John Barnes - Daybreak Zero

God I hope they remember what they are really supposed to do. But at least they took off quickly, ski masks pulled down, running in the right direction, and beyond that he’d just have to hope.

“For the record,” he said, loudly, so that the men in the cells could hear him, “it was necessary to arrest this party because the Reconstruction Research Center at Pueblo has been penetrated by Daybreaker and other subversive elements, and we became aware that this purported scouting expedition was actually an attempted prison break by Lyndon Phat…”

The speech went on, sounding more and more lengthy, flat, and phony to Grayson himself. He wanted to just cut it entirely and tell everyone he’d be back later, but he had to drive on through the excruciating, repetitive speech, because he had to be seen here, after giving orders for which he would have independent and even hostile witnesses. There must be no question of either what his orders had been, or that he had been here, when—

Distant gunfire. It began as a few shots, then erupted into what sounded like a brief firefight that trailed off in ones and twos within a minute.

“What is that ?” Grayson demanded. Not staying for an answer, he ran into the night as the last shots punctuated his exit.

If I’m not being stabbed in the back, Cameron Nguyen-Peters thought, then Grayson did that perfectly; we told them just enough to make sure they’ll accomplish the mission, and to cover Grayson and me if things go to shit. And the only catch is that if Grayson is backstabbing me, I’ve just given away every advantage I had. Well, they always say that if you want someone to be trustworthy, you have to start off trusting—

An explosion tore through the downstairs, shaking the building, throwing him to his hands and knees; the coffee in its fine cup flew across his immaculate desk. Plaster spattered on the back of his suitcoat.

Gunshots downstairs, and shouting. He didn’t recognize any of the voices. Probably the intruders were killing any of his surviving, wounded loyalists.

The shaking of the building frame must have jammed the window, because it wouldn’t budge when he yanked at it. He kicked it in the center as hard as he could—it was bulletproof but secured with just a few screws in case of something like this—and it fell away. He stepped over the windowsill, out on the fire escape.

A man had been waiting for him by the window, and as Grayson turned, he was facing into the muzzle of a Newberry Standard carbine.

“You don’t want to do this,” Cam said, softly.

“Shut up.”

“Grayson can’t afford any connection to killing me; do you want to be one of the few living witnesses? Do you think he won’t dispose of you, like he’s disposing of me?”

“He said not to talk to you because you’re a slick liar.”

“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?” Careful not to move his head, with only the light from the oil lamps in the office behind him, Cam studied every detail of the man, trying to make his gaze friendly and sympathetic. No anger. No pity. He’ll pull the trigger if he sees either.

Pudgy, out of shape, lines too deep in his face, slumping like he wanted his ass out of here, the man wore a long untucked homespun shirt; his belly bulged over too-small Levi’s. Of course. Grayson couldn’t have gotten a regular soldier for this job.

“Do you love your country?” Cameron asked him.

“What kind of a question is that? Would I be here doing this if I didn’t?”

“I was appointed by the last serving president of the United States,” Cameron said quietly, “and I appointed Grayson to his present job.”

“Who says he has anything to do with this?” Something defensive in the man’s tone.

This was going the wrong way. Try something else. “If he didn’t, I’m very glad to hear it. Someone sent you. Loyal American citizens don’t come armed to attack their government unless someone has been telling them stories.”

“What makes you think Grayson… I mean—”

“He was usually honest with me up till now. But if you’re going to kill me, can’t you tell me what it’s about?”

The man’s eyes rolled up and away, slightly, toward his low, broad-brimmed hat. He’s thinking about that, he’s thinking—

“Hold it!” the man shouted, not at Cam. Cam did not turn around, but felt another man behind him on the fire escape.

All my life I’ve depended on finding the smart one and talking to him, but sometimes the smart one can’t—

“We ain’t spoza talk to’im.” The voice behind him was expressionless. “He said he’d get us talkin’ and we wouldn’t do it.”

“Maybe—”

“Aw, bullshit, Parker. Think think think, talk talk talk, all the time and you never wanna do nothing.”

On the last syllable, the world roared, and Cam felt an immense shove high on his back. Falling forward, trying to catch the fire escape’s railing, he barely formed the thought Don’t .

As he clung for a moment to the railing, a fragmentary image of the ground below was the last thing that ever crossed from Cam’s optic nerve into his brain. Then Parker shot him in the head. The world disappeared into an unbearable bright light and roaring sound.

Denny kicked the reeling body hard, and it tumbled over the railing, off the fire escape, thudding to the pavement below. “Hey Parker, hey motherfucker, we got the fucking Natcon! We’re fucking famous . See, when it’s time to do it, you gotta do it. Mother fuck er! Famous!”

Parker looked down at the gun in his hand as if it had just appeared there. He wanted to say something, or have a thought, but nothing came. He descended the fire escape slowly, as if in a drunken stagger, with Denny beside him, slapping his back, slugging his shoulder. “Got him, hey, we got him. Motherfucking famous , Parker, we’re motherfucking famous .”

General Grayson was waiting for them at the bottom, with three regular soldiers that Parker hadn’t seen before now. Grayson had been crouched by the Natcon’s body; now he stood up, an expression of horror on his face.

Now is when we’re supposed to point our weapons at him and he’ll back away, and then—but he didn’t say there’d be other soldiers. Parker felt more than thought, So this is what it felt like for the Natcon , and tried to make his mouth open to say, Please! I’ll never tell anybody! and tried to frame the thought that they had to talk, that Denny must not point that gun.

But beside him, he felt Denny’s gun swinging up, just like in practice. Then the general’s pistol was up, and firing.

“Four larks and a wren,” Larry Mensche said, loudly—but not nearly as loudly as the wild laughter from the guards. “Fuck you,” one of the guards said. “We even knew that would be your fucking password, but we ain’t none of those guards. You got the wrong guards. You stayin’ where you stayin’.”

On the surface of his mind, Chris thought, I am deranged by this. I am mad. I cannot comprehend the failure of the plot. What do I do?

Deeper down, he thought, Thank God you couldn’t be in broadcast news without getting some actor training.

Chris drew a deep breath and tightened his vocal cords. Make’em jump. Sound like a gut-shot cougar. He screamed, “Four larks and a wren, four larks and a wren, four larks and a wren.”