The Reverend Arthur Peet nodded somberly. He had known Whilmire for most of both of their lives, and he knew the way the man’s mind diced and dissected the world into manageable slices. “So where should we throw our weight?”
“We’re just waiting for the right time, allies, and pretext to give Nguyen-Peters the boot. He counts for nothing. Weisbrod has zero following in TNG territory—Democrat-liberal-Jew professor? Forget him and his Dragon Lady wife. The fringy types in the little splinter churches are nuts and they scare people, which helps us look moderate to people who think moderation is a virtue. The Army has no leader except Grayson or Phat, and we’ve got Phat locked up physically and Grayson politically. So I say, for the moment, don’t do something. Stand there. But be ready to jump when the time comes.”
Peet nodded. “Very much my own thinking. Tribes? Castles?”
“We need the Castles economically, but they’re no big problem; we just gradually convert freeholders; ramp up some of that kingship and lordship material if you want to play for them. As for the tribes, the big drive that the Natcon and the general want to do up in the Lost Quarter will take them off the table next spring. Preach so you tie them to the Canaanites, that’s our promised land, that kind of thing.”
“What’s your assessment of your son-in-law?”
“He’ll be ready to step in as soon as it’s time, if Jenny has anything to do with it. I have much more faith in her than in him. He’ll come along as long as we feed his ambition and vanity.”
Peet shrugged. “Human tools are imperfect. The Lord Himself only hired twelve guys and one was a dud. So no real change?”
“Everything’s the same as last week but more so,” Whilmire said. “But it was pretty good last week.”
“Indeed.” Peet rose and stretched. “I think I’ll take a walk.”
As Whilmire descended the steps of the former UGA chapel, the sunshine was pure gold, and it hadn’t been windy or stormy enough down here yet to take the fall colors from the trees. Real time off was impossible, but at least he could work at a table outside at some café or tea house. So many people were waving, smiling, and calling out “Praise the Lord” to him that he thought he was maybe catching one tiny little glimpse of what heaven might be like.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 10 AM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2025.
“Happy Halloween, General Phat.”
“Sorry, I’m not stocked up with candy, and I haven’t had the time to get into costume. How’s it going, Cameron?”
“Meh. Right now the Church and the Army are each hoping the other one will get sick of me first, eliminate me, and leave the more patient one with clean hands. Wish we were—” He saw Phat’s hard headshake, and the long piece of toilet paper he held up, scrawled with penciclass="underline"
Guards all changed yesterday, some too friendly, some too quiet, think someone is watching much more closely, assume we are overheard
“—ah, excuse me,” Cam said, coughing loudly. He took a strip of the toilet paper to eat. Phat followed suit. “Let’s start on the wine, it’s the best thing in my trick-or-treat basket.” He washed down the blob of paper with a swallow of wine, watching as Phat did the same. “God, the wine tastes good. And I brought bread and other stuff. I was going to say, wish we were free of all this politics crap, it’s a nice day and it would be great to parole you, go hang in the sunlight, and just cry into my beer, or my wine, for a while. It’s going to be a relief when they retire me.”
“Planning to go peaceably?”
“How else? It’s still America. But I’m still the only legitimate authority, and it’s my duty to hand off to the Constitutional government, not just whatever people in my neighborhood have the most guns, the biggest crowd in the street, or the Holy Zap from Reverend Peet. After I say no, whether it’s peaceable or not depends on them, I guess.”
They ate the rest of the toilet paper with the bread, thickly spread with butter. When they had finished, and enjoyed some wine-without-paper, Cameron thought, Well, they already know we talk politics. And we’re not going to fool them about what we think. But let’s encourage them to think we’re all talk and no action. “I wish I could tell you that you’re safe, but if they come for me, I suppose they might come for you.”
Phat leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Look, the bravest American of his generation said, ‘A man who won’t die for something is not fit to live.’ But down through history, smart soldiers have refused to be the last casualty on the losing side. And you and I are the last of our breed. Whatever the people to come are like, they won’t be us. It’s not the country, or the army, that we grew up to run. Have you noticed most of them call it the forces? when I was a kid, adults called it the service. You see? Different world, Cam, just plain different, and our world is fading away.”
“You think I should just step down and let whatever happen?”
“I’d never tell a man to run out on what he believed in. What I’m saying is all we can do is give the next version of our country the best start we can, then get out of their way, and try not to let whatever they make of it break our hearts.”
30 MINUTES LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 11:45 AM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2025.
Reverend Arthur Peet liked to walk the path in Dudley Park along the North Oconee alone. Most days, he was completely alone on the trail.
Though the paving on the path was slowly coming apart as biotes ate the binding tars. It felt like gummy gravel under his feet. The river was ceaselessly changing and always the same; the fall colors gorgeous; before Daybreak he hadn’t realized how much mental energy went into shutting out other people’s engines, motors, yakking, and music.
On these walks, whenever he thought of something positive and uplifting, Naomi seemed to appear. Here she was again. Sometimes she would just walk with him for half a mile or more before speaking, or not speak at all, but today the scrawny girl with ash-blonde dreadlocks spoke almost at once. “Do you really think you should call it Tribulation?”
Peet shrugged. “It’s the English word for it, and everyone in any Bible-believing church knows what it means.”
“I suppose so. But how can you feel Tribulated on such a nice fall day? The colors so bright, the smells and sounds so sharp, and all you have to do is just walk along and listen to your feet swish, swish, swish in the leaves, swish swish swish…” She whirled, holding up her ankle-length hippie-girl skirt, dancing up and down the path in front of him. “You know I love our conversations. It’s so interesting to meet someone with a different take on Daybreak.”
“I’m glad I can help,” Peet said.
“I’m glad you can help too.” Naomi was back at his side. “And I hope I help you.”
“Certainly you help clarify my thoughts.”
“Here’s a thought I’ve been working with,” she said. “Just a thought. I know that traditionally the idea is that during the Rapture, people vanished because they were good.”
“Not necessarily good, as the world knows it, but Christian and believing and trying to be good,” Peet said, gently. “Real saints are always messier and always falling out of their sanctity, unlike plaster ones.”