Authors: John Barnes
“Yes, sir,” the Marine captain said. “More coffee all around for the guests, please, Chief? And for everyone? And there’s more ice cream, guests go first but I don’t want one drop of that wasted. We’ve got a while ahead of us, these things are fast but not that fast. Randy, let me know when you want me to take over and fly for a while.”
As they flew on to the northwest, the pilot revealed himself as a man who liked to talk. Jason decided that in light of his second bowl of ice cream, he could listen for a week if he had to. The pilot said, “Funny that the old Nimitz-class carriers outlasted all the new Ford-class ones, but those Fords were bad-luck ships from the beginning—the
Ford
herself set a record for going aground that I don’t suppose any carrier could possibly match, the terrorists sank poor old
Franklin Roosevelt
the year she was launched,
W
was zapped in the South China Sea EMP and then eaten by nanos, and, well, who the hell decided to name a ship after Jimmy Carter? It was like they were asking for what happened to it. But the Nimitzes kept right on ticking for most of this past year.
Bush
was the last, though, and in twenty years no one will remember there ever were aircraft carriers at all. I guess if Sam dreams about the sea, he’ll dream about commanding a ship-of-the-line.”
Phat cleared his throat. Very softly, he said, “Do you know who I am? Because you came here to rescue me.”
“Uh, no, sir, I don’t, and I didn’t mean any offense—”
“And none was taken. Lyndon Phat, known to those who do not wish to live much longer as ‘Shorty,’ general, U.S. Army, at one time the commander of military forces for the TNG, and as soon as I get to Pueblo and announce it—candidate for president of the United States in 2026. Which I will win, if for no other reason than that I will be damned if I’ll lose to that slimeball Grayson. And as for that ship-of-the-line, by the time Sam is your age, he’ll be bucking for a berth on the expedition to the moon, to shut that Daybreak gun down. Depend on it.”
“We all like to fly, sir.” They flew on through the silent dark. Hours later, dawn raced out from behind them and illuminated the mountains. Recent snow, and wood smoke rising from hundreds of chimneys, made it all look like a Christmas card from a hundred years ago.
THAT AFTERNOON. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 3 PM EST. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 2025.
Grayson had slept until almost two; Whilmire, sitting across the table from him while he ate an enormous mid-day breakfast, said, “Well, it’s not any surprise to
me
that you have excellent taste in wives. Jenny issued a number of remarkably brutal threats about what would happen if you were not allowed your sleep, and having known her since her birth, I knew enough to take them seriously.”
“Daddy,” Jenny said, “I’ve got a husband to take care of.” She squeezed Grayson’s biceps. “And the next president of the United States.”
“I was going to ask if that was still on,” Grayson said, “because it seemed to me, after last night—”
Whilmire smiled. “Actually, things are
better
. First of all, as far as anyone in Pueblo can prove, you and Cameron Nguyen-Peters were trying to free Lyndon Phat, and the Natcon was killed by people blocking your plan. I’m sure the public will have their suspicions, but for public consumption, you come out looking like a fair man so devoted to the Constitution that you’ll risk your own life to restore it. Second, the actual interference with the escape came from a surprise assault by tribals that you defeated in battle. Of course, again, that O’Grainne woman won’t believe us, she’s not stupid, but our friends have every reason to keep believing us, our enemies were not going to anyway, and the people who just can’t make up their minds have an excellent reason to lean our way, because we’ve got the more appealing story. And to top it all off, problems between the Post Raptural Church and the government will be diminishing very shortly.”
Grayson said, “I realize I’m less doctrinaire about the Constitution than Cam—”
“Oh, I know there will be less truculence from the government side, but there will be
far
less pressure and hassle from the Church side.” Whilmire looked professionally sad. “I am afraid that Reverend Abner Peet has found it necessary to step down.” At Grayson’s startled expression, he added, “We’ve put together a story about the stress of the job. Confidentially, what happened is that the militia, pursuing tribals who were trying to flee through town after your battle, discovered he was harboring a wounded tribal girl in his house, and when they tried to arrest her, Reverend Peet assaulted them. It emerged that she was hiding in his house because she knew he would hide her, and that the relationship had been a close one for some months. It would appear that poor old Doctor Arnold Yang was not the only person Daybreak had found a way to.”
