open, their contents spilled over the floors. In the rooms facing the street, broken glass mingled with the debris on the floors, and most of the windows were covered with large plywood planks, leaving the rooms shadowed in a dusty gray gloom.

The last room inspected was the spacious study in the right front corner of the lower story. This had been the site of John Carpenter’s last stand, and Tom entered the room with great trepidation. As with the rest of the house, the study was a shambles. Through the obscurity, which was relieved only by small shafts of light from thin gaps here and there in the boarded windows, books and papers could be seen strewn over the floor and hanging from the shelves of the bookcases that lined two sides of the room. Leather chairs and end tables were pushed aside or overturned, and lamps, ash trays, and other articles were knocked over and broken. The large oak desk at one end of the room looked like a gutted fortress, its drawers missing and ornate doors sagging outward. In the front corner between the windows, a huge painter’s tarp was spread on the floor. Dark reddish-brown spots on the wall and carpet around the tarp made clear what final, catastrophic event had taken place there.

Tom swallowed hard to keep down the thick, sickening lump that was rising in his throat, and he shuddered at the sharp chill of horror that pierced the back of his neck. Suddenly, the room began to spin and the next instant he found himself slumped back in Bob’s arms, his face running hot with a cold sweat.

Dad, I’ll check this room. You wait out here. Bob lowered him gently to the hallway floor, his back against the wall. Just rest here a minute. I’ll be right back.

No! Tom’s voice was adamant. Give me just a minute. I’ll be all right. I want to see what all’s in that room.

Bob eyed him skeptically for a moment, then said firmly, First, I think we ought to get Mom and Carol settled, then see what’s going on outside. The bedrooms upstairs have small bay windows, and from the corner one toward our house, I think we can get a glimpse of the street and part of our front yard.

Good idea, Tom replied. After a moment he rose from the floor and steadied himself with one hand against the wall. Then he sighed and nodded to Bob. Let’s go.

They quickly established themselves in the family room which opened onto a veranda at the back of the house. Carol and Anne set to work immediately, straightening furniture and fixtures and putting things back into cabinets and drawers.

Just be careful of the windows, Tom admonished. We want the house to appear completely deserted from the outside.

Tom and Bob then ascended the stairs and entered the corner bedroom. As this was the front-facing room furthest from the study, it had sustained the least damage, and most of the windows were still intact. Behind heavy drapes, which had been left open, a pair of sheer white curtains covered each window. This permitted the two men to get right up to the windows and peer through the gaps where the white curtains met without being seen.

Look! Bob exclaimed. There are police cars everywhere. The flashing of the lights glanced off the curtains and window frames in front of them, the pulsating reflections accentuating the bleakness of the heavy sky and the somber earth beyond.

The crowd in the yard seems to be moving backward, Tom noted, then after a pause, added, Look, next to the driveway. You can just see it. A police line is pushing them back.

Good. Maybe we can go back home before long.

What’s going on in the back yard? Can you see?

Bob moved over to a side window. No, I can’t see. Too many trees.

Let’s try the back bedroom.

They hurried across the hall and up to the back windows. It’s still hard to see, Bob observed. There are some people in the yard. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s....Yes, it is. It’s police. They seem to be searching for something.

Probably for us. They must have discovered we’re gone. Tom chuckled. I wonder how long it will take them to figure out where we are.

Bob stared at Tom in surprise and sudden realization. Oh, yeah. Probably not long.

Quick. Let’s go back downstairs. I want to check out the study before they get here.

Shouldn’t someone stay on watch up here?

Good thinking, Tom nodded. We can send up the girls.

Moments later, Tom and Bob reentered the study. A closer inspection of the interior revealed bullet holes in the big double doors, the walls, even the furniture. Each step they took resounded with the crunch of paper and glass, muffled somewhat by the thickness of the carpet. Tom began rifling through the papers spread over the desk.

What are we looking for? Bob asked, eyeing Tom curiously.

Anything different or...unusual, Tom responded, still busily sifting papers. Then he looked up and spoke with a special emphasis. If you find anything about Skip...or David...anything at all, let me know immediately.

