The Last President (31 page)

Phat nodded. “And Manbrookstat?”

“White Fang, our main agent there, has asked us to consider active measures.”

James saw Leslie tense, though she had known it was coming. Heather glanced up for a moment at him, a bland little smile that reminded him that he was the one who had insisted on bringing this up now. Quattro and Bambi sat back in their chairs.
They're trying to make themselves listen in a fair-minded way. But they also know that what we do to the Commandant of Manbrookstat today for good reason, can be done to the Duke and Duchess of California tomorrow for any old reason. That means it's down to Phat—

“‘Active measures' means what?” he asked. “I know we can't just invade, we just finished working that out. So we're talking coup? Revolution? What? And why now?”

“Coup or revolution,” James said. “Most likely both together.”

“And why now?”

“The Commandant has stayed very, very quiet. But White Fang is far enough up in the inner circle to hear about most of it, and for what he calls ‘personal reasons' which we think means the Commandant is hot for his daughter, he's been taken into confidence on some of it, so the source is about as good as you get. The Commandant is currently taking bids to sell off the depopulated land in the Dead Belt—and not just a little, I mean parcels as big as Maryland or New Hampshire.”

“Sell them off? To whom?”

“Argentine, Irish, Icelandic, or Portuguese settlers—those are just the ones we know have already put in bids. And that's only problem one. Problem two, he's the main organizer behind the Atlantic League, which would be a
sovereign
confederacy of city-states.”

“Sovereign as in ‘Manbrookstat becomes part of a foreign power'? No longer even nominally part of the USA?”

“You got it. Then there's problem three. The Commandant is negotiating under the table with Lord Robert and some of the tribes to set up trading posts in the Lost Quarter.”

“Trading posts? But they don't trade.”

“They didn't. They also didn't use guns till recently. Remember Lord Robert has created Daybreak 2.0, which is basically all the primitivism and savagery but with more in it for Lord Robert, and less random agonizing death for everyone else. A week before the battle, we intercepted the Commandant's proposal to Lord Robert: tribals will loot metal and anything else useful from the Lost Quarter, in exchange for canned food and new clothes. How long before it'll be guns, too?”

“And you think a revolution could happen about that?”

“Well, none of that would be popular if it were known. But what's more likely to set off the revolution is that the only people who are better off because the Commandant is in power are maybe thirty families that can see a chance to be the aristocracy of a new nation, and maybe a thousand thugs and bullies lined up behind them. That's it. Everyone else is living with isolation, regulation, forced labor, and obvious favoritism and exploitation. He's pissed a lot of people off. So we topple, kidnap, or assassinate him, chase out his cohorts, and give Manbrookstat space to reorganize.”

“What will they do if we do that?”

“Well, White Fang seems to think there's no way they'd elect the Commandant or any of his followers if you gave them a real choice. Maybe they'll join the Tempers as the successor to New York State, maybe apply to be a New State under the Provis, maybe do both like those counties trying to form Pelissippi are doing.”

“But you're thinking the coup first, to get him out of the way, and then hoping the revolution will endorse it retroactively?”

James shrugged. “A coup against an illegal government—”

“Wasn't that what Norcross thought when he overthrew Shaunsen on a bunch of Constitutional tricks? And what Cam Nguyen-Peters thought when he locked up Weisbrod to keep him from becoming President? And what Grayson thought when he assassinated Cam? Only a little over a year ago we had four presidents in ninety days and barely averted Civil War Two. Supposedly May 1st was Open Signals Day, a new permanent national holiday to celebrate our avoiding the war, and how did we celebrate the first one? With nothing at all. Not even a proclamation from the Temper Board or the Provi President.” Phat was shaking his head slowly, his mind clearly made up. “Now, look, I will acknowledge that having spent most of the last year in a prison cell because I was inconvenient for purposes of changing presidents by coups, and starting civil wars, I
am
probably too personally sensitive. But all the same, here's how I see it: an intelligence agency of extremely dubious Constitutionality, which let's face it is what the RRC is, which got the blessings of two dubious successor governments, is now proposing to overthrow another dubious successor government. That's a
lot
of dubious.

