“Where to?”
“The place where the other one has a long-distance affair going. And it sounds like there’s a price; if he rides now, he’s gotta run later.”
Grayson stood, braced his hands on the stone railing, and pushed down into a hamstring stretch he didn’t need any more than he needed breathing time. Face toward the stones, he asked, “So any idea what the one that isn’t Phat is getting out of all this?”
“Probably he just thinks it’s a Nguyen-win situation,” Perkins said.
Grayson never timed himself, but he suspected that the anger pushing him through the remaining hills probably fueled a personal best. There had not been enough sun that morning, either, so the shower was first lukewarm, then suddenly cold, excusing his furious scream.
THE NEXT DAY. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 10:45 AM EST. THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2025.
Cam and Grayson always forced themselves to finish their Thursday morning meeting by looking through the graphs in the last folder, “ongoing statistics.” The intel clerks added new data points as they came in and drew connecting lines on the master graphs; the analysts traced them, worked out a fitted curve with adding machines and slide rules, and drew the curve on their tracings. Cam and Grayson turned to the graphs for a sobering dose of reality.
This week, only three bad things were decreasing: uncontrolled wide-area fires, dam bursts, and bridge collapses. Cam grimaced. “Even that’s not good news—we’re just running out of unburned urban areas, standing dams, and functioning bridges.”
“I’m afraid so. The only upward trend in a good category is that the food-supply-to-demand ratio is trending up—because dead people don’t eat.” General Grayson tapped the last graph. “That’s the hard one to face.”
The graph showed the size, frequency, and damage from tribal raids; the size of the military response; and the estimated damage to the tribes. For the eighth week in a row, the tribes had raided more, with bigger forces, and done more damage. Responding armed forces were bigger but winning less. “If the RRC has the tribes figured out, their goal is a high death toll on both sides—and how do you beat that? By the time our troops get there, the tribals have already gotten most of what they want, and nothing in the world can deter them, if Pueblo is right.”
Grayson forced himself to say, “There’s a Pueblo issue we should consider.”
“Yes?”
“It’s my belief… sir. Um. I have ample evidence that you are planning to assist General Phat in escaping to Pueblo, and you’re working with the top leadership at the RRC to do that.”
Cam had no expression. “Obviously there would be no point in my lying to you about it now. Would you like to know why I am doing it?”
Grayson’s lips compressed and he looked down. “I do know why you’re doing it. I understand that you are trying to get the United States back together, Cameron, one nation indivisible, all of that. I understand that I’m not the ideal candidate.”
“That was a pretty good rally when you came into Pueblo, and not a bad one when you left, the last time.”
Grayson shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m sure you know the welcome rally at the airport was orchestrated by the Post Raptural Church. They even cheered for Reverend Whilmire, and he’s painfully dull.”
“I suppose a son-in-law would know. But the send-off at the train station was real enough.”
“Oh, it was real. Just most of them were there to cheer for you and Graham Weisbrod, for promising to bring their country back. They were cheering for me too, but mainly because I wasn’t being in the way.” He gripped his own elbows, like a small boy stubbornly insisting on his feelings when the whole adult world is telling him he feels something else. “I understand why Phat is better for your purposes than I am. You need a president who isn’t a regional candidate, someone who gets votes all over. And… well, it’s childish, but I feel like you promised me, and on that basis I helped you…” After a moment, he said, “I really do feel screwed.”
Cameron said, “I probably did screw you—for the good of the country, but I’m sure that doesn’t make it feel better. Technically I never promised you anything, but of course I let you feel that you had a deal, and that wasn’t fair or honest. So you may not trust me for this, but I do have an offer I hope you’ll take, all the cards on the table this time.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“You’re already going to command the first real offensive against the tribals in the spring. Graham Weisbrod and I have discussed the list of options you gave him. Your biggest ‘Cadillac plan’ is doable, but rather than a punitive expedition to trash Castle Earthstone and a march out to the south, ripping up the tribes as you go, what if you just roll right on in that area, reconquering and occupying it?”
“How big an area? And you mean you’ll give me everything in the high-end plan?”
“I would like you to smash the tribes so hard that by autumn our new frontier with them is at the Miami—or at the Scioto, if you get enough breaks. For the summer of the election year, you’d be in the news constantly, and if you succeed, you’ll reduce the Lost Quarter tribes from urgent menace to persistent nuisance.”
“Well.” Grayson was taken aback, startled by the scale of the offer. “You’re offering me the best command a man running for president could have. Do we even have the resources to do all that in one fighting season?”
“If you think we can do it, and you need more than was in your original plan to march from the Tippecanoe to the Ohio, I’ll get you the men and guns and money, from our forces, from twisting Graham Weisbrod’s arm, from the state armies and the Castles if we have to. Put all your planning staff on the problem. Figure out whether it’s doable by October 1st, 2026. Plan on a short, wet fighting season, because all the soot in the air is predicted to make next winter even colder, damper, and earlier than this coming one. Remember spring will be late too. If it can’t be done in one fighting season, take two—but one is better.”
“And you’re willing to take the chance I might be elected president? You know if I am, your career here is over.”
“Ending my career is my job. We’ve already had a Natcon for about ten times as long as we ever should. Yes, I’m giving you a big, important chance—if you smash the tribes, you are going to be a hero in Superior and Wabash. For that matter all the Provi states have had major tribal raids.” Cameron Nguyen-Peters moved his hands across the table, palms down, as if laying out cards. “Don’t misunderstand me, I’ll personally vote for Phat—I’d like a secular, moderate conservative with good national security credentials. But a conservative Christian is acceptable too, and so for that matter would be a foaming liberal, just as long as our first restoration president will follow the Constitution—all of it—and get substantial support from every region. We can’t afford anyone who creates even the appearance of shutting out a side or a region.”
“So you’re offering me a great chance to win the presidency, but you want me to win it across the whole country, and you are not offering me an in-the-bag deal.”
“That’s right, General. But I was never offering an in-the-bag deal anyway—it wasn’t mine to offer. I am sorry that it sounded like I was, and I admit I should have made sure you understood that I can position you but you have to win the election yourself.”
“Why do you care, if you’re voting for Phat?”