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and another scene, as Benson heads north
Jun. 4th, 2018 12:57 pmScene # 2.3, draft # 1
*****************
It was cold the next morning. Benson didn't have enough time to have breakfast or even make coffee or tea, but he was so keyed up it didn't matter. He hurried out the door, and made his way down the dark streets, the four block walk to the bus stop over wet pavement. He waited five minutes for the bus, which was running on schedule, and not crowded. Boarding it numbly, Benson sat down near the middle door, putting his suitcase out of the aisle, and maintaining a firm grip on his backpack, cradled it in his lap like a mother holding a child.
Downtown near the transfer square, he caught a trolley to the train station. It was depressing for Benson, always, as he entered the old Union Station, now officially called Portland West District Main Junction. He recalled the days of the shiny marble, bustling crowds, the echoes of movement like in a cathedral, masses in motion, and the clean and friendly facility. Now it was dark, quiet, crumbling and bleak, the central waiting area long ago carved up into sections for military and commercial use, the wood and plastic dividers muffling the noise. Mold and cobwebs were in the corners. Boxes of junk and broken chairs littered the narrow aisle that passengers traveling by rail were funneled through, where their identification papers and travel vouchers were checked. The tile floor was chipped and filthy, but not so hard that numerous vagrants weren't using it to catch some sleep, out of the rain.
Benson made his way through the security check rather easily, his government credentials being good for at least that one perk. Considering what was in his luggage, that was a nice perk indeed. He made his way to the last of four passenger cars, which contained the passenger compartments at higher class levels. He peered down the tracks, where about two dozen freight and tanker cars and a diesel engine in the distance comprised the rest of the train. He managed to find his way to the second class seat, where he was pleased to see that he was sharing the compartment with only one other person. He stored his suitcase, his backpack, and his jacket and hat in a small closet and then sat down on the bench seat on his side.
He nodded at the other man, who was middle-aged and somewhat younger than Benson. “Good morning.”
The other man nodded curtly and replied, “Good morning.” He opened his newspaper, covering his face, discouraging further conversation.
Benson smiled to himself. These days, you never know who might be sitting or standing next to you, so was always a prudent and preferred path to pretty much say nothing to anyone. He sat quietly, looking out the window of the train, waiting for it to depart in the darkness and mist, and the first gray light of dawn. He held a book in his hand, a government regulation on raising chickens, unopened.
Within a few minutes and with a sharp jerk, followed by a smoothly accelerating clickety-clack, the train got underway. Benson knew that the main route was going to be cars that were pulled by a diesel electric engine, and relatively quick and smooth. After Spokane, however, the local line further north would change to a rickety steam locomotive, using wood for fuel. The tracks would be maintained at a lower standard, and the going slower.
An hour later the train passed through Hood River, briefly stopping for passengers, and the continued traveling along the south side of the Columbia River. The landscape was changing quickly now, from the green Willamette Valley and tall firs to the drier scrub of the lee side of the Cascades. The sun was up, the rays slanting weakly through the trees, the fog and low clouds giving way to clear blue skies.
The man seated across from Benson finished his paper, folding it neatly and placing it on the seat beside him.
“Do you mind if I read that paper? I forgot to get one in the station.”
The man looked annoyed for a moment, then remembered he and Benson were traveling in a coach reserved for government officials. He nodded and said, “Sure.” He handed it to Benson.
“Any interesting news?” Benson figured it was best to be polite.
“Not really. The weather looks pretty good this week, though a bit cooler than normal. The Southern Forces are putting down some skirmishes east of Las Vegas, and southwest of Denver, near the old Four Corners area. I'm sure that won't take long.”
Benson grunted as he opened the paper. He had his doubts, since it was two years ago the “skirmishes” between the well-equipped Army and Air Forces of the government were taking place near the Rio Grande river further south. The ghost of Pancho Via was alive and well.
“We could use some good weather this spring to allow for a better crop this year, and bump up the food reserves. Prices are going up.” Benson put a perplexed look on his face. “Not sure why, since the numbers have been pretty steady. I work in the Audit Division by the way, so I see the numbers on a regular basis.”
