Sol Survivors 3

Greer, South Carolina Greer, South Carolina Jordan could tell his new assistant manager was nervous—too nervous for someone of his muscular physique. He became especially unhappy when Jordan shook his head and said, “Nope. No good.” “Another counterfeit?” Dean asked. “Yes. Notice how the tentacles at the bottom of the O are too straight, and the spacing isn’t right on the voucher number code. It’s the same as the last two that came in like this, so I don’t need to waste time matching it in the logbook. It’s going to match the same number the last two did.” “I’d appreciate you handling this one, Jordan.” Dean glanced outside. “These guys are a little … intimidating.” At that moment the old Chevy Nova at the second pump began spinning its wheels in what was unmistakably an intentional burnout. It proceeded to fishtail its way off the property, hitting the road with a loud thump before gaining traction on the asphalt and speeding away. “Looks like neither of us have to deal with them,” Jordan said. “They obviously know they’re trying to pass funny money.” He then turned the voucher over to see handwritten words on the back which read: Burn, turncoats. Burn, turncoats“What the hell?” Jordan muttered. As if on cue, in the next moment hell came to visit the hand-pump the Nova had been at. A loud explosion caused Jordan and Dean to involuntarily duck. When Jordan looked back outside, a huge fireball was in the process of rising into the air. “Grab a fire extinguisher!” Jordan shouted. Dean instead ran into the garage and out the back way yelling, “The whole damn station might blow!” Jordan sighed as he located the office fire extinguisher. It was difficult to dislodge from its holder. He cursed as he trotted his heavyset frame out to the pump. By the time he arrived, there wasn’t much left to put out. He gave the pump and the area around it a cursory dosing of foam. The pump handle, sign, and concrete were all blackened from the blast. Dean came back out from the garage with a shotgun, accompanied by Howard who carried his mini-.30 semi-automatic rifle and wore a fierce scowl. “You sure got balls,” Dean said to Jordan. “And you have seen too many movies,” Jordan replied. “Not in almost three months I haven’t.” Howard spoke. “What in Sam Hill happened?” “It was Vector,” Jordan said. “Idiots.” “How do you know for sure?” “Had to be them. They even left a note.” Jordan gazed at the unsightly tread marks snaking their way across the concrete slab. “Retaliation for us joining Octo, I reckon. Don’t they know these juvenile games play both ways? g**g wars are bad business for everyone. If we each just did our own thing we could all get rich by the time the new society takes shape, whatever that shape ends up being. But they’d rather act like punks. I have half a mind to not even report it to headquarters, and hope it stops here.” “You better report it anyway.” Jordan looked at Howard. His expression had not changed. “I suppose you’re right. And I have to, anyway, since these same guys are likely the ones printing the counterfeit vouchers.” “Vector is the Black Eagle network, right?” Dean asked. Jordan nodded and shouldered the extinguisher. “What they turned into, leastways, after the army rousted them when confiscating their Nashville location. All smoke and mirrors, as I hear it’s the same guys running it.” He looked back at the charred pump handle. “This pretty much confirms it.” They all turned their heads at the sound of a white VW Bus slowly pulling onto the property. A middle-aged couple occupied the front seats. The vehicle abruptly stopped and the occupants formed concerned faces when they spotted the firearms on display. Jordan smiled and waved them forward before motioning for Dean and Howard to go back inside. “I’ll take care of the customer.” Washington, DC Washington, DC Major Tillman noticed the Secretary of the Interior check her watch mid-sentence, and then start hurrying her words. It must be getting close to time. Good. As historic as this occasion may be, all Tillman wanted to do was go back to the barracks and throw down a couple beers with his unit before crossover ended. And then sleep for about a week—but he knew his platoon would surely be assigned some new scumhole to clean up before that could ever happen. Not that Tillman didn’t appreciate the honor of accompanying Colonel Matheson here today. Especially since the only thing required of him—hopefully—was to stand and observe after being recognized for his recent exceeding service. There were definitely some big names in this room, although the biggest were outside for the circus show five stories below. The Secretary’s eyes, along with FERC Chairman Meryl’s, frequently bounced off Colonel Matheson’s cowboy hat conspicuously occupying space at one corner of the long table. They seemed to regard it as inappropriately placed. Tillman thought it was set too close to one of the oil-burning lamps for comfort. Perhaps the colonel should have left it on his head, as he often absentmindedly does in important meetings. “And we hope to share additional optimistic news shortly under LED lighting, something I know we’ve all