The Last President (35 page)

“As you wish to say it, let it be said. We will not argue about words.”

“So the real offer is, you'll send me a lot of people, and you'll make me a couple real vague promises, and coordinate some other attacks in other parts of the country, and in return, I tear the holy fuck out of everything between the Mississippi and the Rockies that I can get my hands on?”

“We would . . . that is close enough for us to agree with.”

“All right, three ways you have to sweeten the deal. One, that moon gun thing of yours drops a big old EMP over Pale Bluff sometime in the next few days, and you tell me
exactly
when it's coming. Two, after that your moon gun just keeps dropping'em, steady as rain, on Pueblo, till I tell them to stop—but when I tell them to stop, they stop. Three, any of your troops that want to join my True Daybreak, and break away from you, they're mine, no arguments, no take backs. Do me all those three and we got us a deal.”

The leader nodded, apparently taking no offense at Lord Robert's tone, and said, “As for the Guardian on the Moon, we will do what we can but we don't like to make promises on which we cannot deliver. We will say to those who communicate with the Guardian on the Moon that if the Guardian does these things, our agreement will take effect, and that if it does not, we do not have an agreement, and hope that the Guardian on the Moon thinks that reaching an agreement is as important as we do.”

Ha. Now I'm learning things.
Robert asked, “You don't really know who or what is running the moon gun, yourselves, do you?”

“We only know that the Guardian on the Moon is a force for good and helps us in ending the plaztatic world. None of us has ever met anyone who knows anything about the Guardian on the Moon. But though we all know nothing, we are teaching our children, so that when we are all dead, our children will know the Guardian on the Moon for what it really is: the Servant of Mister Atom, visible proof that
The Play of Daybreak
is true and the world is the way we taught them that it is.

“As for your use of our tribes—of course. Do whatever you like, so long as you carry your Great Raid deep and far. In fact, we will send some of the tribes from the Tennessee Valley, the Ouachitas, and Texas—and from the Ozarks too if you get that far—to join you; use them freely as well. We did not want any of them back in any case; strew their bones from Cairo to Seattle, or take them home and feed them yourself, it's all one to us.”

“You don't seem to mind our heresy much.”

“We don't. Your so-called True Daybreak may offend us personally, just as the computers and technical knowledge we used to bring about Daybreak, back before, offended us.
But we used them.

“Like everything else that must pass eventually, for the moment, you are a means. We have not compromised on the end. Whatever you may wrongly believe, you are going to help us kill plaztatic civilization. We can tolerate a small empire based on military conquest, the same sort of thing that the world has had many times before, if it hastens the final end of plaztatic civilization. Do as you like; ultimately you work for Gaia. We accept your offer completely, and let me add, personally, all hail Lord Robert of the Domain, for the services he shall perform for Mother Gaia.”

After an enthusiastic round of handshaking, the tribals went on their way.

Bernstein said, “Well, someone skunked someone, there, but I'll be damned if I know who.”

“That's 'cause we haven't made sure that we are the skunkers and not the skunkees,” Robert said, cheerfully. “But we will. I know in my bones we will. Did Nathanson show you those fun toys he found?”

They each took one turn firing a Model 1, which was fun. After that, they sent for a tribal who had rudely refused True Daybreak and talked back to Nathanson. They made him practice fire the SMG a few more times, to see what Grayson's letter to Duquesne had meant by “blow up.” It burned his face badly and tore off two fingers. Lord Robert and his advisors all had a good laugh.

THE NEXT DAY. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 10:30 AM EASTERN TIME. FRIDAY, MAY 8, 2026.

Jenny Whilmire Grayson had been slumped, not moving, in the front cockpit of the Stearman, for the last hour or more of the flight.
Well, if she can sleep in that situation, it's not like any of us ever gets enough sleep,
Bambi reflected. She remembered that the first time Quattro had taken her up in this thing, it had been exhilarating, joyful, fascinating—and about fifteen minutes, and for fun. The three hours from Richmond to Athens, on a breakfast of two cups of lukewarm coffee, had been long and tiring for Bambi, and she was just as glad her passenger was probably dozing through most of them.

