Directive 51 (62 page)

“If that was where the blow fell, then depending where the Atlantic Fleet was, they may have taken some damage too. I hope you’ll remember them in your prayers.

“And please, everyone, keep looking for the pilot of that Navy fighter. He ejected and his chute opened, we all saw that, but he might have come down as much as ten miles away from where we did. If he hasn’t found a nice town like this, or a friendly farm, he might be pretty cold and hungry right now, and of course he might’ve been hurt by the fire in his plane, or in the ejection. Please keep looking out for him.”

Not bad for a guy who’s no politician, Graham,
Heather thought.
Some of the vets-first crowd is nodding like you really pleased them.

“Anyway, let me point out an irony here: if the Pittsburgh EMP turns out to have been a clear-cut act of war, then the political difference between me and the NCCC will be
zero.
None, zip,
nada
. If it really is a war, we’ll go win that war. And we’ll do it without abrogating or mauling our Constitution. I understand that Mr. Nguyen-Peters acted in good faith, feeling that in time of war the country must have a president who is committed to that war—but that’s
not
what it says in our Constitution.

“The Constitution makes the President the Commander in Chief, so it gives him the duty to repel foreign attacks. But it doesn’t require him to see them when they aren’t there. He owes you his judgment and perception as much as he owes you his loyal, energetic service.

“Up till today, I saw no war. Once I become more acquainted with the evidence—and I will be getting more of it soon, I believe, from many sources—then if indeed we are under attack and at war, I will contact Mr. Nguyen-Peters, offer him an apology, and reconcile; I will not want to lose a man of his abilities when our needs are so great.

“On the other hand, should the evidence prove—as I believe—that Daybreak and the terrorist attacks associated with it were the result of a now-extinguished system artifact, a terrible self-organization of the malicious and wilful destructive side of all of us, manifested through a technology we did not fully understand—if the evidence shows it—then I call on Mr. Nguyen-Peters, his supporters, and whatever civil governments and military units may have aligned with him, to join with us in reconciliation, without any penalty or prejudice. It is the holiday season; it is appropriate for there to be peace among men of good will, and deep though our differences are, bound though I am by the Constitution, I extend my hand, and hope to find it clasped by another man of good will.”

The vote on “Resolved: That the Village of Pale Bluff recognizes Graham Weisbrod as President of the United States of America and so will offer all needed assistance within our power,” was 289 for, 36 against.

There was one more item of business on the agenda; Quattro Larsen asked for volunteers to help him walk back to the DC-3 and see if it could be rehabbed. “I’m guessing,” he explained, “that it’s a matter of replacing some wires and fuses, and probably rebuilding the spark coil, and I guess I’ll have to figure out what to do about the deflated tires, so far away from any source of compressed air. But it seems like a shame to lose one of the few remaining airplanes, and honestly, it’s kind of my baby; I’ve worked on it so long that I guess whether I get volunteer help here or not, I’ll be walking back there tomorrow to work on it again.”

He had half a dozen volunteers immediately.

After the meeting, as they were shown to their rooms in the community center’s emergency shelter (four large bedrooms with six cots each, usually used for when flooding or fire left a family homeless), a small woman with narrow glasses, gray hair, and a too-lumpy-to-be anything-but-home-knitted poinsettia-patterned sweater approached. “President Weisbrod? I’m Carol May Kloster. I’m the Secretary for the Town Meeting.”

“Pleased to meet you—I was a secretary till recently, myself!”

The woman flushed deeply. “I, uh, I took down your remarks in shorthand; I was wondering . . . would you mind signing them, and maybe dating them? Because I think I might have just seen the most history I’ll ever see, up close. I’m sorry all I have for you to sign with is the pencil I took the notes in.”

Weisbrod smiled broadly. “Carol May Kloster, I was hoping there’d be notes, because I’m not sure I remember what all I said—I was speaking from the back of a parking-ticket envelope I scribbled about twenty words on.” He signed and dated with a flourish.