missed tremendously,” the secretary said. “Speaking of which, it is time for the anticipated moment, if you care to make your way to the windows.” Everyone in the room maneuvered themselves to a spot at one of the three large window panes. Tillman and the colonel waited until the others had taken their positions before squeezing themselves in at the rear. Tillman managed to finagle a partial view of the stage. He could see the oversized mock light switch on a fake wall between the President and one lucky electrical crew foreman. From this spot he couldn’t see any of the crowd before the platform, which was fine with Tillman. It was made up mostly of East Coast governors, congress members, the cabinet members who were not up in this room, and, of course, the media—most of whom had been reduced to writing old fashioned newspaper articles, some of which were printed on Benjamin Franklin style antique hand presses. Tillman rarely had opportunity to read any, but he’d heard that both the quality and credibility of the articles had improved greatly since pre-Helios days. Perhaps there was something about higher technology which bred dishonesty and p********a in news reporting. The President shortly waved at the crowd, stepped to center platform, looked up at the windows on the fifth floor, waved at them, went over to the electrician, shook his hand, and motioned for him to pull the switch. Tillman knew how this would really go, if everything worked right, so he paid attention to see how well they executed it. Someone on a handheld would radio someone else on a handheld who would radio the person actually turning the grid on. In order to time it through a 3-step relay and make it appear that the mock switch turned it on, they would have to anticipate the electrician’s movements and give the go signal about eight seconds early. The first lights came on before the switch was all the way down. They jumped the g*n a little. But it wasn’t botched too badly. The cheering crowd could be heard all the way up here, through the storm windows, as the surrounding buildings in DC came to life one by one—including the overhead lights in this room. The sun hadn’t quite set on the horizon, but it had darkened enough to see the office lights everywhere. An array of multi-colored lights also blossomed down on the platform, instantly transforming it into a concert stage with amplifiers and a drum kit already in place. The President shook the electrician’s hand again and delivered another short speech before stepping away as musicians took the stage. Among them was Sheryl Crow, bounding up with an acoustic guitar strapped to her back. The last time she did that, one of her accompanying musicians shortly died of electrocution and another was seriously injured. “We appear to be back in business!” The Secretary of the Interior announced to everyone in the room. “Apparently, the saboteurs were apprehended this morning before they could do any real damage.” She smiled at Tillman before asking that the oil lamps in the room be doused, and invited whoever wished to sit down to take a seat at this time. That’s when Colonel Matheson went to retrieve his hat. Seeing no other place to deposit it, he placed it back on his head where everyone in the army thought it belonged. “The first item to discuss is the progress being made in the cities,” the Secretary said. “Colonel Matheson, will you please update us?” But the Colonel looked to Tillman. “Major Tillman, please do the honors,” he said motioning toward the covered easel on the opposite side of the table. Tillman caught himself in an involuntary frown before replying, “Yes sir, my pleasure.” After walking around to the easel he noticed for the first time an extension cord leading up to it. Tillman removed the cover from the easel to reveal a colorful map of the USA with an unexpected addition: small light bulbs in certain locations, some of which were blue and some yellow. Most on the western portion of the map were yellow. It took Tillman five seconds of study to understand what the colors meant. “This map appears to be fairly accurate in regards to the cities that have been cleaned up and secured,” he said. “They are the blue lights.” “The yellow lights are next in line?” someone asked. “Yes,” Tillman replied after giving it another once-over. “Several are already in progress, but not yet cleared.” He repositioned himself to come around the front side of the map, but stumbled on one of the easel legs and grabbed the piece of wood the map was created on to steady himself. No one in the room reacted. Most were making happy murmuring sounds. But bumping into the map did cause some new lights to flash on. These were green, in long sequential rows. Someone asked what those represented. Tillman only frowned at the map. “I can answer that,” a man said standing up. Tillman saw that it was Mark Osteen, the Secretary of Transportation. Secretary Osteen walked around the table saying, “I can take it from here, unless anyone has any more questions for Major Tillman.” “I do,” a voice at the far end of the table responded. “What is being done about organized crime syndicates controlling the gasoline