As they crossed the vast ruin of Atlanta, something in the changed rhythm of the plane must have awakened Jenny, who stirred, leaned back, and shouted, “Can we circle over Athens before we land? So we can see what's up?”

“Sure!” Bambi shouted back. “Good idea! Will there be anyone there if I signal your house?”

“Should be!”

“General Grayson always had us do that! Then they know to bring the carriage!”

Jenny gave her a fairly jaunty thumbs-up, for the circumstances.

In Athens, seen from the air, this morning, the crowds surged through the streets like jellyfish in some absurdist maze, blocked occasionally by lines of troops or cops. At the corner of Baxter and Milledge, there appeared to be a mass brawl going on; downed picket signs and banners along Baxter suggested that one side had been marching on the TNG capital, the old U of Georgia campus, and the other side had ambushed them. Mounted troopers were riding down Milledge and a police line had been set up across Baxter.

They swung south and east to make a low pass over the Grayson house; Bambi was relieved that it was still standing in apparent good shape. She just hoped it wasn't triggering too much for Jenny.
Call me a heartless coward, but she's been through a lot, and I might understand her better than other people, but she's not exactly my BFF, and I'd rather not be the only person there when she starts to cry.

Bambi banked and descended northeast again, toward the airfield, but as they approached, she saw that there were people—
lots of people, big swarms and herds of people, actually
—on the runway, running back and forth, and . . .
oh, man. Throwing rocks. Slugging each other. It's pretty much a battle down there. And since that Airfield Master probably radioed that we were coming, I am guessing this is about us.

Many faces were turning up toward them, and there was a puff of smoke that had to be from a handgun; the shooter was immediately mobbed, but Bambi decided this was no time for taking chances, and circled higher. In a few minutes, a cavalry detachment showed up and went down the runway at a slow trot, shoving the crowds aside; infantry appeared and set up police lines, which took another fifteen minutes.

“Is that about us?” Bambi shouted.

“It's about me. I can pick out some Christian symbols on the signs and the other side is waving the old fifty-star flag. One mob that wants me here, one that doesn't!” Jenny turned to watch them more closely; with nothing to do but circle, with stick and rudder locked for the moment, Bambi had a free hand to squeeze Jenny's arm. Jenny covered it with her other hand and twisted in the cockpit to hunch over toward Bambi.

Well, damn, I guess someone has to be the comforter.

At last the police lines seemed to be holding, the cross-and-eagle and fish-sign wielders were driven from the field, and the American flags began to cluster around the entrance to the terminal. A heliograph winked from the tower, indicating permission to land.

Not sure how long this relative safety was going to last, Bambi came in as swiftly as safety permitted. When she rolled to a stop in front of the terminal crowd, two uniforms with a lot of braid, one of them a woman, came striding up and delivered a very ostentatious salute.

Helping Jenny down from the plane, Bambi asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

“Probably not, but I'm going to do the right things, I hope,” Jenny said, under her breath.

The two uniforms came nearer; the man, a tall African-American with a shaved head, said, “Mrs. Grayson, I don't know if you remember me—”

“Of course I do, Colonel Steen, and it's good to have you here. I'm guessing you're on my side?”

“Yours, the late General's, the Constitution's, and America's, ma'am. This is Colonel Jardin, once upon a time she was a public affairs specialist.”

Jardin said, “I'm afraid we need you to give a speech that will result in some calm focus on our side; we have about equal problems with people wanting to go home and give up, and wanting to throw bricks. You don't happen to know Monroe Motivated Sequence by any—”

“Speech competitions all through high school, speech minor in college, I'm your girl. Feed me the steps and I'll make it happen.” Jenny's smile was genuine, but Bambi wondered if anyone else noticed how tired she looked dragging herself upright.

“Good. I think we can stall them five more minutes but then we'll have to put you up on the rostrum, ready or not.”

