Amerika Read online

  “Take this!” she called.

  “Don’t need it.”

  “Take it anyway.”

  She smiled, watching as her two children pedaled out of sight. Childhood slipped by so quickly, she reflected; happiness, sometimes, vanished even faster. She wondered idly if she and Peter would have had more children if the Transition hadn’t come. They hadn’t even thought of it then; everything seemed so hard, so different, that along with everyone else they had concentrated on protecting what they had, not reaching out for more.

  As she turned to go back into the house, a darting motion at the outer edge of her field of vision caused her to stop abruptly. There was something animallike and fugitive in what she’d glimpsed, as though a fox or a raccoon had found itself cornered by daylight. But in fact the skittish movement wasn’t made by an animal. the creature was a human child. As the child tried to sneak abound the corner of the garage, Amanda realized that it must have been foraging in the garbage cans that were kept there.

  The child wore patched and thrown-together castoffs to fight the sharp cold. The first thing Amanda thought of was Scott’s unwanted parka, but she did not take her eyes off the child, who, she could now see, was a girl. The little girl froze under Amanda’s gaze like a rabbit caught in headlights. Amanda approached slowly and carefully. She thought she might scare the girl further if she tried to make eye contact—the girl’s wide-eyed stare was pure fear—-so she let her gaze range over the tatterdemalion outfit: a grown-up-sized plaid shirt whose frayed tails dangled below the waistband of a patched green woolen jacket, oversized boots stuffed with rags. Amanda knew, with a mother’s instinct, that this child was loved: the boots had been carefully packed to keep out the cold, and although none of the patches on the jacket matched, they’d been securely sewn.

  Amanda stopped a few feet from the little girl and extended her hand in a universal gesture of friendship. “Hi, honey. What’s your name?”

  The child did not speak. As Amanda knelt in front of her, the girl regarded her with solemn suspicion.

  “Where are you from?” she asked, although she knew the answer. The Exile child remained silent.

  “Did your Mends run away and leave you?” The child nodded. “Would you like to come inside a minute? It’s warm and I could fix you a cup of hot milk.” The temptation was too great to resist, Slowly the child nodded. Amanda reached for her hand and the child cautiously accepted. At that very moment, a woman shot out from behind the trees and seized the child's arm.

  “No,” she cried, pulling the girl toward her. She too was dressed in a makeshift costume. “I’m sorry, we’re lost. Come on, Dierdre.”

  “It’s all right,” protested Amanda, but the child’s mother was already vanishing, dragging the weeping girl toward the open road. She was too far gone in her mistrust to accept the kindness of this stranger; kindness carried danger with it.

  Amanda stood perfectly still as the pair of squatters retreated. Her eyes filled with tears, and she wondered for a moment what sort of life the Exile mother had had before the troubles, the Transition. Perhaps she’d been a doctor, a professor, a patriot of some sort who had some to be thought dangerous. The Transition turned everyone’s fortunes upside down, and Amanda flushed at the realization that her own position was one of the few that had actually improved. Before the takeover, Peter Bradford had been . . . what? A minor official among dozens of others, living, as did almost everyone in Milford County, in the shadow of the Milford clan. Life was so easy then—a new car every third year, meat on the table, and, with prudent saving, college for the children. An easy life—but where was the distinction? No, the distinction did not lie with men like Peter Bradford, but with those like Devin Milford, the risk takers, the windmill jousters, the dreamers.

  Once, Amanda Bradford told herself, Devin Milford had actually dreamed of her . It was back in high school, when Devin and Peter Bradford were close if somewhat unlikely friends, and Amanda Taylor had been pursued by both of them. Even then, with unfailing intuition, she understood somehow that Devin offered excitement, grandeur, and the sort of insecurity that thrilled her but that she could not finally accept. Peter Bradford offered safety, calm, and, yes, love; he was a steady man, a good man. Why then did Amanda sometimes catch herself wondering if she had somehow failed her deeper self in picking him?

  Jackie Bradford rode her bike slowly and carefully along the neglected, potholed road, her thoughts on the dance tryouts that afternoon.