trade?” “I’ll field that one,” Colonel Matheson said stepping forward. “But I might disagree with your definition of organized crime syndicate.” “We are all aware that gangsters are running independent gas stations,” someone else replied, “and there are reports of incidents of violence breaking out between the competing gangs.” “The army is in full control of the name brand stations along all major transportation routes,” Colonel Matheson answered. “This was a monumental accomplishment, one which has effectively reestablished travel across the country. To appreciate the progress being made, y’all may need to take a moment to understand that things sometimes have to get done one step at a time. Also, it is not the current administration’s objective to continue in a state of military justice indefinitely. I know we’d all like to see the America we remember return as soon as possible—and I would point out that that is a system built on free enterprise and healthy competitive business practices.” “Gangsters shooting up each other’s gas stations isn’t exactly a healthy competitive business practice, Colonel.” “No it isn’t, sir.” The colonel pushed his hat back. “If we get word of any such specific instances, and can track the perpetrators, we’ll move to put a stop to it, believe me. As of now, there are only three companies east of the Mississippi where a motorist with a running vehicle can get gasoline from, in all practicality. One is our network, which is government controlled. That’s the safe option, and it already extends to three locations on the west coast. “But to address your point, there are two other networks operating this side of the big muddy, which are fruits of the private sector, going by the names Vector and Octo. Their stations tend be located around smaller population centers and rural areas. Any small independently-owned stations that have managed to reopen for business are quickly being absorbed into one of those two networks in order to be guaranteed deliveries. Both are actively acquiring more properties for establishing additional locations. We see it necessary to let these two operations flourish and compete with each other, under the present circumstances. We don’t have the resources or the desire to take control of every last small-town gas station, and these places are the only way many folks can even get to and from an interstate, or have a flat tire fixed.” “Paper money is still worthless,” one of the voices said. “And banks are still closed. I don’t understand how these kinds of major business transactions can take place in a society which lacks a fundamental system of currency.” The Secretary of Transportation, now standing next to Tillman, cleared his throat. All heads turned to him, expecting a comment to follow. Seeming to realize this, he gave them one. “The spirit of American ingenuity apparently cannot be quenched by a mere destruction of its currency value,” Secretary Osteen said. “Entrepreneurism, where allowed, always finds a way. People establish new standards of value, and new methods of leveraging those standards. A great example would be the vouchers for gas fill-ups at all three mentioned networks. Each arrives at its own value in a free market, and for the time being they have effectively become new currencies. This will, naturally, be a temporary situation while more mini-grids come online. We are also soon issuing a new local paper currency here in DC which we expect to expand in usage well beyond the city limits. It will be pegged to military gas voucher value for the time being, as that is the most stable commodity of the times.” “Speaking of that,” a cheerful voice piped in, “which cities will be next to light up?” FERC Chairman Meryl answered. “Baltimore and Philadelphia,” he said. “Those are hopefully thirty to forty days away. After that Boston, some portion of New York, Richmond, and Chicago.” A low muttering of approving voices increased in volume as Tillman blinked at the bright light fixtures on the ceiling. His eyes were not used to them. Meanwhile, Secretary Osteen began fiddling with the display map. “I don’t understand why this thing isn’t…” he abruptly hit the top of the board with his fist. “Ah, there we go.” The murmuring in the room quieted when someone asked, “What are those new red lights?” “I guess whoever made this didn’t have access to one of the remaining generator circuits to test it,” Secretary Osteen said. Tillman felt like he was now mostly in the way, so he walked back over to rejoin the colonel. “The isolated spots are newly-operational airports,” Secretary Osteen answered with unrestrained pride. “Impetus Airlines?” someone asked. “Yes! We are utilizing former small airports. People can at least fly coast to coast again, even if it takes a lot longer than what they were used to, and perhaps isn’t as comfortable.” “How do they pay for tickets?” someone asked. “The airline currently accepts gold and silver certificates, gold and silver coins, bars, and, um, gas vouchers. But this is an evolving situation.” “So what are the green lights, then?” the same voice said. Secretary Osteen smiled. “Those are the new rail lines.”