John Barnes - Daybreak Zero

“For the time being, my church and your government will be tolerated as long as we don’t impose much on our people, especially as long as we don’t call attention to the fact that Mister Nguyen-Peters was our last link to legitimacy. We cannot even think of reversing anything he agreed to. So since we cannot beat them, I suggest we join them. Ease up our grip, you know? Let people have one old-fashioned roistering anarchic election, let our supporters see the leftists run loose, to remind the Christian Americans how furious it makes them to have God and the flag disrespected. For every recruit the other side gains by being able to say and print whatever they want, they will lose five people into our column, from people hearing socialist anti-God crap they never wanted to hear again. Look at the map—a religious conservative candidate, especially if he can become popular in Wabash and Superior, can win in a landslide, with long coattails. The losses of last night are truly nothing compared with the chance to put in a legitimate, Constitutional government of principled religious conservatives to lead us for the remainder of Tribulation.

“So, General Son-in-Law, there is nothing to worry about, which is the real reason why I didn’t object to letting you sleep. Things are better than could be hoped for. You’ll still have your expedition, your victories, your fame, and your campaign; we’ll still defeat the Provi liberals and socialists, whether they run Weisbrod or Phat, and especially if they run both. You’re still going to be president. And that’s why I came here to tell you personally. We all have our duties, and some are pleasant.”

“You do realize you are taking a huge risk by being here,” Allie said, coolly opening the closet door in her bedroom to reveal Darcage.

It was the first time she’d ever seen him at a loss for words.

“Did Daybreak tell you to try again even though you hadn’t been able to get in the last four times?” she asked. “Didn’t that make you worry that Daybreak might be sacrificing you?”

“It would be an honor to be sacrificed for Daybreak.” He stood, a little dignity returning. “I am deep-trained,” he added. “You know what a seizure is like in someone who is only partly recruited. You know how much worse it is in someone like Ysabel Roth. You cannot take me prisoner without sending me into a seizure that will be fatal.”

“That’s what Daybreak finds it useful for you to believe. Stop being melodramatic; if I wanted to catch you, it would have been guards, not me, that opened the closet door.” She perched on the edge of her desk, crossing her legs and letting her skirt ride up. Hunh. I’d get more reaction out of a gay zombie. Interesting.

“Your husband the president, and all his security people, must surely know that you are meeting me and what we are talking about,” Darcage said. “Perhaps I should just allow myself to think that I am hopelessly caught and my death would be best for Daybreak.”

“You could do that and you might die before our people sedated you,” Allie agreed. “Why don’t you?”

“It would be better to hear your offer first.”

“Come back through the rear entrance at 10 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning. Don’t dress tribal. No tricks. If they find a weapon on you they’ll kill you right there. You have an appointment with me. I will tell you how Daybreak can be useful to me, and you will carry the message back to Daybreak, which will then either decide to be useful, or not.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Daybreak won’t. Now go. Guards will take you out by a secret route.” The door opened and two of the President’s Own Rangers, their ears swathed in gauze, came in, nodded, and grabbed Darcage, pushing and shoving him along, none too gently.

Graham came in and said, “Well, we listened. I suppose I should be alarmed at how convincing you sounded.”

“Just part of the job,” she said. “Tomorrow morning will tell the tale, and as you heard, there’s not much to analyze about the conversation. Early bed tonight?”

“I’d like that.”

As she brushed her long, thick black hair, Allie watched herself in the mirror and thought, Everyone keeps me in the game because they think I might work for them. But who do I think I’m working for? She saw only her own smile in the mirror.

Heather thought about telling them all, since there was no one there to remember, that it was the anniversary of Lenny’s death, that Leo was too young to understand words about his father, that in a world where the great majority were dead, and her old friends from that time all lost to her, she ached to talk about Lenny and could not. She had wanted to put together some kind of celebration with her friends, not to be alone that night.

Reading her mind, as he often seemed to these days, James had claimed he felt like cooking a big meal, gathered everyone to his house so that Heather had nothing to do but be there, and told her to talk about whatever she wanted, to whomever she wanted, and just do whatever felt right.

James himself was over in the corner, laughing and happy because Leslie was there, hanging with Larry and Debbie Mensche and with Jason and Beth. There’s a group of people that appreciates civilization, she thought.

She looked around to see if Chris was still telling stories—“some true” as he liked to put it—to Cassie, Patrick, and the other younger people; Patrick had been all but struck mute with awe that he and Ntale had been invited, but good food and attention from friendly adults had thawed him out. Chris had moved on, and the kids were laughing and whispering like any teenagers trapped at a grown-up party and entertaining each other.

Heather went into the main room. She missed Quattro and Bambi, still stuck in California straightening out the mess of merging the Leagues, and the presence of so many friends seemed only to remind her of the ones who were not there.

When she saw Chris talking with Phat—and taking notes as he did—she came over and said, “Hey, this is a party. No working at the party.”

“Okay,” Chris said, slamming his notepad shut and mock-whining like a small boy, “but I want to get started turning the general into a hero. Remember, when Leo over here is an old fart like us, he’ll tell stories, and the more heroes and the less truth they contain, the better everyone will like them. Right, Leo?”

Leo made a sleepy, whining noise.

“I think that means ‘leave me out of this,’” Heather said. “And it’s probably time for me to call it an evening.”

With no moon out, the clear sky was smeared with stars, twinkling fiercely through the still-sooty upper air. Leo was pressed in tight against her, under her cloak, and she hurried toward home in the cold.

Ahead of her, lights were disappearing as candles and lanterns were blown out; nowadays, Pueblo, the liveliest city in America, went to bed early. The day you died, Lenny, we were a united country, but in the deepest shit we’d ever been in. And here we are again, except less united and in deeper shit. But overall, it feels like a victory, which makes no sense.

She stood a moment in the street, as if listening to his voice, and then turned to look back at James’s house, still crowded with light and people— her people—and saw, as plainly as all the lines and charts, tables and notes that occupied her working hours, that it did make sense, after all.