Sudden yelling from the crowd, apparently about nothing, seemed to confirm that.

Jenny turned back to Bambi. “I know you have places to be, and I'm guessing Colonel Steen can make the arrangements for you to get fuel and so on?”

Steen nodded. “Happy to. I don't think I've seen you since I performed your wedding.”

“That was a happier time,” Bambi agreed, “but maybe just as busy. Yeah, I should try to be in Paducah tonight, and I've got a couple hours' work to do on the ground here.”

“We'll get you squared away,” Steen said confidently.

Bambi gave Jenny a last firm hug. “You need asylum, ever, you know Pueblo and all of California will open their doors, lady.”

As she followed the ground crew, which was using a mule to tow the Stearman backwards into a hangar, she could hear Jenny's unamplified but powerful voice beginning to speak over the crowd, and the hush-and-shush of a crowd trying to make each other listen. Bambi was a little surprised at how affectionately she thought,
Good luck, sister.

• • • 

Jenny felt like when she turned her back on Bambi, she had truly lost her last friend, but she didn't look back, squared her shoulders, and marched forward.
Just like when Mama dropped me off at preschool and when Daddy dropped me off at Sarah Lawrence. Keep moving forward, try to play well with others.

Beside her, Jardin was murmuring, “The whole city is crazy, ma'am, that's not an exaggeration, it's just the way things are. Your carriage is coming, but it was delayed a few minutes so we could provide it with a cavalry escort. When it takes you back to your house you'll have more of an escort, because the carriage with you in it is a much better target. Your house has been under guard since early April; I don't know if the general ever told you.”

“He just muttered something about damn silliness. Is all this really necessary?”

“Oh, it's necessary. Pay attention to your guards, ma'am. They'll ask you to stay away from windows, not answer doors, and if you hear something moving and you don't know what it is, head for the nearest guard, don't go look yourself. And I'm afraid they're right. Sorry to say there's some fire damage to your garden, one whole row of rosebushes got burned when a firebomb bounced off your house.”

“I can see them being mad at me, but what did the roses ever do to them?” She did her best to make her smile genuine; it must have worked because Jardin looked relieved.
She was probably wondering how I'd take all this.

Jardin added, “Also you've got a couple windows boarded up where someone shot them out, and we're sending someone by the post office to pick up your mail and bring it in, because your mailbox has been set on fire a few times. Basically most of the attacks have been cowardly vandalism. But with you home, that house will attract worse things than cowardly vandals.”

“I will listen to my guards. Remember my husband was murdered while I was in the bathroom just three days ago.”

Colonel Jardin winced; Jenny sourly thought,
Older military women sure are surprised when younger civilian women fail to be shrieking little mice, I guess. Well, I hope she's suitably impressed, and she'll start being blunt with me. I never had much patience for kindly ambiguity, and now I have none.

Jardin seemed to catch on. “All right. I'll just lay it out straight. We're trying to turn rioting in the city into a real revolution that will make the National Constitutional Continuity Board abdicate and ideally leave the city. The Army could probably do it ourselves but some of us would fight on their side, and we don't want to fight each other, and besides once you start letting the military take power in coups, you never get them out of the business. So we need a popular uprising, after which we restore order, recognize the Provi government, and get things back on track for beating the tribes and electing a real government under the real Constitution in November.”

“I've been around the Army enough, even in not much more than a year, to understand that oath is serious,” Jenny said. “So you're the PR person officially and I'm guessing unofficially you're the minister for propaganda? Tell me what you need me to do and I'll do it as well as I can.”

Jardin's smile had broadened. “This is pleasantly easy, now that I know I can just tell you. You need to play the grieving widow card pretty big—”

“For sympathy, or more waving the bloody shirt?”

“Sympathy, for the moment. General Grayson was the closest thing the Army had to an actual hero, and the major thing we need you to tell them is that if he could only be here to lead them, he'd back the rebels and oppose the reverends.”