Both governments agreed to accord no special legal status to any Castle, and that no government communications were to refer to any of the titles the freeholders gave themselves, “except internal reports for law enforcement,” Weisbrod added. “General Grayson, if I may suggest, why don’t you draft a list of options for dealing with Castle Earthstone, and with the Lost Quarter in general, and forward it to General McIntyre for comments? Assume you’ve got any resources we are not obviously using for immediate defense. Give Cameron and me some cheap options in case we have to be misers, but also give us a couple of Cadillac plans, the biggest and best things you think are within our grasp.”
“I’ll do that immediately, sir,” Grayson said.
Weisbrod smiled. “Now, if there’s nothing left on either list, should we, maybe, think about a declaration of principles at the end of the joint communiqué? Something to guide any future courts or our successors in what our thinking was?”
“The principle we’re after,” Cameron Nguyen-Peters said, “is to trust to the common sense of the people who are going to be elected, which also means to the common sense of the people electing them.”
McIntyre sighed. “I’d like that principle better if it didn’t sound like a complete abdication of responsibility.”
Graham Weisbrod peered at the general over his glasses; of the people in the room, only Heather knew he couldn’t see a thing that way, that it was purely an intimidation trick Graham had picked up decades ago. Graham waited two beats. “Well, General McIntyre, it’s appropriate to abdicate responsibility when you’ve made a mess and there’s someone else around who can clean it up better than you. As for the mess, look at my government, or at Cam’s. As for cleaning up, there are thousands of small towns, dozens of military units, tens of thousands of small businesses, community organizations, you name it, that are doing the cleanup right now. I assume we’ve both read the news from Wapakoneta in the Post-Times?”
Fussing with exact words took a couple of hours, but the president and the NCCC seemed to enjoy it, and insisted on continuing over a late lunch. Long before dark, they were shaking hands for the camera. Sure hope we’ve got film that lasts now, Heather thought, because whoever publishes the history books is going to want that picture.
THAT EVENING. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 7:30 PM MST. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18, 2025.
Allie had always wondered how she’d handle a serious defeat, because she’d never had one. Uncle Sam used to say I was his trifecta niece because even if I didn’t win, I always finished in the money. Wonder what he’d say now?
Sam and a big part of the family had chartered a wooden sailboat just after Daybreak and set off to the south, heading for “somewhere warm where the food won’t run out.” They had not been heard from since. Perhaps they’d been caught by the fringes of the big storm (but they should have been well south by then); perhaps they’d had a fire at sea from the EMP of the superbomb (but they should have found landfall by then); maybe they’d run into those first-wave pirates, the ones out of Florida and Bermuda, who had badly disrupted the southward exodus? (But they’d been well-enough armed and they should have been a match for anything roaming around.) In any case, she hadn’t heard from them since waving good-bye from the dock, and since her name was on the radio and in the Post-Times often enough, they should have been able to find her. Maybe they didn’t want to. You are a big success girl but you are not a wise girl or a patient girl and people do not like you, Papa had said.
Her thoughts went round and round; if she just had a friend to talk to, a friend who would have her back no matter what.
Sitting on the bed and looking out the window, she was amazed at how dark it was outside. She’d eaten nothing since breakfast, had moved only from armchair to bed to desk within her small room since she’d stormed out on Graham. That dick less sycophant McIntyre stayed. Why didn’t I—
There was a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” she said, expecting Graham Weisbrod, expecting a fight—
Not expecting that pudgy, balding little man who had taken over Arnie Yang’s job. His name was—some piece of obscure oldies trivia, they used to play trivia in the bars in college—“Mister Hendrix,” she said.
“Yes. May I come in and close the door? This room is secure, and there’s something vital we need to discuss.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “Sit down. I’m amazed that anyone discusses anything with me.”
“Don’t be.” He turned up the oil lamp on the side table. The orange light bathed both their faces and etched the shadows into high contrast. “You’re still one of the most powerful and important people on the continent. We would have to talk to you even if Heather didn’t like you and worry about you.”
“You’re blunt. Is that why Heather sent you instead of coming herself?”
“She said it would get too personal if she did.”
“Close enough. All right, obviously you have a message to deliver and you’re supposed to take back an answer. I’d better hear the message.”
Hendrix nodded, and said, “We found a note from you in Arnie Yang’s pocket. It was, um, intimate, though not explicit. Now, we have no great concern with whether it was a love affair or just the two of you sharing loneliness, but there seemed to be a strong Daybreaker element in the note—”
“Why do you think it was from me? I don’t remember ever writing him a note—”
“Your personal stationery and handwriting—”
“Do you have it with you?”
“I do. We have a copy, by the way—”
“I’m not going to destroy evidence in front of you. Give me some credit.” She held out her hand, looked at the note, and felt as if she’d been kicked in the belly. Darcage. During one of those blackouts he induces, he must have told me to write this.
Allie had read the RRC’s top-secret, unredacted report on Arnie. She knew Hendrix would believe her if she—
The whole universe rolled down a stony slope, bouncing and spinning from stone to stone, and she fell onto her side on the bed. Hendrix was bellowing for a doctor, and then she felt strong hands pushing her out of the fetal position, soothing her, a warm voice. “Mom?”
“Wish I was, I could help you better.”
Allie looked up; it was Heather’s doctor, maybe the RRC’s doctor or Pueblo’s, they were pretty scarce and the world was pretty small. She was sitting next to Allie on the bed, smoothing her hair and face; it felt good. “Was that a Daybreaker seizure?”
“If it wasn’t, you’re a hell of an actor. You’ll want to sleep for a while, maybe, unless there’s something you want to say while you can.”