“If there was a revolution underway already in Manbrookstat, and we were just helping out, sure. Recognize the rebels as the government, send them guns, blockade any outside help the Commandant calls on. But Federal officials actually organizing a coup against a local government—no. No way. That's what we're trying to get away from, James. You can't just suspend the rules whenever you feel like it, the whole point of Constitutional government is that you play by the rules when they're inconvenient.”

Leslie had been listening intently. “What the Commandant is doing is treason by the standards of Article III, Section 3. If we could arrest him it would be a short trial and a quick hanging.”

“And if you could arrest him I would suggest you do it.” Phat shook his head sadly. “But you can't send a force big enough to just barge in and lock them all up.”

“He could be shot while resisting arrest,” Heather said quietly.

Quattro stood up, his face stiff with fury. “Is that the best we can do?”

James froze, taken completely by surprise. Heather and Leslie had turned away from him to face Quattro; they sat perfectly still. Behind Quattro, Phat seemed to be looking for something to say. Bambi rose slowly, reaching tentatively around her husband to take him in her arms, but he gently pushed her away. “My god,” he said. “Look what we've gotten into and what we're thinking about. I started wondering about us when we went busting into a family Christmas and murdered the dad. I flew over the camps on the Ohio where Grayson piled tribal bodies ten deep. And now . . . we've had a whole army beaten, surrounded, and saved just because Jenny Whilmire Grayson was too crazy to let them give up. And with only twenty-two airplanes on the whole continent, we let one be shot down, and the pilot—who was also one of the most expert airplane designers we have—was burned alive. And now we're sitting here saying well, we can't do anything for Pale Bluff, one of the most decent civilized places there is and one we've depended on for so many things, and we're going to just let the enemy have it, to murder and loot and burn. And so where do we put our attention? Into getting our army out of there? No. Into avenging Nancy Teirson? Not a bit. Into maybe, just maybe, at least fucking trying to save several thousand civilized people that have been a total bulwark for our side, from being burned out and butchered? Oh, no. No no no. Perish fucking forbid. We're trying to decide how to keep our consciences clear while we kill the leader of one of our few working, functioning port cities. I'm so fucking proud of you all I could just fucking piss my pants.

“So here's my little thought for you. I know I'm not an ex-general or an ex-cop or an ex-librarian or anything cool like that, I know I'm just a rich guy that happened to inherit a fortified house and it's all kind of a bunch of coincidences that a lot of people now think I'm the feudal lord of California, and shit, Heather, it was a joke when you talked me into taking the title, but you know, as a rich man and a guy who owns a lot of land and has sworn vassals that I have to think about and protect, all the way from San Diego up to Crescent City . . . I am very tempted to take my ball and go home. But I won't. What I'm going to do is win this war, the way it needs to be won. You got a message for me, radio me in Pale Bluff. Don't bother appointing me to a command or whatever you want to call it. I'll let them know I'm taking over when I get there. You coming, Duchess Babe?”

Bambi nodded, but her eyes were closed and she was breathing hard. “I'm your wife and your duchess, both. And you're not going into that much foolish danger without taking me along. Just let me talk to these guys for a second, okay? I'll catch up.”

He kissed her, said, “Don't be long,” and went out the door. They all looked at each other.

“I will try to help this all come out for the best,” Bambi said. “If I don't see any of you again, remember me whenever you're drunk and sentimental.”

THE NEXT DAY. PALE BLUFF. 7:00 AM CENTRAL TIME. THURSDAY, MAY 7, 2026.

Pale Bluff had been far too small to have an airport, back when it had first come to the attention of the wider world in December 2024. That had been a pure accident; the very first EMP attack from the moon gun—the one that had destroyed the original recovery center at Pittsburgh—had forced down the Gooney Express that had been carrying Graham Weisbrod in his escape from the TNG prison, on his way to found the PCG.