“I see,” replied the other man. “I'm a professor over at Reed Institute, and I'm heading up to a meeting in Spokane. My specialty is cultural analysis, specifically concerning the ongoing impact of some of the religious groups, or cults, in the Outland, including their raids on government supplies.”
Benson felt an ice cold pang streak through the pit of his stomach. He looked closely at the man, but didn't detect a smirk or knowing look. He held out his hand. “The name is Benson, Arthur Benson.”
The other man, surprised for a moment, shook his hand. “Professor Wolfgang Frederick. Perhaps you've heard of my work concerning the Branch Davidians or the Jasmine Breeze movement. My analysis was a significant factor in eliminating that threat.”
Benson nodded politely. “Yes, I do recall your name associated with that uprising.” Benson actually knew just the basics of the event. “That was back in the fall of 2029, right?”
“Late summer, actually. Two skirmishes in August, and then the stand-off in September. Brought up some memories of Ruby Ridge for the old timers, and the old border wars for the locals in North Platte. It didn't take long to squash them.”
Benson needed to know more. “I didn't realize there were religious groups causing any trouble, though I know the black market trade has picked up recently.”
Frederick nodded grimly. “These groups are difficult to stamp out, even after the loss of a charismatic leader. The rank and file tend to get sucked into another group soon after, as there's always someone who in the midst of a power trip thinks they can rise up, drive changes and be great.”
The train clattered along, the dry brown landscape in sharp contrast to the deep blue sky and waters of the river. Benson glanced out the window, and then thoughtfully asked, “Do these groups represent a real threat?”
“From a military or security perspective, no. But the long-term effects of the underlying messages can create problems, since they're chasing dreams of a supposedly better life.” Frederick shook his head. “In spite of evidence to the contrary, these fools think that self-determination is some sort of right, and don't grasp the benefits for full support of the State.”
Benson nodded, inwardly grimacing. Not that the State really cared about the Outlanders, he thought. “So what groups are we talking about, and how do they stay organized with so few resources?”
“Good question.” Obviously Frederick was warming to the task, being a man who enjoyed hearing himself chatter on. “They have a very strict need-to-know personal relationship among the members, with most knowing only one or two others in the group - for sure. They maintain communication with a very flat organizational structure, meaning there's only a couple of hops in the chain of command from the leader to the foot soldiers.”
Frederick stretched on his bench seat, now more relaxed. “Many of the groups are local, and are just sub-splinters off a church group, like the Voyagers or the Burning Redwoods. They'll most likely never amount to much, but will maybe will start a local labor strike or something. But others, like the Mentors or God Loves Only Warriors are larger, and have a central control structure that keeps them in touch with rebels and criminals, government workers, enemy agents and other key figures. These groups are the ones we need to keep an eye on.”
Benson felt another cold pang of fear, but Frederick didn't seem to imply any hidden meaning in his words.
The train made a scheduled stop in The Dalles, and then slowed again when crossing the Columbia further up the river. Benson and Frederick continued their conversation, changing topics now and then, but Benson learned nothing more about GLOW, or the level of intelligence the government had on the group. Frederick talked about his work, thinly disguising his egotistical bragging as an informative life story. He remarked how in his paper on the Branch Davidians, it was a breach in operational security that had provided warning about the raid, and the standoff and tragedy could have been completely avoided with a change of tactics. Frederick had then made a career out of consulting with government security forces, and implementing changes to ensure more effective removals of the threats.
The train continued on for a couple of more hours on the north side of the river before arriving in Pasco. There another pair of passengers joined them in their compartment, and the conversation was limited after that. By mid-afternoon the train arrived in Spokane, and Benson and Frederick exchanged business cards while gathering up their belongings.
“I've been directed to identify problems like we had in Pocatello a couple of weeks ago, and your expertise may help with that,” said Benson. “I may have some more questions for you, or want to attend one of your training sessions, if that's possible.”