Bob regarded Tom with a puzzled frown, then shrugged and busied himself with some file folders dropped haphazardly next to one of the bookcases. The two of them worked in silence for several minutes, covering most of the room in that time. Finally, Tom sighed. Well, if there was anything here, they already got it.

Who?

Whoever searched this house before us.

You mean, the police.

No. Someone’s been in here since all this was done. Tom waved his arm to encompass the room.

What? Bob burst out. What makes you think that?

Three reasons. First, if you look carefully at the dust patterns on the desk, you can see that some of those papers were moved—several days after the house was closed up. See? There’s a slight depression where one of the papers was. Second, there are several things missing. John’s gold pen and pencil set. A brass paper weight in the shape of Rodin’s ‘The Thinker.’ Look. You can see where it was lying on the carpet....And, some photographs in frames. He pointed to a bare spot on the wall behind the desk. You can see where they were screwed into the wall.

Okay, some things were stolen. The police could have taken them. Or even Brad. Maybe a thief broke in later.

No. There are things of greater value still here. Who would want old photographs? And Brad had no reason to take them. This all belongs to him—now that Marion’s been locked away. Tom’s voice betrayed an edge of bitterness. Besides, all the missing items were things that had a significant personal importance to John. And the clincher is this. Tom turned and walked to the bookcase next to where the photographs had been. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his key ring and selected a long thin key that looked like it belonged to an old padlock. He carefully inserted it into a hidden keyhole in the corner just under one of the lower bookshelves. When he turned the key, a part of the back panel of the bookcase slid back to reveal a small, empty compartment. Tom smiled at Bob’s gasp. To my knowledge, only three people knew of this compartment, John, Marion, and myself. There were only three keys. John had two and he gave one to me—‘Just in case,’ he always said. I don’t know what was in here, but I do know he kept some things there. As you can see, whatever was here is gone. And there is no evidence of forced entry.

Maybe John removed them before the shoot-out.

To where? There was no place safer than this. And I can think of no one he would trust with them other than myself.

You mean, neither of the boys knew about it? They grew up here and never saw it?

This study was John’s special place, his inner sanctum. No one other than Marion entered unless John allowed it—not even the kids. The last I knew, John would have given his life before he would have revealed the existence of this compartment—especially to Brad.

What happened to the keys John had? Wouldn’t they have found them after the shoot-out?

"Maybe. I don’t know. But even if they did, it is very unlikely they would have found this keyhole. But that’s a moot point. You can see here on the shelf in front—here, where I haven’t disturbed it. The dust pattern is irregular—just like on the desk top. Someone was here sometime after John’s death."

Tom slid closed the compartment and locked it, then stood up and surveyed the room. His eyes fell on the large rock fireplace in the far wall between the windows in the side of the house. Ashes were scattered from inside the fireplace over the hearth and onto the carpet just in front. He walked briskly across the room and seized the poker from a holder on the right side of the hearth. Carefully, he began to prod through the debris as Bob watched intently over his shoulder. Among the ashes and charred bits of wood were fragments of paper, pieces of larger sheets that had not been entirely burned. Most were blank or had just a few letters on them which signified nothing. But suddenly, he jabbed his hand into the ashes and pulled out what was left of the edge and top corner of a standard white envelope, on the front of which was a postage stamp still fully intact. The graphic design on the stamp showed a green palm tree curving up over a white beach and blue sea, with a bronze high-rise building in the background that swept upward in two concave arcs from a wide base. Above the sea on the right was a golden sun, and cutting into the sea under the sun was the name Pacifica, followed immediately below by the symbol P5¢. Tom gazed at the stamp curiously for a moment, then feeling inside the envelope, he pulled out the remains of a one-page letter. Not enough of the letter was left to make any sense, but his eyes riveted to the signature which was fully intact. In clear, precise handwriting, two thirds down the page, the letter was signed simply Skip.

"My God. Skip is alive, then," Bob whistled softly.

It would appear so, Tom mused staring at the letter and the stamp side by side. Then, brusquely, he added, I don’t know what this means, but don’t say anything about it to anyone for now—not even Carol or Anne.