As he turned to go to his room, Allison Sok Banh was standing in front of him. “Graham,” she said softly, “what have you done?”

“I did something wrong?”

“You pledged to give up the presidency that it’s already cost us our safety and security—and a couple of men their lives—to give to you. What if it turns out that the EMP
is
the proof that we really are in a war?”

“It might be ironic, but it would simplify things,” Weisbrod said. “And I wouldn’t give up being President; the legitimate succession is too valuable. I’d just tell Cameron I was willing to stooge for him, take the oath, and do and say whatever he told me to; as soon as he had a Congress available, I’d appoint whoever he picked as VP, and resign immediately after confirmation. If he does turn out to be right, what else can I decently do?”

She was standing very close and glaring into his eyes; her intense anger startled him. “
You’re
the president. If it turns out we’re in a war, you’re supposed to lead us, as best you can—not find someone else to do it, not take instructions, but
lead
. Having been wrong once doesn’t excuse you from doing your duty.” She seemed to force herself to stop before saying more than she wanted to, and finished with, “The Constitution and the Congress made you the president. Be the president.”

“Well, at the moment,” Weisbrod said, “my presidential priorities are identifying a place for the president to sleep tonight.” He meant it as a light joke to deflect the subject; but he saw in her face what she had thought for a moment, and that it was a welcome thought. Awkwardly, he said good night; looking down, he realized he was holding her hands.

When he looked up again, she was smiling. She squeezed his hands and said, “Sleep well,” and was gone around the corner to sleep with the other women tonight.

“You are going to be in deep shit for this,” Abel said, leaning over Chris’s shoulder, “and I am not so sure that I will not be in deep shit for setting it and printing it.”

Chris looked up and said, “Now you’re a critic.”

“I ain’t a critic, but if I got to be I’ll sure as shit be a censor. You are going to embarrass the crap out of the NCCC, and he is not going to take it well, because just now he’s dealing with the fact that he’s
sort of
the president, and Graham Weisbrod is
sort of
the president, and that’s one more than people are used to, so everyone’s good and nervous to begin with. Then on top of that, there’s the fact that good old Cam, it turns out, was keeping his good old buddy Graham all wrapped up tight in secret jail, and all the time giving out that they was still friends and Graham was calling the shots, which means NCCC-Cam’s now established for a big fat liar,
and
he’s got this escaped other president,
and
if that story about him taking the oath in that little town in Illinois from a city traffic judge is true, it’s a sworn-in and taking-control kind of president. Last time anything like this happened around here, a guy named Sherman burned the damn state down.”

“He also freed your ancestors.”

“Yeah. Everybody’s got some good points and sometimes you got to take the bitter with the sweet. But now that I’m free—and like you say, right now I’m America’s leading publisher and the founder of a media dynasty—I don’t want Georgia burned down anymore. It’s like once you
own
, instead of
rent
, you care about the property more, you know? No more Shermans, that’s what I say. And when you got two governments in one nation, that kind of thing can happen.”

Abel’s goofing around, of course, but he’s got a more-than-real point.
Chris considered for a moment. “How many people would you guess feel like you do?”

“All of ’em, if they have any brains. Look, go out in the street and interview the man in it, and tell me we ain’t worrying about a new Civil War. Talk to some of the army guys and see if they ain’t worried stiff that they’re gonna have to shoot some of their own. Ask a guy who just got a roof over his family’s head again, and something for his kids to eat, if he wants it bombed. And then ask any of them if they think it’s a good thing to have two governments, and one trying to arrest the other one. It’s like two cops gone bad, both playing for different gangs, and the whole damn country is stuck in the crossfire.”

“Well,” Chris said, rising from his chair and pulling on his hat. “Yeah, I think you’re right, I’d better get out and do some man-in-the-streets, and talk to some people up at the campus, and see if I can put together something about this.”