Frederick nodded. “We're always looking for another set of eyes and ears.”
*****************
It was cold the next morning. Benson didn't have enough time to have breakfast or even make coffee or tea, but he was so keyed up it didn't matter. He hurried out the door, and made his way down the dark streets, the four block walk to the bus stop over wet pavement. He waited five minutes for the bus, which was running on schedule, and not crowded. Boarding it numbly, Benson sat down near the middle door, putting his suitcase out of the aisle, and maintaining a firm grip on his backpack, cradled it in his lap like a mother holding a child.
Downtown near the transfer square, he caught a trolley to the train station. It was depressing for Benson, always, as he entered the old Union Station, now officially called Portland West District Main Junction. He recalled the days of the shiny marble, bustling crowds, the echoes of movement like in a cathedral, masses in motion, and the clean and friendly facility. Now it was dark, quiet, crumbling and bleak, the central waiting area long ago carved up into sections for military and commercial use, the wood and plastic dividers muffling the noise. Mold and cobwebs were in the corners. Boxes of junk and broken chairs littered the narrow aisle that passengers traveling by rail were funneled through, where their identification papers and travel vouchers were checked. The tile floor was chipped and filthy, but not so hard that numerous vagrants weren't using it to catch some sleep, out of the rain.
Benson made his way through the security check rather easily, his government credentials being good for at least that one perk. Considering what was in his luggage, that was a nice perk indeed. He made his way to the last of four passenger cars, which contained the passenger compartments at higher class levels. He peered down the tracks, where about two dozen freight and tanker cars and a diesel engine in the distance comprised the rest of the train. He managed to find his way to the second class seat, where he was pleased to see that he was sharing the compartment with only one other person. He stored his suitcase, his backpack, and his jacket and hat in a small closet and then sat down on the bench seat on his side.
He nodded at the other man, who was middle-aged and somewhat younger than Benson. “Good morning.”
The other man nodded curtly and replied, “Good morning.” He opened his newspaper, covering his face, discouraging further conversation.
Benson smiled to himself. These days, you never know who might be sitting or standing next to you, so was always a prudent and preferred path to pretty much say nothing to anyone. He sat quietly, looking out the window of the train, waiting for it to depart in the darkness and mist, and the first gray light of dawn. He held a book in his hand, a government regulation on raising chickens, unopened.
Within a few minutes and with a sharp jerk, followed by a smoothly accelerating clickety-clack, the train got underway. Benson knew that the main route was going to be cars that were pulled by a diesel electric engine, and relatively quick and smooth. After Spokane, however, the local line further north would change to a rickety steam locomotive, using wood for fuel. The tracks would be maintained at a lower standard, and the going slower.
An hour later the train passed through Hood River, briefly stopping for passengers, and the continued traveling along the south side of the Columbia River. The landscape was changing quickly now, from the green Willamette Valley and tall firs to the drier scrub of the lee side of the Cascades. The sun was up, the rays slanting weakly through the trees, the fog and low clouds giving way to clear blue skies.
The man seated across from Benson finished his paper, folding it neatly and placing it on the seat beside him.
“Do you mind if I read that paper? I forgot to get one in the station.”
The man looked annoyed for a moment, then remembered he and Benson were traveling in a coach reserved for government officials. He nodded and said, “Sure.” He handed it to Benson.
“Any interesting news?” Benson figured it was best to be polite.
“Not really. The weather looks pretty good this week, though a bit cooler than normal. The Southern Forces are putting down some skirmishes east of Las Vegas, and southwest of Denver, near the old Four Corners area. I'm sure that won't take long.”
Benson grunted as he opened the paper. He had his doubts, since it was two years ago the “skirmishes” between the well-equipped Army and Air Forces of the government were taking place near the Rio Grande river further south. The ghost of Pancho Via was alive and well.
“We could use some good weather this spring to allow for a better crop this year, and bump up the food reserves. Prices are going up.” Benson put a perplexed look on his face. “Not sure why, since the numbers have been pretty steady. I work in the Audit Division by the way, so I see the numbers on a regular basis.”