Now, as Quattro Larsen brought the Gooney back to Pale Bluff for perhaps the thirtieth time, he wished he had Bambi in the co-pilot's seat, so that he could say something like, “Remember when we made our first landing, here, babe?” but she had insisted that if the aviators of the continent were going to converge to win this war, she would want her own plane. At this moment her Stearman was off to his right and a little below him.

That first emergency landing had been on I-64, miles away.
It seemed like such a big deal at the time that Graham Weisbrod was the true President of the United States, so my plane was Air Force One.
Once they were safely on the ground, however, any pretensions Quattro might have had had deflated like the greased linen tires on the plane. Everyone, including the nominal President of the United States, had walked into Pale Bluff with Freddie Pranger, the Township Constable.

Now look at what you did, Gooney,
Quattro thought affectionately at his heavily modified DC-3. In a bit over a year, Pale Bluff had grown from a tiny town sleepwalking toward ghostliness, to the important crossroads where Weisbrod had given his Pale Bluff Address, to the most important town, industrial center, and military base on the Wabash frontier.

What one opportune forced landing had wrought was visible on the ground below, now. The old orchard-market town of back before was the center spot of a bull's-eye. Surrounding the old town in a broad circle, where there had been only open fields leading out to the orchards, were newly-built wood-and-scrap metal shacks and cabins, and a profusion of temporary shelters ranging from lean-tos to tents, and every other conceivable arrangement in which people might sleep between shifts of work. Most of the refugees pouring out of the Lost Quarter after the rise of the tribes last spring had kept right on going after a brief stay in Pale Bluff, but enough had stuck to triple the town's population.

The apple orchards, now dense as the spring green darkened to summer, were the next ring, which had a prominent notch in it: an old plot of aged, underproducing trees, surrounding a stretch of serviceable county road, had been sacrificed to create an airfield within the city wall, which outlined the whole bull's-eye.

Quattro leaned back and shouted to his passengers over the thump and thunder of the biodiesel engines. “I'm going to let Bambi land first; she's got less fuel reserve and the Stearman isn't as durable as this old pile of junk.” He put the Gooney into a wide circle around the airfield, and enjoyed watching the golden early morning light dance across the green orchards below. When he saw his wife's plane roll to a stop and the ground crews running out to pull her in, he swung down lower by the tower, caught the go-ahead signal from the flagman, and came around to land.

Like so many times before, Carol May Kloster was waiting for Quattro and Bambi, but this time she was joined by the town government and the local militia commander, there to meet the party of officers Quattro was delivering to them. It had been short notice; he had only radioed from Cape Girardeau, about 150 miles away, a couple of hours before, but apparently the radio operator had realized he needed to awaken Carol May, and she'd turned out the officials of the town.

Quattro removed his leather flying helmet with a sweeping bow. “Gentlemen, and lady, I come not to replace your authority but to enhance it.” He tucked the helmet under his arm, where his plumed hat had been, and set the hat on his head. “I bring you two lieutenant colonels, four majors, and three captains, all experienced Army and Guard officers from Kansas, Missouri, and Kentucky, who volunteered literally overnight to come here and help you organize your defenses against the expected tribal attack.” He made all the introductions, secretly pleased that he'd managed to remember everyone's name. “And aside from their sterling qualities as officers, these are also the winners of the Good Sport Award. While I was on the ground in Cape Girardeau, I got a radio relay from Bret Duquesne, whom some of you may know as the Freeholder of Castle Newberry—the place where all the nice guns come from, and currently the leading aircraft manufacturer in North America.

“Bret had received a message from me and taken it upon himself to round up a cadre of officers for the Army of the Wabash, and he'll be flying them direct to the army on the NSP-12, Newberry's first experiment with an airliner of sorts. They should be arriving within a couple of hours.