  So deep was her concentration that she was unaware of the hum of a motorcycle coming up behind her. The hum had mounted to a roar before she noticed.

  Justin Milford, nineteen, gunned the engine of Ms Harley-Davidson, a lovingly tended machine that was older than he was. That motorcycle, the leather jacket and goggles that went with it—and Jackie Bradford— were about the only things in Milford County that Justin liked.

  “Hi.” Justin was one of those people who could make that single syllable sound intriguing, sexy, and even vaguely threatening.

  Jackie was delighted to see Mm but maintained her cool. “What are you doing here?”

  “I woke up this morning and was dying for a kiss. Thought I’d come in to town to see if I could find anybody who looked halfway decent.”

  “Maybe you better keep looking.” She held back her smile.

  “I’m always looking,” said Justin as they approached the beginning of a long, gradual rise. “Let me give you a tow—you’ll want to save your energy for tryouts.” She was flattered that he remembered and stopped her bike. Justin brought the Harley to a halt beside her and handed her a rope that was attached to the rack in back of the motorcycle seat. “Ready?”

  He gunned his engine and the rope snapped taut, dragging Jackie Bradford’s bike at a giddy pace. The maneuver was gutsy, perilous, intoxicating—the perfect distillation of the effect Justin Milford had on her. At the top of the hillock, Justin stopped short, and Jackie’s momentum carried her right into his arms.

  He slipped off his goggles, and leaned over confidently for his reward. They straddled their respective bikes and kissed: a flurry of awkward but enthusiastic pecks and smiles.

  “I’m only doing this because you remembered my tryout,” she whispered.

  “It’s the right way to start the day,” he said with all the confidence of one much more experienced than she. “Gets the juices flowing.”

  “I’m late for school. Gotta go. I love you.”

  “What about tonight? The Cavern?”

  “My father won’t let me go all the way to Omaha.”

  “Don’t ask your father. Just go.”

  “Let me think. Come by after school. After tryouts.

  Okay?”

  “I might,” Justin said, and pulled his goggles down.

  Jackie stomped down hard on the pedals and raced, late now, to the safety of school. She heard the roar of Justin’s bike as he sped off in the opposite direction.

  Kimberly sleepily watched Andrei come out of the bathroom, dressed in slacks and a sport coat; he was one of the most powerful men in the New America, yet he looked less like a politician than like a cross between a successful executive and a professor. He walked to the bed, unaware that Kimberly was awake. He bent down to her and kissed her, surprised to find her arms tightly around his neck, pulling him down onto the bed.

  “Get back in here.” She smiled lazily, her morning breath milky and warm.

  “No time now, but come along. We could make love in the ckr.”

  “Pervert.”

  “There are many women who would love such an

  offer.”

  “Maybe you can find one on the way to the office.”

  He kissed her. Her brown eyes clouded over. He watched her in fascination. This was not an act; frequently she experienced these sudden, agonizing swings of emotion.

  “Are you all right? You seemed very sad this morning.”

  She nodded, as though dismissing it. “I’m fine.”

&nbs
p; Andrei knew that was not true, but he had learned from public life that it was much easier to let it pass. He went to the closet, picked up an overnight bag, and came back to the bed.

  “I need you today,” she said.

  “You have your play to rehearse. You’ll probably not even notice I’m gone.”

  He kissed her again and she responded slightly. “Remember about tonight,” he said.

  “Do we have to go? I mean—to Omaha?”

  “Yes we do, my dear. The nomination of a governor-general is an epoch-making moment in the political life of your country—of our country. Besides, you’ll get to perform.” He got up and walked to the door, opening it.

  “Andrei—”

  “Yes?” He turned back to face Kimberly again.

  “I love you.”

  Andrei nodded. “Be ready at six.”

  Mikel was waiting when Andrei reached his big, bright comer office high above Lake Michigan. The room was furnished with white rugs and sofas, abstract paintings that had been officially labeled decadent, and sleek silver stereo and video equipment. Atop a large, neat desk stood a framed photograph of Kimberly alongside a small statue of an American Indian. It amused Andrei to surround himself with bits of Americana.

