Silence descended on the crowd. Grayson stepped aside, and Cam advanced to the mike. Forcing himself not to hurry, he read off the points: he would reconstitute the Board, naming enough reverends to it to give it a Post Raptural majority; Army and other federal institutions could, if the local commander preferred, fly the Cross and Eagle banner; the First National Church of the United States was hereby proclaimed the official church, but all other non-subversive, non-seditious religions would be tolerated; the Temporary National Government would seek a restored American sovereignty over the whole territory of the United States, under a restored fully Constitutional authority.
“And finally, please join me in this very short prayer.” He let them fall silent and bow their heads; then he said, “God bless the United States of America, and restore our country to us, in Jesus’ name we pray, Amen,” as Grayson had told him to do. The crowd cheered madly; it was several minutes before, to Cam’s relief, they began to drift out of the quad.
As Cam trudged upstairs to his personal apartment, he felt as if he dragged a huge, invisible cross. A late lunch and a nap might be in order. What do you do when you’ve lost completely but you can’t just slink under the porch?
At the door to his private apartment, Colonel Salazar was waiting for him. Cam knew the man slightly, as one of the perpetual staffers who inhabit the mid-ranges of any bureaucracy. He was slim, well-muscled, of average height, deeply tanned and black-haired, and other than an immense Saddam Hussein mustache, he had no distinguishing feature anyone could have named. “Sir? There are a couple of things you should sign off on—it’ll just take a moment.”
“Sure, come in,” Cam said. Another minute of delay for the lunch and the nap wouldn’t matter. Probably he’d forgotten to sign some of the pile of executive orders he’d hammered out with Whilmire and Grayson earlier that day.
As soon as Salazar closed the door, he said, “Something you need to know, sir. General Grayson knew that shot was going to hit up above the window. The incident was staged.”
Cam blinked. “Well, that’s consistent with Grayson, and the people around him. Thank you for telling me.”
“Information with the compliments of Heather O’Grainne, sir. If you ever need to communicate with her in a secure channel—”
“I won’t hesitate to contact you,” Cam said. “And my thanks to Heather—”
Salazar saluted and was gone.
As Cam put together a sandwich, and watched the demonstrators pouring out into the streets, celebrating the victory of God and the Constitution (at least as they understood either), he thought, Well, it’s still total defeat, but it’s not so bad when you don’t feel all alone.
THE NEXT DAY. NEAR THE FORMER TECUMSEH, INDIANA. 3:45 PM EST. FRIDAY, AUGUST 15, 2025.
They’d kept Ecco running for most of two days, usually blindfolded, getting him drunk and dumping him into boats from time to time. He deduced they were cutting off long bends by running him across them, but only when they could keep him on this side of the border, and for some reason it was important to keep him close to the Wabash.
At mid-afternoon, Ecco vomited on one of the officers, which was the high point of his day. They let him have a whole wonderful sweet quart or so of unlaced water, and sit and rest while a runner went for a boat. He sat, breathed, and took stock; pressing his feet against his bare calves, he could feel even through the soles of his moccasins that his numb feet were swollen and wet; maybe he’d broken some bones under his instep.
If he got free, he wouldn’t be able to run far or fast; at best he might only be able to force them to kill him. His arms had been bound behind his back for most of the time; even with them free, he doubted he’d manage to roll out of a boat to drown, let alone try to swim for it.
As they waited he felt that the slope was steep in front of him, and the smell of water was strong. He went limp and tried rolling down the bank. Drowning’s gonna feel like shit but—
Rough hands stopped him; he stayed limp, feigning a faint. A slave woman was beaten for not having kept a grip on him.
“That bank’s pretty steep.” It was the woman officer they called Sunshine. “We’re not supposed to let him see where he is, but it’ll be a lot easier to move him into the boat if he can see.”
Jacob, who seemed to be the CO, grunted. “Let him go down without the blindfold, but put it right back on him.”
They unblindfolded him and walked him down the slope; he saw the water tower for Tecumseh, across the stream. Ecco remembered that the town constable had been assassinated there, and a series of fires had been set; what was left of the population had evacuated westward, with stories about rocks and arrows from nowhere and drumming and singing in the night.
They tied him into the boat, but since they left him sober, he was able to rest and think. Who could have betrayed his mission? Some of the people who had known couldn’t be suspects. Not Carol May Kloster or Freddie Pranger, let alone Heather O’Grainne.
Had one of the ex-Daybreakers that they studied at Pueblo reverted to Daybreak, and learned about his mission?
Some spy in Pueblo who just put things together? Their main communication system was having hungry teenagers run notes between desks; what messages might have been intercepted with some smooth talk and a fresh hot pie?
Dr. Yang? Please, not a guy who’d always treated him with the friendly deference that a man of action wants to see from a smart guy… especially if it’s a fake man of action like me, Ecco thought, bitterly, for the ten thousandth time.
He kept composing the message, with no idea how he could send it:
Going N on L bank Wabash with 3 officers, 5-10 enlisted, many slaves. Need help urgent. Traitor in Pueblo.
He fell asleep in the gently rocking boat, and when he woke again, no light was leaking around his blindfold. Sunshine ordered him to climb out and to run; she had to have three slaves lift him, but after some kicking and slapping, he ran, despite the scalding pain in the balls and heels of his feet, and the wracking ache of breathing through sobs.
THE NEXT DAY. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 8:30 PM MST. SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 2025.
Heather was exhausted and she felt like someone had been beating on her guts with a flat shovel for a few hours, so it was almost a relief when MaryBeth switched over from “Come on, push” and “Breathe, Heather, breathe” to “One last push!”
The next sensation was like uncontrollably having the mother of all bowel movements three seconds after making it to the toilet. She watched the lamplight flicker on the ceiling and thought, Kid, you’re not ever going to hear from me that you felt like a giant turd.
Everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the sheer sense of force—became too intense for her to focus; then suddenly, it was merely painful and she was just exhausted and needed to sleep.
“Hey, sweetie. You passed out and missed the first yodel.” MaryBeth Abrams stood beside her, stroking her face with one hand, holding a little wailing bundle in her other arm. “Say hi to Leonardo.”
“Leo,” Heather corrected her. “He’s Leonardo Plekhanov Jr., but he’ll be Leo at home. I just hope his friends don’t give him any horrible nicknames.”
“Well, right now he’s working on being called ‘Noisy.’ Let’s set him up to feed and see if that’s what the matter is.”