Grayson peered at Whilmire, looking for any reaction or feeling, and saw none. “You know, I never really liked either man, and I tried to tell myself that the reason Arnie Yang could be sucked into Daybreak was that he was too interested in it, and besides he was a liberal elitist who thought he was smarter than all of us, and since I didn’t like him anyway . . . well. I didn’t like Peet, either, but you sure can’t say he was vulnerable because he was too smart. Or too impressed with his own cleverness. And looking back, I wasn’t being fair to Yang, just being scared about what it meant. Daybreak is going to try to take over all of us, at least if we’re potentially useful, I mean, and it doesn’t just want to kill us. And Daybreak could probably succeed with any of us; nobody’s immune or secure against it.” He shook his head, looking down into his coffee cup, not wanting either his political partner or his wife to see how shaken he was by the thought.
“It’s a lesson in caution for us all. So Reverend Peet will be staying at a secure facility while we try to understand what happened to him; we can’t let Pueblo be the only outfit that understands how Daybreak works in the individual mind. Unfortunately the girl went into a seizure, lost consciousness, and died, to some extent of her wounds.”
“So with Reverend Peet out of the game, the new head of the Post Raptural Church is, uh,
you
, sir?”
Whilmire spread his hands. “There was really no one else with my knowledge or experience, and at a difficult time like this, we need a steady, skilled hand on the job. Not to mention a prepared mind.” He leaned forward. “And your life is going to become easier because I believe the Church
needs
to liberalize on several issues, and I’ll be pursuing that both within the Church and on the Board of the Temporary National Government. It is my belief that we have to respect the fact that our people are independent and diverse, which are my polite words for cranky and mixed-up, and therefore the Church cannot expect full obedience yet, which is my very discreet way of saying that even down here, we are overrun with unbelievers and secularists and nutcases from the cults, and they will go off like a bomb if we try to exert our authority too quickly, so we have got to lay low till we have the strength to make them do the right thing.
“For the time being, my church and your government will be tolerated as long as we don’t impose much on our people, especially as long as we don’t call attention to the fact that Mister Nguyen-Peters was our last link to legitimacy. We cannot even think of reversing anything he agreed to. So since we cannot beat them, I suggest we join them. Ease up our grip, you know? Let people have one old-fashioned roistering anarchic election, let our supporters see the leftists run loose, to remind the Christian Americans how furious it makes them to have God and the flag disrespected. For every recruit the other side gains by being able to say and print whatever they want, they will lose five people into our column, from people hearing socialist anti-God crap they never wanted to hear again. Look at the map—a religious conservative candidate, especially if he can become popular in Wabash and Superior, can win in a landslide, with long coattails. The losses of last night are truly nothing compared with the chance to put in a legitimate, Constitutional government of principled religious conservatives to lead us for the remainder of Tribulation.
“So, General Son-in-Law, there is nothing to worry about, which is the real reason why I didn’t object to letting you sleep. Things are better than could be hoped for. You’ll still have your expedition, your victories, your fame, and your campaign; we’ll still defeat the Provi liberals and socialists, whether they run Weisbrod or Phat, and especially if they run both. You’re still going to be president. And that’s why I came here to tell you personally. We all have our duties, and some are pleasant.”
THAT NIGHT. OLYMPIA, NEW DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. 10:30 PM PST. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 2025.
“You do realize you are taking a huge risk by being here,” Allie said, coolly opening the closet door in her bedroom to reveal Darcage.
It was the first time she’d ever seen him at a loss for words.
“Did Daybreak tell you to try again even though you hadn’t been able to get in the last four times?” she asked. “Didn’t that make you worry that Daybreak might be sacrificing you?”
“It would be an honor to be sacrificed for Daybreak.” He stood, a little dignity returning. “I am deep-trained,” he added. “You know what a seizure is like in someone who is only partly recruited. You know how much worse it is in someone like Ysabel Roth. You cannot take me prisoner without sending me into a seizure that will be fatal.”
