True Allegiance

MSNBC cut back to its reporter on the ground. “Levon Williams, leader of the FAIR movement. Well, today, the FAIR movement listed its demands: immediate trial of Ricky O’Sullivan. A jury of his peers from the Detroit area—no transfer of trial to a more sympathetic venue. More equity in the economic system of Detroit and surrounding areas. A complete makeover of the police force, including the firing of the police chief, with officers drawn from the local community, and an end to what they call the ‘occupation’ directed against people of color.”

Now another anchor, female, appeared from the MSNBC studios on split-screen with the reporter. “Gil, have they said what they will do if their demands are not met?”

The reporter gestured to a sign in the crowd: “RICKY O’SULLIVAN, DEAD OR ALIVE.” Then he said, “If the feeling I’m getting from the crowd is any indicator, it could get very ugly very quickly.”

Soledad sat on the porch of the cabin, watching the snow fall. She had a blanket wrapped around her; she thought she probably looked like her ancestors had, without any modern conveniences, garbed in an old quilt, breathing steam into the air. In her hands, she held a cup of tea, sipping it every so often, reading yesterday’s newspaper. She was mildly relieved to see that she’d been knocked completely out of the newspaper for the first time since the conflagration in California.

The door to the cabin opened behind her. She turned to see Ezekiel Pope—grizzled, older than the other recruits. He was black, came from Los Angeles. Their California background had been their point of connection. He’d joined up with the air force decades ago, and he’d been just about ready to quit thanks to the military cutbacks: he’d never rise higher than lieutenant colonel. He’d been called into his superior’s office just after the New York attack, told to round up his men and get ready to ship out to New York.

For some reason, he’d come to Soledad instead.

Aiden said he hadn’t given a reason for deserting. But he said that Ezekiel was trustworthy. Soledad had no option but to trust Aiden’s judgment.

Ezekiel looked over the snow falling silently into itself. He wore heavy work gloves on his hands, and an M4 slung over his shoulder, a maroon scarf around his neck. Soledad gestured at the gun. “What’s that for?”

“We’re gearing up.”

“Gearing up for what?”

Ezekiel laughed. “Well, you tell us. After all, you’re the Terrorist Mama. That’s what they’re calling you now, you know. Ever since the escape.”

She felt sick to her stomach. She’d wanted to feed her workers, water her animals. That was it. Opening up the waterway had just been necessity. She hadn’t wanted anyone hurt or killed. “I’m no terrorist,” she said.

Ezekiel spat into the snow. It steamed, hissed out. “Last time I checked, didn’t matter much what you had to say about it. They’ll drone you just the same. I know. I worked for them.” He stood, turned to walk into the house. Then he turned back to her. “Listen, Soledad. You can either hide out and hole up and wait for them to turn you into a pile of guts, or you can figure out what comes next.”

“Sounds like you have some ideas about what should come next.”

He laughed. “I always do. That’s why they never made me bird colonel.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I always say the best defense is a good offense. So does Clausewitz. When your force is small, concentrate it and hit them where they’re weak.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“The same people who shut down your farm. The same people who attacked you.”

“Those people are Americans.”

“It isn’t American to do those things. America means more than being born here. It means believing certain things.”

“So we should shoot those who disagree?”

“Only if they shoot first.”

“I don’t want more blood,” she said.

“Then you went into the wrong business, woman. Blood’s about all that’s guaranteed from here on in. And you can’t stay here forever. You’ve got to keep moving. Move or die.” The screen door whispered closed behind him.

Levon

Detroit, Michigan

LEVON COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE was hearing.

Reverend Jim Crawford sat there, in the conference room of the MGM Grand—the room had already been scanned for bugs and been found clean—in his expensive suit, explaining why he thought Levon should get his people off the street. Now.

Levon had seen Big Jim’s press conference with the mayor the previous week. The mayor, still sporting a bandage over his gashed forehead, had thanked Big Jim profusely for stopping the violence, for cutting short the possibility of a riot. Big Jim grinned the high-wattage grin, and told the mayor that he did so knowing that the two of them could work together to fix the deeper problems plaguing the city. Problems of inequity, he said. Problems of racial justice. Mayor Burns nodded along, knowing that he had no choice—he could use the photo op with the civil rights icon in his reelection campaign.