“I see,” replied the other man. “I'm a professor over at Reed Institute, and I'm heading up to a meeting in Spokane. My specialty is cultural analysis, specifically concerning the ongoing impact of some of the religious groups, or cults, in the Outland, including their raids on government supplies.”
Benson felt an ice cold pang streak through the pit of his stomach. He looked closely at the man, but didn't detect a smirk or knowing look. He held out his hand. “The name is Benson, Arthur Benson.”
The other man, surprised for a moment, shook his hand. “Professor Wolfgang Frederick. Perhaps you've heard of my work concerning the Branch Davidians or the Jasmine Breeze movement. My analysis was a significant factor in eliminating that threat.”
Benson nodded politely. “Yes, I do recall your name associated with that uprising.” Benson actually knew just the basics of the event. “That was back in the fall of 2029, right?”
“Late summer, actually. Two skirmishes in August, and then the stand-off in September. Brought up some memories of Ruby Ridge for the old timers, and the old border wars for the locals in North Platte. It didn't take long to squash them.”
Benson needed to know more. “I didn't realize there were religious groups causing any trouble, though I know the black market trade has picked up recently.”
Frederick nodded grimly. “These groups are difficult to stamp out, even after the loss of a charismatic leader. The rank and file tend to get sucked into another group soon after, as there's always someone who in the midst of a power trip thinks they can rise up, drive changes and be great.”
The train clattered along, the dry brown landscape in sharp contrast to the deep blue sky and waters of the river. Benson glanced out the window, and then thoughtfully asked, “Do these groups represent a real threat?”
“From a military or security perspective, no. But the long-term effects of the underlying messages can create problems, since they're chasing dreams of a supposedly better life.” Frederick shook his head. “In spite of evidence to the contrary, these fools think that self-determination is some sort of right, and don't grasp the benefits for full support of the State.”
Benson nodded, inwardly grimacing. Not that the State really cared about the Outlanders, he thought. “So what groups are we talking about, and how do they stay organized with so few resources?”
“Good question.” Obviously Frederick was warming to the task, being a man who enjoyed hearing himself chatter on. “They have a very strict need-to-know personal relationship among the members, with most knowing only one or two others in the group - for sure. They maintain communication with a very flat organizational structure, meaning there's only a couple of hops in the chain of command from the leader to the foot soldiers.”
Frederick stretched on his bench seat, now more relaxed. “Many of the groups are local, and are just sub-splinters off a church group, like the Voyagers or the Burning Redwoods. They'll most likely never amount to much, but will maybe will start a local labor strike or something. But others, like the Mentors or God Loves Only Warriors are larger, and have a central control structure that keeps them in touch with rebels and criminals, government workers, enemy agents and other key figures. These groups are the ones we need to keep an eye on.”
Benson felt another cold pang of fear, but Frederick didn't seem to imply any hidden meaning in his words.
The train made a scheduled stop in The Dalles, and then slowed again when crossing the Columbia further up the river. Benson and Frederick continued their conversation, changing topics now and then, but Benson learned nothing more about GLOW, or the level of intelligence the government had on the group. Frederick talked about his work, thinly disguising his egotistical bragging as an informative life story. He remarked how in his paper on the Branch Davidians, it was a breach in operational security that had provided warning about the raid, and the standoff and tragedy could have been completely avoided with a change of tactics. Frederick had then made a career out of consulting with government security forces, and implementing changes to ensure more effective removals of the threats.
The train continued on for a couple of more hours on the north side of the river before arriving in Pasco. There another pair of passengers joined them in their compartment, and the conversation was limited after that. By mid-afternoon the train arrived in Spokane, and Benson and Frederick exchanged business cards while gathering up their belongings.
“I've been directed to identify problems like we had in Pocatello a couple of weeks ago, and your expertise may help with that,” said Benson. “I may have some more questions for you, or want to attend one of your training sessions, if that's possible.”
Frederick nodded. “We're always looking for another set of eyes and ears.”