“I had been flying these officers to the Army of the Wabash, and in fact they will still be joining it, but when they heard that the Army of the Wabash was going to be all right, but Pale Bluff was still in terrible danger, they agreed to come here and give you a hand. I suppose if you don't need any more officers—”

The local militia colonel shook her head. “Don't you dare take them away. Gentlemen and ladies, you are all very welcome here. If you'd like to follow me, we can start planning our defense.”

As the officers walked away, Carol May said, “And those officers were willing to get up in the middle of the night, and get on a plane, just because of your request.”

“I was surprised too,” Bambi said, “at first. Then I realized that the same charisma that had so gripped me completely into Quattro Larsen's thrall was affecting other people just as strongly, and like a sort of Pied Piper in a silly hat—”

“Aw, shit,” Quattro said. “It's just that everybody out there wants to friggin'
do something
. Nobody wants to just hang back and wait for the blow to fall. They were all just fine and in solid with the restore-the-Constitution stuff when it looked like we would just clean up the Lost Quarter, raise the Stars and Stripes over the ruins of Castle Earthstone, go home, vote, and have our nice old familiar United States all back together again.

“Now they're being reminded of the kind of thing that made my parents into libertarians, the stuff that made my old man start building Castle Larsen back in 2013. When minutes count, the national government will need to spend weeks negotiating and deciding; and because they always see the big picture—or that's what the government types always call whatever they see—little details like a town facing a tribal horde get swept to the side as details. So even though a couple of years ago those officers couldn't have imagined being invited to get out of bed and climb into the Duke of California's airplane to go take a stand for civilization, nowadays—”

“They've already believed a hundred other things just as crazy,” Bambi finished for him. “I'll admit, ‘The Duke summons you to defend a friendly realm from a most desperate foe' has more of a ring to it than ‘You have been assigned to maintain a full level of readiness in the Western Kansas Military District.' If any of those officers ever saw
Star Wars
or
The Three Musketeers
, I mean, how could they not be on board with all that romance?”

“Maybe so,” Quattro said, “but people are starting to realize that the real world today
is
romantic, and that no matter how much they miss back before, and would like to go back to filling out forms and voting on resolutions, that's no longer their world. So a chance to get in some hard shots at Daybreak, and for it to be just plain personal instead of about all this abstract nation-and-Constitution stuff, well, that gets a lot of people pumped up.”

Quattro had always enjoyed arguing with Bambi, but lately arguments were always about this subject and never seemed to go anywhere. Perhaps Carol May saw Bambi's irritation, and decided to intervene before it turned into a public quarrel. She said, “Chris Manckiewicz, and General Phat, and James Hendrix all keep talking about how we're slipping back in time, and I guess as we get more feudal, war gets more personal. I don't know if it's a good thing, or a bad thing, but it's definitely a thing.”

Quattro felt vaguely reprimanded, but before he could sort out why, Carol May added, “Nobody else is going to be coming in till late today at earliest. And you've been up all night flying and need some rest. Let's go back to my place, and I'll fill you full of pancakes and dump you into my guest bed.”

Quattro had always liked walking through Pale Bluff in the morning; this wasn't even the first time he'd done it while exhausted from a long flight overnight.

Pale Bluff was the most irreplaceable link in the chain of airfields linking Athens and Olympia, but the town proper was a tight little jam of nineteenth-century gingerbread frame houses, interspersed with twentieth-century ranches and brick bungalows. It looked like a set from some historical drama back before, one of those gentle stories about life in a bygone day. Kids were trudging off to school, just as always. Adults were carrying lunch buckets and toolboxes more often than briefcases, and no one had a phone at his ear or a screen in front of her face.

Rounding the corner into the main part of town, they saw a militia company march by; they weren't in uniform but their badges and insignia were all pinned in place, and “they march as if they've done it before,” Quattro observed.