  But Mikel was not amused. He was efficient, humorless, and ambitious—the sort of man, Andrei knew, that one must use wisely and watch carefully. Andrei thought it possible that Mikel spied on him for his enemies in the KGB. The possibility neither surprised nor offended him. It was part of the challenge of staying in the game.

  “Good morning, Colonel.” Mikel rose swiftly from the conference table, his close-cropped hair precisely parted and flawlessly slicked down.

  “Good morning, Mike!, You are aware of my trip to Washington?”

  “Yes. Your plane is waiting.”

  “You canceled my day’s appointments?”

  “Yes. With one difficulty. Magistrate Marion Andrews considers her business urgent. I told her you would see her this evening, upon your return from Washington.”

  “She is an important woman, Mike!. Invite her to fly with me to Omaha tonight. Did she explain the nature of her business?”

  Mike! cleared his throat and grimaced slightly, as if he found the whole business thoroughly distasteful. “It is slightly awkward, Colonel, relating as it does to a time when her political views were less enlightened than they have since become.” He paused and looked to Andrei, as if to be sure he should go on. When Andrei nodded impatiently, he continued, “It seems that her former husband, Devin Milford, a political dissident, has been released from custody. Although he is being confined to his home county in Nebraska, she fears he may harm her. She seeks the colonel’s reassurance, or perhaps protection.”

  Andrei nodded, resigned. Protection. That’s what everyone seemed to want from Mm. But protection from what? From a man as principled and direct as Devin Milford? Andrei was well acquainted with Milford’s character and ruined career. Years ago, in fact, he’d read transcripts of his speeches, circulated underground in crude and illegal mimeographs. He had been struck by the power of Milford’s words, and the name had remained in his memory ever since. “Today, while I am gone, assemble an extensive file on Devin Milford.”

  They took the elevator down and walked through the lobby to the waiting limousine. The lobby entrance was discreetly covered by security guards. Two of them escorted Andrei to Ms limousine. The others climbed into an unmarked vehicle parked behind and followed Andrei’s car as it sped away.

  Behind the protective glass in his limousine, indifferent to the security guards, Andrei began studying a pile of photographs. “Is everything in order for the Omaha event?”

  “Four of the candidates for area governor-general have been notified,” replied Mikel,

  Andrei signed. “Governor-general. A rather stuffy title, don’t you think? Like a Gilbert and Sullivan character.”

  “It is a position of authority,” Mikel said.

  Andrei thumbed through the pictures again. “You said four have been notified. Why hasn’t the fifth? And which one is it?”

  Mike! looked a little uncomfortable. “I have not spoken with the man from Nebraska, Peter Bradford.” Andrei picked out Peter’s photo from the others in the file. He thought about the sarcastic gibes aimed at earlier American presidents: “Would you buy a used car from this man?” And he thought, Yes, he would buy a used car from Bradford. And the rest of America would too.

  Andrei turned to face Ms assistant’s earnest profile. “Your reason, Mikel?”

  “The committee noted Mr. Bradford’s lack of experience. There is a feeling that Governor Smith of Missouri would be the nominee of choice.”

  “But we must wonder why, Mikel?” Andrei said. “Do you know how Mr. Bradford came to my attention? His county is the most trouble free in the Central

  Administrative Area. The Heartland, as it is known. His production is far above quota. There is no significant resistance, although they are only sixty miles from the Omaha Urban Zone. He is a family man, much respected.”

  “He is not a party member. The party leader from Milford, a Mr. Herbert Lister, said he was resistant to the revised school curriculum.”

  “Are you accusing him of having a backbone, Mikel?”

  “I accuse him of nothing.”

  Chapter 3

  The truck lurched past the iron gates and picked up speed. The rutted road ahead pointed straight across the desert to the east. There were six of them in the back of the truck, blankly looking back as Fort Davis, their only reality for years, receded into the desert. Devin wondered why each of them felt compelled to look back—he knew that he desperately wanted to look forward, to see something bright, something substantial, in the future. But ahead of them was just desert and miles to travel; the only buildings anywhere in this area were the jumble of jerry-rigged structures they’d come from.

