One of them, the shortest but easily the most imposing figure, wore only a single earring. But it glittered with large, inset gems.
“Gentlemen,” Bezoar said, standing up. “Allow me to introduce Brigadier General Macklin, U.S. Army Reserve, uniter of the Oregon clans of Holn and commander of the American Forces of Liberation.”
Gordon stood up numbly. For a moment he could only stare. The General and his two aides were among the strangest-looking human beings he had ever seen.
There was nothing unusual about their beards or earrings… or the short string of shriveled “trophies” that each wore as ceremonial decorations. But all three men were eerily scarred, wherever their uniforms permitted view of their necks and arms. And under the faint lines left by some long ago surgery, the muscles and tendons seemed to bulge and knot oddly.
It was weird, and yet it occurred to Gordon that he might have seen something akin to it, sometime in the past. He could not quite remember where or when though.
Had these men suffered from one of the postwar plagues? Supermumps, perhaps? Or some sort of thyroid hypertrophy?
In a sudden recognition Gordon knew that the biggest of Macklin’s aides was the pig-ugly raider who had struck so quickly on the night of the ambush by the banks of the Co-qunie, knocking him to the ground with the punch of a bull before he could even begin to move.
None of the men was of the newer generation of feudal-survivalists, young toughs recruited all through southern Oregon. Like Bezoar, the newcomers were clearly old enough to have been adults before the Doomwar. Time did not seem to have slowed them down any, however. General Macklin moved with a catlike quickness that was intimidating to watch. He wasted no time in pleasantries. With a jerk of his head and a glance at Johnny, he made his wishes known to Bezoar.
Bezoar pressed his fingers together. “Ah. Yes. Mr. Stevens, if you would please accompany these gentlemen back to your, um, quarters? It appears the General wants to speak with your superior alone.”
Johnny looked at Gordon. Obviously, if given the word, he would fight.
Gordon quailed inwardly under the burden of that expression in the youth’s eyes. Such devotion was something he had never sought, not from anybody. “Go on back, John,” he told his young friend. “I’ll join you later.”
The two hulking aides accompanied Johnny outside. When the door had closed, and the footsteps receded into the night, Gordon turned to face the commander of the united Holnists. In his heart he felt a powerful determination. There was no regret, no fear of hypocrisy here. If it was in him to lie well enough to bluff these bastards, he would do it. He felt full within his postman’s uniform, and got ready to give the best performance of his life.
“Save it,” Macklin snapped.
The dark-bearded man pointed a long, powerful hand at him. “One word of that crap about a ‘Restored United States’ out of you, and I’ll stuff your ‘uniform’ down your frigging throat!”
Gordon blinked. He glanced at Bezoar and saw that the man was grinning.
“I am afraid I’ve been less than open with you, Mr. Inspecter.” There was a clear lilt of sarcasm this time in Be-zoar’s last two words. The Holnist Colonel bent to open a drawer in his desk. “When first I heard of you I immediately sent out parties to trace your route backwards. By the way, you are right that Holnism is not very popular, in certain areas. At least not yet. Two of the teams never returned.”
General Macklin snapped his fingers. “Don’t drag this out, Bezoar. I’m busy. Call the jerk in.”
Bezoar nodded quickly and reached back to pull a cord on the wall, leaving Gordon wondering what he had been trying to find in the drawer.
“Anyway, one of our scouting parties did encounter a band of kindred spirits in the Cascades, in a pass north of Crater Lake. There were misunderstandings, most of the poor locals died, I’m afraid. But we did manage to persuade a survivor—”
There were footsteps, then the beaded curtain parted. The svelte blond woman held it open and watched coldly as a battered-looking man with a bandaged head stumbled into the room. He wore a uniform of patched, faded camouflage, a belt knife, and a single, tiny earring. His eyes were downcast. This survivalist was one who seemed less than joyous at being here.
“I would introduce you to our latest recruit, Mr. Inspector,” Bezoar said. “But I believe you two already know each other.”
Gordon shook his head, thoroughly lost. What was going on here? To his knowledge he had never seen this man before in his life!
Bezoar prodded the drooping newcomer, who looked up, then. “I cannot say for certain,” the unsteady Holn recruit said, peering at Gordon. “He might be the one. It was a passing event, really, of so… so little consequence at the time…”
Gordon’s fists balled suddenly. That voice.
“It’s you, you bastard!”
The jaunty Alpine cap was gone, but now Gordon recognized the salt-and-pepper sideburns, the sallow complexion. Roger Septien seemed far less serene than when Gordon had last seen the man — on the slopes of a death-dry mountainside, helping to carry away nearly everything Gordon owned in the world, blithely, sarcastically, leaving him to almost certain death.
Bezoar nodded in satisfaction. “You may go, Private Septien. I believe your officer has suitable duty arranged for you, tonight.”
The former robber and onetime stockbroker nodded wearily. He didn’t even glance again at Gordon, but passed outside without another word.
Gordon realized that he had blundered in reacting so quickly. He should have ignored the man, pretended he didn’t recognize him.
But then, would it have made a difference? Macklin had already seemed so sure…
“Get on with it,” the General told his aide.
Bezoar reached into the drawer again, and this time drew forth a small, ragged, black notebook. He held it out to Gordon. “Do you recognize this? It has your name in it.”
Gordon blinked. Of course it was his journal, stolen — along with all his goods — by Septien and the other robbers only hours before he stumbled onto the ruined postal van and started down the road to his new career.
At the time he had mourned its loss, for the diary detailed his travels ever since leaving Minnesota, seventeen years ago… his careful observations of life in postholocaust America.
Now, though, the slim volume was the last thing on Earth he would ever have wanted to see. He sat down heavily, suddenly weary, aware of how completely the devils had been toying with him. The lie had caught up with him, at last.
In all the pages of that little journal, there wasn’t a single word about postmen, or recovery, or any “Restored United States.”
There was only the truth.
13
Lost Empire by NATHAN HOLN
Today, as we approach the end of the Twentieth Century, the great struggles of our time are said to be between the so-called Left and so-called Right — those great behemoths of a contrived, fictitious political spectrum. Very few people seem to be aware that these so-called opposites are, in reality, two faces to the same sick beast. There is a widespread blindness, which keeps millions from seeing how they have been fooled by this fabrication.
But it was not always so. Nor will it always be.
In other tracts I have spoken of other types of systems — of the honor of medieval Japan, of the glorious, wild American Indians, and of shining Europe during the period effete scholars today call its “Dark Age.”
One thing history tells us, over and over again. Throughout all eras, some have commanded, while others have obeyed. It is a pattern of loyalty and power that is both honorable and natural. Feudalism has always been our way, as a species, ever since we foraged in wild bands and screamed defiance at each other from opposing hilltops.