“Not by much,” Carol May said. “We sent every soldier we could spare with Grayson, and now we have to hope they make it home in time. These aren't raw recruits, but they're not seasoned troops either. More like half-baked recruits. And if the numbers Jenny Whilmire Grayson reported are anything like right, we just don't have anything like enough. We really need the Army of the Wabash to get here before the tribals do, but since I don't see how that's going to happen, we're counting on that handful of militia to hold the tribals off till the A-o-W gets here.”

Quattro looked around again, still cheered by the bustling prosperity of the town, but also letting himself realize, “It's hard to imagine we could lose all this.”

“Harder to imagine when it's always been home,” Carol May said. “Hope you can stand some of the usual apple butter on those pancakes.”

“I relate well to apple butter,” Bambi said. “Always have. Lead on.”

2 HOURS LATER. NEAR THE BRIDGE OVER WEA CREEK ON THE FORMER INDIANA HIGHWAY 25, JUST WEST OF THE FORMER LAFAYETTE. ABOUT 10 AM EASTERN TIME. THURSDAY, MAY 7, 2026.

Jenny Whilmire Grayson looked around the camp; she felt like she had utterly emptied her soul. “So it's there,” she said. “We guessed right.”

“
You
guessed right,
I
said it made sense, and now
Freddie's
confirmed it,” Chris Manckiewicz corrected her. “Lord Robert left the bridge standing at Attica because the last horde that was supposed to push us up toward Prophetstown could walk there, crash for the night, and have an easy way to the other bank. And they didn't make any provision to blow it because they figured we would have a way to know what was happening at Prophetstown, but we probably wouldn't have a way to know about Attica. If you'd fallen for that, Mrs. Grayson, we'd be twenty miles further behind them.”

Freddie Pranger nodded. “I was never so happy as I was to see that bridge standing, after the two that were blown.” At dawn, the morning before, when the battered Army of the Wabash had abruptly wheeled to attack and destroy its tormenters, he had scouted for the two cavalry troops dispatched to find and secure the bridge. He had missed yesterday's battle at the “small” cost of a very long round trip, and his exhaustion showed in the gray pallor and deep lines of his face.

And the man's not thirty-five yet,
Jenny thought.
The moment he finishes reporting, we're throwing him into a wagon for a long nap.
After a pause, Freddie added, “When I left the Montana cavalry, they were digging in on both ends of the bridge, and they had sharpshooters covering the river upstream and down. They will still be holding that bridge when the rest of the army gets there. So you're in business as soon as you get moving.”

“I have never doubted they'll hold it as long as they have to.” Jenny looked around; everywhere, men who had staggered up from their first decent sleep and meals in days were packing up camp, however stiffly and slowly. “That getting moving part might be a while, but I truly don't have the heart to push them.”

Yesterday, worn-out by the desperate push to flank, surround, and subdue their besiegers, and even more by the brutal massacre afterward, they had barely marched three miles from the fairgrounds to this more-easily defended space where there was a long stretch of straight road in an open field for a plane to land, abundant water for cooking and cleaning, and plenty of decent grass for the horses to graze.

But though they had staggered into this camp, they had staggered in victorious, with enough spirit to make a proper camp for the night. Most of the soldiers had filled their bellies and had their first real rest in a long time. Today would be a long march—seven hours on the road, they estimated—but at the end of it, they would cross the Wabash at Attica, and be able to make a beeline drive for Pale Bluff.

That'll be about a 170-mile beeline,
Jenny thought.
There will be a lot of tired bees at the end of
that
. It's flat ground, mostly along the old interstates, but it's still going to take ten days at the most optimistic. Lord Robert and his horde will be going the long way round because they have to stick close by the river for 210 miles, then drop most of their supplies and march about 40 overland. They have almost two days head start, and we don't really know how fast they move along the river or overland . . . too many unknowns for anyone to come up with a number, as Chris keeps telling me. We don't even know if it's a close race, or we've already lost, or already won.