“Who writes the messages?”
“Lots of Daybreakers scattered all over. Then they send them to each other, and try them out to see how they work with prior Daybreak messages. And they all collectively select the ones to use in their meditation and the ones to discard. For people who have been in Daybreak for three years or so, Daybreak is as central as Jesus is for a serious Baptist or the Revolution is for a serious Communist, but much more systematic and internally consistent—optimized really. Daybreak doesn’t need an enforcement system—no Inquisition, no thought police, no awareness of a friend who deviated and was shunned or arrested, because Daybreak is always a welcoming path that leads you deeper and deeper and makes you feel better at every step.
“So I think what we are seeing is the evolution of a new, much more powerful and effective kind of system artifact, and we have to understand it as such if we’re going to—”
Cameron sighed, impatiently. “All that was interesting theory until you found the connection to il’Alb il-Jihado,” he said. “But now as I see it you’ve got two possibilities. Wherever Daybreak might have come from and however people might practice it, it comes down to this: Either Daybreak found an enemy of the United States and allied with it, or the enemy found Daybreak and duped it. That means Daybreak has a leadership somewhere—leaders to be fooled or leaders to make the decision to be an ally—”
Shouting in the main room outside.
They all froze.
Cam muttered “Excuse me,” and went through the door; by common consent, as they looked around, everyone seemed to agree to go see what the matter was. Funny, Heather thought, none of us individually decided to drop Arnie’s explanation and go out the door, but here we are, filing out. Have to ask him if that would be a system artifact.
“I just think I should go with Kim!” President Roger Pendano’s voice was wild, yelping, cracking with misery.
DoDDUSP Garren and half a dozen uniforms were all crowding around him, saying “Mr. President” in an urgent tone that meant Listen!
Cam headed for the little group by the door, trying to be there instantly while not looking like he was hurrying. Now Pendano’s voice was too low to hear words, but the passionate, desperate, throat-mashing whine in the tone was painfully audible.
Lenny said, softly, “The president wants his dinner and his bed; look at the shoulders and the expression. Shit, shit, shit. Maybe if Garren or Nguyen-Peters pulled a Patton on him, right now, and just slapped him?”
Heather shook her head. “I don’t think the Secret Service would let Garren do that, and Cam’s too gentle and has too much respect. Besides, it might just send Pendano right over the edge.”
“He wasn’t this way about the Federal Reserve bombing, or the attack on the Franklin Roosevelt.”
Heather sighed and shrugged. “But those were ‘routine terrorism’—nothing personal—it wasn’t the enemy torturing one of his best friends, then blowing him to bits, let alone something he has to blame himself for.”
Kim Samuelson departed like a lost little girl between three big Secret Service agents; Pendano slumped into a chair, face in his hands, with Garren squatting beside him and whispering, urgently.
“Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Lenny said.
“Yeah.” A thought struck Heather. “Might be something I can do. Back in a second.” She walked directly over to Cameron, who held his hands up as if to fend off two generals and a Secret Service man. “Cameron, I have something urgent and relevant.” She purposely stopped about twenty feet from him.
He held up an index finger to the group and walked over to her, whispering, “Thanks for the rescue, and what do you have?”
“Graham Weisbrod is good with former students in trouble. He’s stuck me back together many times. Maybe if he can talk to the President—”
Cameron grunted as if he were deflating. “Anything that has the slightest chance of working, sure. Call Weisbrod. And thanks.”
Heather turned around and nearly collided with Allie. Startled, she didn’t speak until Allie said, “Sorry, I overheard. I was coming over to suggest the same thing.”
Cameron smiled faintly. “Apparently Graham Weisbrod has some kind of amazing calming power on the minds of his former students. I don’t mind telling you, if he can do that for you at a time like this, I wish he’d been my teacher too. Anyway, go get the guru and see if he can do anything for the president. If you’ve got a witch doctor on tap someplace, bring that one along too.”
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. DUBUQUE. IOWA. 9:42 P.M. CST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
Chris Manckiewicz awoke, as he often did, to the vibration and the insistent, “Wake up, Chris, it’s the phone,” in his own voice, which came from the cell phone buttoned into the pocket of his soft cotton pajamas. He sat up in bed, put the phone to his ear, punched the “prep and stand by” button on the traveler’s autocafé that he kept ready by his bed, and said, “Yeah?”
“Your guy Norcross is about to give a speech about the shootdown of Air Force Two,” Cletus said. “Have you been asleep?”
“Yeah. Needed to catch up, Norcross’s a baseball nut, I figured he wouldn’t do much during a big game in the Series, my chance for a night’s sleep.”
Cletus chuckled sympathetically. “Oh, man, the fates really are after you, Chris. Brace yourself. Vice President Samuelson was on a secret peace mission when il’Alb kidnapped him and stole his plane, loaded it with some nasty-shit weapon, probably tried to crash it into Angel Stadium during the World Series, and his old best buddy and pal Prez Rog had to order it shot down. Air Force Two is burning like a fucking match head in the California desert right now, and the smoke from it is so deadly it’s knocking planes out of the air. And Pendano hasn’t been on the air with even one word about it, zip. Now that asshole Will Norcross is going to horn in and give a speech before the President does.”
“Well,” Chris said, trying not to sound pissed off, “you know, he is running for president.”
“Yeah. That’s what I meant. Cheap political stunt. Norcross just announced he’ll be making a statement twelve minutes from now, in the front lobby of the Radisson Dubuque. You’re in that hotel, right?”
“Right.” Chris’s practiced hand switched the autocafé on, and it gurgled as it began filling his carafe. “I’m on it. Live feed as it comes, and I’ll pack you a wrapped-and-ready ASAP after that. Standard procedure.”
“Hey, make sure it is standard procedure this time. This asshole is piling on our president at a real bad time. So do him no favors, you got it? Absolutely no fancy camerawork, plug in one camera, focus it on the podium, and just record the speech.”
“I’ve got six remotes and the big one on the computer, Cletus. It doesn’t cost any extra for me to use ’em, and you never know when the main cam will go out or something will pop. Using all the cams is standard—”
“Oh, horse shit. What was that last time, you got him at that church with all the screaming, weeping Jesus bitches practically busting out of their blouses, and that one-armed cowboy dude with that Navy thing on his hat and that big old tear in his eye—”