“I was trying to talk you out of it entirely. I’m telling you, you’re embarrassing the government, and that is not something a government forgives.”

“It’s Cam Nguyen-Peters, Abel. I know him. I’ve interviewed him over beer and pizza, you know? And there isn’t a guy in the whole blessed Republic with more of a commitment to the Constitution, which includes the First Amendment. I’m telling you, he is
not
going to jail a newspaper editor.”

Abel sat on the desk, resting his large, strong hands on his massive thighs, looking like an imminent human avalanche. “And I am telling you, you’re embarrassing a man with power, and two-thirds of his power is the respect he gets. And as for the Constitution, yeah, he loves it—and he’s trying his damnedest to put it back—because
we ain’t under it, right now
. And weren’t we just talking about him locking up a buddy? But I can’t stop you, so I guess I’m just gonna wait for my chance to say
I told you so
.”

“I guess we’ll have to go for a third printing,” Chris said, though his arms ached and he was thinking
They must call this job the printer’s devil because you work like hell
. “That’s the sixth newsboy to come in empty and needing more. We can set out the sandwich trays for them and have papers in their hands in an hour, if we hustle.”

Abel looked with satisfaction at the mountain of cans and jars, and the box stuffed with TNG scrip. “Definitely our most profitable day,” he said, “I got to give you that.”

They turned back to the press; it didn’t like to work this long without wipe-downs and general cleaning, as the lye they used to keep the nanoswarm off the electric motors tended to turn all the lubricants into soft brown soap that burned into black gunk in the bearings.
Have to tear the old girl down for a day after this run is over,
Chris thought.
Glad we’re not a daily yet.
He glanced down at the marked-up sample sheet.
Now,
this
headline will be part of history:

“Hey, Mr. Big Editor, quit daydreaming so Mr. Lowly Scum Printer’s Devil can get to work.”

“Caught!” Chris said, and started to move one of the big rolls of paper into the ready rack.

“Mr. Manckiewicz?” a voice said.

He turned to see a man who wore a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, and might as well have worn a sign around his neck: COP. The man held out a piece of paper and said, “I have a warrant; you need to come with me.”

“Am I being arrested? What are the charges?”

The man shrugged. “You’re to come with me. I’m authorized to use force if you won’t come peaceably. So are you coming with me?”

Chris looked around. Abel. Abel’s building and business. Newsboys eating and depending on him for their meals and work. And though Chris was in much better physical condition than he was a few months ago, this guy looked young and strong and probably had a gun.

“I’m coming,” he said. “Let me just get someone to help with the printing—”

“You won’t have to do that,” the man said, “because I have an order here that says no more of this edition is to be printed, and the paper is not to bring out any more editions till further notice.”

As they walked toward the campus, the man said nothing, despite Chris’s urgent questions.
I guess it’s not the accused that has the right to remain silent anymore,
he thought, and then
Hunh, an America where they don’t read you your rights.
That made it real to Chris; for the first time, ever, he felt
America is gone
.

Cameron Nguyen-Peters looked around the room.
Problem of balance in a democracy,
he thought.
You had to keep everyone loyal and on the same page in times of troubles, but you also had to give them the feeling that what they thought and felt, individually, mattered.
Democracy was the greatest system ever invented for producing buy-in, but it constantly risked turning everything into a debate.

“Well,” he said, “I think the first thing to say is that the results of the investigation at least indicate we were not crazy. There is no evidence that any of the conspirators had any involvement with any foreign power, or with any domestic Daybreak terrorist organization. Absolutely none. So one reason we didn’t see it coming was that they genuinely acted on their own—but that also means we haven’t just been hit by another attack from the actual enemy, we’re just suffering from disorder in our own ranks.”

The rest of the meeting ran like clockwork and the only people who talked were the ones making reports. Vaguely, at the end, Cameron thought,
I do miss the Weisbrod group; they had so many interesting ideas. But one thing to say for this team, they’ll never make me late for lunch.