Jason said, “Well, then, let me help you out with that.” He followed her.
Just as the sun cleared the low line of trees to the west, Scott Niskala walked down the line of canoes and kayaks in a triple file extending from the low concrete dam down Hamilton Street for more than a block, making sure everyone knew the meetpoints for lunch and for putting in for the night, as well as the alternate points if there was trouble.
Larry’s decades of outdoor vacations, and fighting experience, qualified him to be a stern man at the head of the main body. Jason’s long-ago family vacations and summers at camp qualified him to be a bow man toward the rear of the main body, where his strength might be needed. Chris’s total lack of experience qualified him to be a passenger somewhere well up in the middle, “like a sack of beans but less edible,” as he put it.
“Don’t be so sure,” Jason said. “Consider the Donner Party. And these guys can cook.”
Scott Niskala made a few hand signs over his head; the bank runners took off swiftly, getting a head start. Their job was to run with nothing but their fighting gear, two hundred yards ahead of the flotilla of canoes, on the roads and towpaths, and, as Scott put it, “to get into trouble before we’re all in trouble.” On each bank there were five runners; if they didn’t run into trouble, after an hour they were to switch off with bank runners from the forward canoes of the main body.
The runners were just out of sight when Scott made the next gesture, and the first three kayaks of the avant-garde slipped into the water, struck their paddles as if synchronized, and moved out. Down the long column, everyone in turn picked up their canoe or kayak and advanced one boat-length.
Row of three after row of three moved forward and into the water. The flotilla flowed into the Auglaize, separated enough to not offer easy targets, close enough to cover each other, orderly as ants, in silence except for the occasional soft splash of an awkward launch. When the last kayaks launched, only forty minutes had passed, and if there had been anyone to watch from the dam, the last trees would have closed around the rearguard kayaks as if nothing had ever been there.
8 HOURS LATER. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 3:11 PM MST. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2025.
Quattro Larsen looked exhausted. Heather asked, “Long flight?”
“There was a big slow dust devil east of Garden City, and it threw some crap up high and it went right into my intakes. Ten minutes later all the needles for everything electrical are acting like windshield wipers, and that nano-detector gadget that the lab wanted me to try out is wailing like a banshee, and you know, the tradition is that banshees wail for the about-to-be-dead, and I thought this was gonna be one accurate banshee.
“Nanoswarm were that close to shutting down the spark. The right side engine was going bang-miss-cough twice a minute. And it was sunny and warm for once, which meant headwinds, turbulence, and general-purpose gnarly air. But the Gooney kept chugging and farting right along. I’ll be here at least a week while we tear down, dunk all the parts in lye, and rebuild.”
Heather nodded. “Well, I’m sorry for all the trouble, but I was trying to think up a cover for you to be here for a few days. I’ve got something that will need some discussion. Bambi’s due to show up in the Stearman, too, so you might get to see your wife, not to mention we’ll have Bambi here to tell us the right thing to do.”
“That’s what I always do—the right thing, once Bambi tells me what it is.” He sat in the guest chair, next to the crib, and set his leather flying helmet on his knee. He pushed his barely controllable surfer’s mop of blond hair up and over his forehead, and flashed that big grin. “Hey, the little guy’s not so little anymore.”
“Yep, growing into a big healthy moose of a kid. All right, now that you’re sitting down… have you ever thought about being the Earl of the Russian River?”
“No, not for one second, and are you out of your mind?”
“I’m as sane as ever, it’s the world that’s crazy. Here’s the deal. Our sources are showing that Harrison Castro is trying to take as much of southern California as he can out of the United States.”
“He is my father-in-law, you know.”
“No offense intended.”
“None taken. I just meant you don’t have to tell me what he’s thinking about. He was talking about goofier shit than being an earl clear back when I was trying to lure Bambi into skipping out of high school and shacking up with me in my dorm room for a week.”
“I never heard about that.”
“Unfortunately, I wasn’t much of a lurer when I was twenty-one. My big seductive move was to send her a list of the Xbox games I had. Anyway, look, I know Harrison Castro, and I’m sure you’re right about his intentions.”
“Unh-hunh. And how do you feel about them?”
“Subthrilled. But you’re suggesting I might want to go into the earl business too?”
“I want you to start a League of North Coast Castles. You’re in much better shape than any of the other freeholders in your neighborhood. Extend them some aid—or launder aid from us and present it as coming from you. Cut them a much better deal than Harrison Castro gave his poor hapless knucklehead vassals, so that every Castle in trouble will want to sign on with you, and Castro’s vassals feel like idiots and resent him.”
“But you will be creating another league and I thought you didn’t want one.”
“Two leagues in a struggle with each other is way better than one league in a struggle against the Federal government. Let alone against both Federal governments. And this is temporary. As soon as you can, you’ll sensibly return everything to Federal jurisdiction and put a big hole in the Castle system.”
“Couldn’t I just do that right now and save everyone the trouble?”
“Unfortunately right now, if the Castles collapsed, California would become a second Lost Quarter. I don’t like the Castles, they’re about as un-American an institution as there is, but we can’t throw them away until we’ve got a Federal government big and strong enough to do what needs doing. My long-run plan is to just surround the Castles with a free, successful society. Then over time, the dependents and the vassals will walk off, and the freeholders will end up as romantic old poops stumping around in empty fortresses and writing letters to the Post-Times about young people with no respect. I’m just asking you to be an earl for a short while, and you and I both know it’s a joke; the objective is to make it a joke to everyone.”
“Do I get a funny hat?”
She looked pointedly at the antique leather helmet on his knee. “Do you think I can stop you?”
“This is practical. If I’m going to be Earl of the Russian River, I definitely want something big, and white, with a plume.”
THIRTEEN:
NO ISLAND SINGLY LAY
TWO WEEKS LATER. THE HARBOR OF PUT-IN-BAY, ON SOUTH BASS ISLAND (FORMERLY IN OHIO, NOW ASSIGNED TO THE NEW STATE OF SUPERIOR). 11:15 AM EST. MONDAY, OCTOBER 6, 2025.
“That’s Put-in-Bay,” Rosie said. He was a heavy, solidly muscled man with stark white hair and brick-red skin; he and his wife Barbara were the crew of Kelleys Dancer. “Sorry this took so long.”