The minute Pace Patton saw Diedre Grace’s America Pass, he knew it was a forgery. A very good one, but a forgery nonetheless.
“Lemme see here … says you are Citizen Grace, number 59834, Atlantic Territory. Where are you headed?” he asked, pretending to carefully examine her ID.
“Looking for work, sir,” she said, adjusting her faded green backpack. “It’s mostly dried up here in Norfolk, so I figured I’d head further north. Saw you pull over and was hoping I could ride with you a ways.”
Patton’s jeep had official government markings on it, and an America Pass was required for any passenger.
“Sure thing. I’m headed up the coast, so if you see a place you want to stop, let me know and I’ll drop you off. Just call me Pace, by the way. No need for formalities.”
“Copy that. Call me Diedre.”
After several miles on the road, the rider/driver dynamic between Diedre and Pace began to evolve into something else entirely.
First there were the obligatory, “Where you from?” exchanges, followed by vague niceties about their personal histories. The more they talked, the more Pace believed he was riding with a kindred spirit.
Feeling confident that he knew what the sturdy-built hitchhiker was up to, Pace decided to test her.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Diedre replied.
“Why are you really traveling to the north?”
Diedre was puzzled … she thought the question had been asked and answered during earlier “car talk.”
“Like I said, just looking for work. Only so much I can do on what’s left of the port in Norfolk, so I’m moving on.”
Pace wasn’t buying it.
“You just sound like a woman on a mission,” he said. “And if you are on a mission, just what is it? Most people going this direction want to find out about the Philadelphia Freedoms, and as you know, the government frowns on that particular pursuit, especially after the Uprising of ’29.”
Named after the old World Team Tennis Team from the 1970s that inspired an Elton John song, the Philadelphia Freedoms were allegedly a group of revolutionaries headquartered in Pennsylvania. Rumored to be plotting to infiltrate and ultimately overtake the Imperial America regime, state media contended that the entire movement was weak and disorganized, and had already been quelled.
Diedre was taken aback: Pace was on to her, and that meant the situation could get volatile at any moment.
“My mission is to make money so I can eat. That’s the mission of a lot of people these days,” she said, slowly moving her hand to the right pocket where her mini stun gun was hidden.
Pace pretended not to notice.
“It’s just little things you’ve mentioned here and there make me think you have bigger plans. Then again, maybe you’re just running away from something. Is your home situation bad? Are you trying to get a divorce and the guy’s standing in the way? Are you in trouble with the law? Have you broken the Patriot Code? I just want to understand.”
Early on Diedre had to catch herself because she felt at ease talking to Pace. Now, however, she was on the defensive. He had spent the drive buttering her up, and was probably taking her to the nearest work camp. He was, after all, driving a government-issued vehicle.
She tried to remain calm, but made sure her hand was firmly on her weapon.
“Never married, no family to speak of, no debts owed, no ties to the Mob, not on any government watch list – unless you know something I don’t,” Diedre said, avoiding eye contact with Pace. “Like I said, I just need a job. Plus, I’ve never been up north before and now seems like the perfect time to visit, especially with the Border War still hot. How about you? Are you just out looking for bounty money?”
Pace toyed with the idea of immediately telling Diedre the truth, but thought better of it. He wondered how long it’d be before she tried to turn the tables on him.
“Just making the rounds … like a good American.”
The elephant in the room – or in the car – was the fact that a thousand dollar bounty was available for anyone who rounded up a suspected revolutionary and turned them in at a Patriot Code checkpoint.
With her fake America Pass – and her assumption that Pace was an official of Imperial America – Diedre was either trying to hijack his vehicle or take him hostage in hopes of gaining information.
So Pace eased off the road, came to a stop, and turned off the engine.
“Before you zap me with your stun gun – yes, I know you have a stun gun – you should probably know this isn’t my vehicle and I don’t work for the government,” Pace said. “Well, I’m in the government, but I’m working against it. They just don’t realize it yet. There are a whole lot more of us than you might think.”
He then raised the sleeve on his left arm to reveal a tattoo of Elton John banging on a piano.
Diedre smiled.
“Subtle,” she said.
Pace nodded.
“I hoped you’d notice. Now … what do I need to know to know that we’re working together?
“Release date of the song was February 28, 1975,” Diedre said. “It was written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin for Billie Jean King. Now your turn.”
“B-side was I Saw Here Standing There,” Pace replied. “It was a live performance with John Lennon.”
The pair breathed a sigh of relief and shook hands.
“By the way, Pace is an alias. But I imagine you already knew that. My real name’s Fess Douglass. And you?
“Tubman … Henrietta Tubman.”
Douglass cranked up the engine and steered back onto the road.
Philadelphia was still a couple of hours away.
Freedoms? Well, those would likely take a bit longer to get back.