All at once, the door behind them flew open and they whirled around as Carol rushed breathlessly into the room. I think the police are headed this way, she blurted. They were talking and pointing in this direction, then two of them started walking up the sidewalk.

Tom slipped the letter and envelope into his pocket. Bob, you and Carol wait by the back door, he directed calmly. But stay down and away from the windows. I’ll go up and get Anne, and take another look. Carol and Bob hurried out of the room and Tom followed. As he reached the doorway, he paused and took one last look around the study. Then he turned and walked out, pulling the door gently closed behind him.

What’s happening, Tom asked tensely seconds later as he entered the upstairs corner bedroom.

Anne was crouched at the window and responded without glancing back. Two policemen are coming up the sidewalk. They’re almost to the front gates.

Tom peered through the curtain. The two officers were closing on the Carpenters’ driveway. Down the street, the crowd was milling around quietly behind a police line at the end of their own front walk. What about the back—anyone in the alley?

Not a few minutes ago. They searched the alley, then went back into our yard. Since then, I’ve been watching the front.

Come on. Let’s take a quick look, then get downstairs.

They hurried into the back bedroom and looked out. The alley was still vacant, so they turned and hastened down the stairs to where Carol and Bob were crouched next to the back door.

Quickly and quietly, now, let’s get out to the alley the same way we got in, Tom instructed. I would prefer they not know we were in this house. Not a word until we get back to our own yard. When they ask, we were hiding in the backyard of one of the vacant houses in the next block.

Bob opened the door and they rushed to the back fence while Tom carefully locked up. In short order, they had scaled the wall and reached their own back gate. No one was in the yard when they entered, nor could they see anyone inside the house as they approached the back door, but as they slipped in through the kitchen door, voices could be heard from the direction of the front room. Tom signaled the others to wait in the kitchen, then made his way in the direction of the voices.

Two officers in tan Texas Ranger uniforms, trimmed with black leather belts and cross pieces, stood with their backs toward the door from which Tom entered. A third sat on a sofa facing him. As Tom approached, the officer on the sofa suddenly stared up at him with the expression of a man face-to-face with an apparition he had not believed could exist. The look was so sudden and startled, that the other two officers spun around and virtually leaped out of their boots when they saw him.

Good afternoon, gentlemen, Tom intoned pleasantly. Can you tell me what the current situation is?

The senior officer, as he clearly was when the two others moved back deferentially allowing him to rise and step forward, gathered himself up and addressed Tom in his most officious manner. Where the hell have you been? And where is your family?

Tom’s reply was disdainful. As you can clearly see from the gaping holes in our windows and the debris all over this room, our home was under attack. We thought it prudent for the sake of our own safety to leave until such time as order had been reestablished. As soon as we determined that you had gained control of things, we returned. Now, will you tell me what the situation is?

Where’s your family? the officer repeated curtly.

They’re here. They’re in the kitchen. The officer signaled one of his cohorts to go check it out, but Tom held up his hand. Just a second, what’s going on?

The policeman hesitated, but at his superior’s impatient jerk of the head, he left the room, returning seconds later to confirm Tom’s statement with a nod. The commander turned to the other man and ordered sternly, Go tell Captain Crandall that we found them. The man turned sharply with a terse Yes, sir and marched out the front door.

Will you tell me what’s going on? Tom’s tone was more a demand than a question.

Captain Crandall will speak to you, growled the officer. Tom glared at him, then turned to leave. Just a minute there. Where do you think you’re going? At his signal, the other deputy moved to block Tom’s path.

Now look here! Tom snapped. This is my home and I’ll go wherever I like. Tell your man to step aside.

You’ll wait right there ‘til Captain Crandall gets here. I don’t want you to go and disappear again.

Tom looked puzzled for a moment. "Disappear? What do you mean? I’m not going to disappear."

You just wait there.

At that moment, the front door opened and a tall, well-built man that looked to be in his thirties hurried in. Like the others, he wore a Texas Ranger uniform,