  Devin tried to keep his emotions in check. Part of him still feared that his release was a trick. There had been so many at Fort Davis. For him, ambiguity was the secret of survival: to hate and not to hate, to fear and not to fear, to resist and not to resist, to dream and not to dream. And yet with every passing moment, he felt assured that he had truly survived.

  It would take time to learn to smile again. He reached into the pocket of the denim shirt they had given him as part of his exit uniform and drew out the creased and faded snapshot he had hidden and treasured all those years. The two boys were younger then, of course, and he wondered what they looked like now, at fourteen and nine. Fourteen and nine! The numbers confounded him, confused a memory of tiny little people just beginning to form personalities, likes, and dislikes of their own.

  Devin studied the snapshot closely, as though reexamining an icon. Caleb was four, sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, all seriousness. Billy was nine, an older version of Caleb physically but with more of Devin’s free spirit. As he stared at the picture he felt as if he was being watched. He was about to look up to seek out the intruder when the prisoner next to him spoke.

  “Yours?”

  Devin pulled the snapshot to his chest protectively. He stared at the man intently, finally deciding he could be trusted. He nodded and returned his gaze to the

  pictures.

  “I had a couple of my own,” said the prisoner, a heavyset man with a face that looked as if it had at one time belonged to a jovial man.

  “Had?”

  The man shrugged. “That was four years ago.”

  “You gonna find them?”

  The man watched the desert. “You know it.”

  Devin looked back at his picture and said softly, “Yeah, I do.”

  That morning, at an exclusive private school in Chicago, nine-year-old Caleb M. Andrews, formerly Caleb Milford, was participating in a social-studies class. His school occupied a full block in a comfortable old residential neighborhood, fronting on a gracious street of swaying elms that shaded stately brick houses. Once the domain of industrialists and prof
essionals, the neighborhood was now an enclave of party officials, government lawyers, and scientists. There was a fenced-in playground where carefree children frolicked, but inside the school, much had changed. Teachers were certified by the PPP—the People’s Progressive party, the political juggernaut that had swept into power in the midst of the Transition—and their curriculum was written in Washington and approved in Moscow.

  Caleb was answering his teacher’s question about his nation’s past.

  “Our ancestors were very rough,” he said. “When Americans conquered the country, they killed Indians who had been living on the land peacefully for thousands of years.”

  “Thank you, Caleb,” the teacher, Clara Chavez, said. “Can anyone tell us what the cause of their violence was?”

  The boy wrinkled his brow, trying to remember. “It was like . . . survival of the fittest,” he said. “The rich people controlled everything and ordinary people, even kids, had to work in factories or coal mines for almost nothing. Wars were fought to make rich people richer.”

  As Caleb spoke, an elegant woman with commanding eyes, thick wavy coal-black hair, and a sensual, feline smile slipped quietly into the classroom. She had an intense, polished, and somehow serpentlike beauty.

  “Good, Caleb,” the teacher said. “Can anyone eke tell me the name of this violent philosophy they followed?”

  The children could not answer; their indoctrination had not reached that point. The woman raised a hraceleted hand. The teacher beamed at the opportunity to show her admiration and respect for the woman once known as Marion Milford. “Yes, please do tell the class, Ms. Andrews.”

  “It’s called Social Darwinism. But now we believe in Social Humanism, which means everyone helps everyone else, and we trust our new leaders to help us do that.” Marion’s voice was gentle, even comforting, but she spoke with absolute conviction.

  The teacher smiled. “Boys and girls, let me introduce Caleb’s mother, Ms. Marion Andrews, who is a magistrate here in Chicago and also a member of the National Advisory Committee that helps our president and Congress make important decisions.”

  Even without the glowing introduction, the children would have known that this was someone special by her elegant bearing and clothing. She didn’t dress like any of their mothers. Her black silk suit had been made especially for her in Paris, where most of the great fashion designers still flourished. Now, though, their chief customers were the wives of Communist party officials around the world, instead of the wives of corporate moguls and oil princes.