Ecco hurried into the public restroom by the station. Freddie Pranger, Jesus, they sent Freddie Pranger to pick me up. Sure, part of Pranger’s reputation was just because he was buddies with Carol May Kloster, the star reporter around here, but still… this was like going into San Antonio and being met by Travis, Bowie, or Crockett.
And why should it matter how Freddie Pranger got to be famous, as long as he really is as good as they say? He refastened his fly. Buffalo Bill was nobody without Ned Buntline to report him. Ecco breathed deeply once, feeling the hand of his inner, smarter, braver self resting on his shoulder, and to himself he said, with far more confidence than he felt, Wanna be a legend, Steve Ecco, just like you’ve always dreamed? Here’s where we start.
2 DAYS LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 11:10 EST. TUESDAY, JULY 29, 2025.
As the train pulled into the station at Athens, Jeffrey Grayson rose from his seat, gaping at the crowded platform. “My God, there must be three hundred people out there.”
“More than that,” Jenny said. “Daddy promised me at least five hundred.”
Grayson sat down with a thump; he was forever discovering, one more time, the rigorously practical mind that was part of the package with Jenny’s pale blonde hair, big breasts, and constant adoring support. “He what? Were you—”
“Well, the family does have a house in Savannah, and Daddy went down there in another car on the same train we did. And then the next morning, you were getting a real good sleep for the first time in months, baby, and Daddy came by the hotel, and we went down to some early breakfast, and talked a little bit. That’s all.” She snuggled against him. “Just another enhancement to your career, baby.”
“Did it have anything to do with the Post Raptural riots—”
“Those were not riots. Daddy would not have anything to do with a riot. Those were the people exercising their ‘right peaceably to assemble for redress of grievances,’ just like it says in the Constitution, honey.”
“Quite a few local commanders would disagree. Especially the ones who were shot at.”
“You see, that’s the kind of media exaggeration—”
“That’s from the Weekly Insight, honey, which is the Post Raptural paper, and the only legal one in Athens.” He slipped his arm around her and said, “Jenny, I know your father is a politician with a backwards collar, and I know this is all part of ordinary life to you. And I’m doing my damnedest to learn to be a good politician besides being a good general. But every now and then you get way past me. I thought it was just some Post Raptural congregations throwing rocks and tantrums about Cam’s coup—which unfortunately, under the rules, he had every right to pull—”
“There are rights and there are rights, baby. Haven’t you thought about what I said about Tribulation? That even if Daybreak wasn’t really the Rapture, so this isn’t really Tribulation, this whole change is still doing the Lord’s work? And you can’t have more rights than you do when you’re doing God’s work. Now, the things you have to say to them are only that you understand their concerns, they should go home, and you’ll be meeting with Cam. All those things are true. Just say them.”
Before Grayson could emerge from his railroad car, militia troops had to clear a space on the platform; they helped him up onto an inverted crate, and that was the moment when he realized that like it or not, he would be giving a speech.
The crowd looked expectant, confused, afraid, angry—everything he could imagine. There weren’t many signs—paint of any kind was still scarce and difficult to make—but there was one bedsheet banner painted with II SAMUEL 17:3.
“What’s that verse?” he murmured to Jenny, who was standing next to him and holding his hand.
“Tell you later, baby, you have to talk to them now.”
The way they were looking at him convinced him she was right. Remembering what she’d outlined, he said, “Look, everyone, this is really a surprise, I thought I was just coming back from vacation. But I’m glad to see all of you here, and I’m honored that you turned out for me. I share many of your concerns and I understand what you are worried about.” (Now there is a lie, he thought.) “For right now, I’m going to ask you all to return to your homes, and to your daily lives, and wait patiently for news and developments. All of us love our country, all of us love our God, and all of us will work together to bring about the right course of action. I’ll be meeting with Natcon Nguyen-Peters later this afternoon, and of course there are matters we’ll have to discuss. For the moment, rest assured that your concerns have been heard.”
The wild cheers mystified him even further, but Jenny said, “Baby, that was perfect, especially for spontaneous. Now just give’em a short prayer, be sure you end with Jesus, and send’em all home.”
10 HOURS LATER. PULLMAN, WASHINGTON. 7:30 PM PST. TUESDAY, JULY 29, 2025.
Neville Jawarah was on the south wall, the dullest sector for a sentry in Pullman. The southeast gate took in at least a few refugees burned out by the tribals, fleeing along the old Lewis and Clark route, and some looters from Moscow. The west gate, at this time of day, would be almost busy, with the last few respectable traders coming in off the road; scammers and outlaws trying to pursue their prey; the inevitable, ubiquitous refugees looking for lost relatives; and a mix of spies pretending to be traders, crooks, or refugees. Most spies the sentries caught were from the tribes; a few were from Castles. There must also be some spies from the TNG, in far-off Athens, since Pullman was loyal to the PCG at Olympia, but presumably a Temper spy would be too competent and professional for an ordinary sentry to detect.
This lousy south wall looked out across the former Jackson Street, and beyond it, a two-block-wide swath of deliberately burned and leveled houses. A simple, gateless, eight-foot palisade with a catwalk four feet above the ground on the back side was adequate against opponents with rocks, spears, and bows. Their bows weren’t accurate enough at the distance, so Jawarah stood up, mostly thinking about the poker game tonight and the bets he had down with Jimmy for—
A man and a woman ran headlong into the cleared space from the narrow slot between a wrecked ranch house and its garage, straight for Jawarah.
The gray-bearded man wore a slouch hat, camo pants, deerskin shirt, and knee-high moc-boots. The younger woman was in baggy knee-length dirty red homemade pants, a belted gray tunic that hung to mid-thigh, and a baseball cap. They were running away from something—and nothing out there was friendly.
Jawarah yanked the alarm bell’s rope, clanging three times, moved five yards east, and pushed the flip-step over the side of the palisade. Clutching his over-and-under .45 black-powder rifle, he descended, shouting, “This way!”
They turned toward him. As Jawarah ran out to meet them, the man shouted, “Federal Agent Larry Mensche, they’re right behind us.”
“Follow me!” Jawarah ran back toward his flip-step; the girl, who was running barefoot, saw it, put on a burst of speed, and got there first.
An arrow passed over Jawarah’s head. “Over the wall!” he yelled at Mensche. He turned and knelt for a better firing position.
At least forty men and women dressed in a mixture of thrift-store gypsy, low-budget pirate, old hippie, and fake Indian were charging across the cleared space with spears, clubs, knives, and axes. The nearest waved a spirit wand, a stick with a bunch of sacred crap glued to it. Per orders, Jawarah aimed at the man’s chest and fired the top barrel.