“That’s what Daybreak finds it useful for you to believe. Stop being melodramatic; if I wanted to catch you, it would have been guards, not me, that opened the closet door.” She perched on the edge of her desk, crossing her legs and letting her skirt ride up.
Hunh. I’d get more reaction out of a gay zombie. Interesting.
“Your husband the president, and all his security people, must surely know that you are meeting me and what we are talking about,” Darcage said. “Perhaps I should just allow myself to think that I am hopelessly caught and my death would be best for Daybreak.”
“You could do that and you might die before our people sedated you,” Allie agreed. “Why don’t you?”
“It would be better to hear your offer first.”
“Come back through the rear entrance at 10 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning. Don’t dress tribal. No tricks. If they find a weapon on you they’ll kill you right there. You have an appointment with me. I will tell you how Daybreak can be useful to me, and you will carry the message back to Daybreak, which will then either decide to be useful, or not.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Daybreak won’t. Now go. Guards will take you out by a secret route.” The door opened and two of the President’s Own Rangers, their ears swathed in gauze, came in, nodded, and grabbed Darcage, pushing and shoving him along, none too gently.
Graham came in and said, “Well, we listened. I suppose I should be alarmed at how convincing you sounded.”
“Just part of the job,” she said. “Tomorrow morning will tell the tale, and as you heard, there’s not much to analyze about the conversation. Early bed tonight?”
“I’d like that.”
As she brushed her long, thick black hair, Allie watched herself in the mirror and thought,
Everyone keeps me in the game because they think I might work for them. But who do
I
think I’m working for?
She saw only her own smile in the mirror.
NINETEEN:
WAR BEGAN NEXT WEDNESDAY
6 DAYS LATER. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 7:30 PM MST. WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2025.
Heather thought about telling them all, since there was no one there to remember, that it was the anniversary of Lenny’s death, that Leo was too young to understand words about his father, that in a world where the great majority were dead, and her old friends from that time all lost to her, she ached to talk about Lenny and could not. She had wanted to put together some kind of celebration with her friends, not to be alone that night.
Reading her mind, as he often seemed to these days, James had claimed he felt like cooking a big meal, gathered everyone to his house so that Heather had nothing to do but be there, and told her to talk about whatever she wanted, to whomever she wanted, and just do whatever felt right.
James himself was over in the corner, laughing and happy because Leslie was there, hanging with Larry and Debbie Mensche and with Jason and Beth.
There’s a group of people that appreciates civilization,
she thought.
She looked around to see if Chris was still telling stories—“some true” as he liked to put it—to Cassie, Patrick, and the other younger people; Patrick had been all but struck mute with awe that he and Ntale had been invited, but good food and attention from friendly adults had thawed him out. Chris had moved on, and the kids were laughing and whispering like any teenagers trapped at a grown-up party and entertaining each other.
Heather went into the main room. She missed Quattro and Bambi, still stuck in California straightening out the mess of merging the Leagues, and the presence of so many friends seemed only to remind her of the ones who were not there.
When she saw Chris talking with Phat—and taking notes as he did—she came over and said, “Hey, this is a party. No working at the party.”
“Okay,” Chris said, slamming his notepad shut and mock-whining like a small boy, “but I want to get started turning the general into a hero. Remember, when Leo over here is an old fart like us, he’ll tell stories, and the more heroes and the less truth they contain, the better everyone will like them. Right, Leo?”
Leo made a sleepy, whining noise.
“I think that means ‘leave me out of this,’” Heather said. “And it’s probably time for me to call it an evening.”
With no moon out, the clear sky was smeared with stars, twinkling fiercely through the still-sooty upper air. Leo was pressed in tight against her, under her cloak, and she hurried toward home in the cold.
Ahead of her, lights were disappearing as candles and lanterns were blown out; nowadays, Pueblo, the liveliest city in America, went to bed early.
The day you died, Lenny, we were a united country, but in the deepest shit we’d ever been in. And here we are again, except less united and in deeper shit. But overall, it feels like a victory, which makes no sense.
She stood a moment in the street, as if listening to his voice, and then turned to look back at James’s house, still crowded with light and people—
her
people—and saw, as plainly as all the lines and charts, tables and notes that occupied her working hours, that it did make sense, after all.