John Barnes - Daybreak Zero

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

At lunch, he talked of absolutely nothing but Daybreak, the tribes, and the need for further, deeper research.

That evening, as Heather played with her big chart, she wanted to concentrate on the tribal pathway, as Arnie had so emphasized, but her eyes kept drifting back to the tangled knot of yellow and red labeled TNG PARTICIPATES IN RESTORATION. Eight lines crossed and knotted there, and at each report from Red Dog, the number of possible bad outcomes seemed to double and the number of her options seemed to halve. Could be worse, she thought. I could be where Cam is. But the Natcon had been a friend for many years before, and she couldn’t help thinking how much she’d rather have him here, safe, than there, in that bunched knot that looked to her, more and more, like a pit of snakes.

With a sigh, she moved and repinned the few things affected by her small amount of new information, looked at the rest, and could not think of anything to do but wait. It’s the other side’s move, hon, she remembered Dad saying, when he was teaching her checkers. That’s one thing you can never do anything about; they get a turn.

Steve Ecco hadn’t slept well on the train. He’d awakened every few minutes when something bumped or shuddered. After a quick breakfast of leftover Cold Fried Don’t Ask, he splurged on some hot water and soap for a shave and a sponge bath, and put on the clean clothes he’d been saving. I guess that’s about as spruced up as I’m getting. At least I combed my hair.

The platform at Wayne City was just a big slab of concrete with a frame and fabric roof, and Ecco was the only one who got off there. He didn’t quite have time to look around before a tall, thin man, maybe thirty years old, stepped up onto the platform. He was dressed in the mix of deerskin, camo, and denim that tended to be popular among serious wilderness scouts like Larry Mensche; unlike Larry, he wore a large coonskin cap and the seams of his deerskin shirt were fringed. His shoes were low moccasins rather than Larry’s heavy snake-highs. “Mister Ecco?” the man said, extending a hand that felt like rocks under rawhide.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Freddie Pranger. I’m s’pose to take you on over to Pale Bluff. It’s a nice day and there hasn’t been much bandit or tribal trouble lately, we’ll walk it in maybe three hours, but you might want to visit the plumbing first.”

Ecco hurried into the public restroom by the station. Freddie Pranger, Jesus, they sent Freddie Pranger to pick me up. Sure, part of Pranger’s reputation was just because he was buddies with Carol May Kloster, the star reporter around here, but still… this was like going into San Antonio and being met by Travis, Bowie, or Crockett.

And why should it matter how Freddie Pranger got to be famous, as long as he really is as good as they say? He refastened his fly. Buffalo Bill was nobody without Ned Buntline to report him. Ecco breathed deeply once, feeling the hand of his inner, smarter, braver self resting on his shoulder, and to himself he said, with far more confidence than he felt, Wanna be a legend, Steve Ecco, just like you’ve always dreamed? Here’s where we start.

As the train pulled into the station at Athens, Jeffrey Grayson rose from his seat, gaping at the crowded platform. “My God, there must be three hundred people out there.”

“More than that,” Jenny said. “Daddy promised me at least five hundred.”

Grayson sat down with a thump; he was forever discovering, one more time, the rigorously practical mind that was part of the package with Jenny’s pale blonde hair, big breasts, and constant adoring support. “He what? Were you—”

“Well, the family does have a house in Savannah, and Daddy went down there in another car on the same train we did. And then the next morning, you were getting a real good sleep for the first time in months, baby, and Daddy came by the hotel, and we went down to some early breakfast, and talked a little bit. That’s all.” She snuggled against him. “Just another enhancement to your career, baby.”

“Did it have anything to do with the Post Raptural riots—”

“Those were not riots. Daddy would not have anything to do with a riot . Those were the people exercising their ‘right peaceably to assemble for redress of grievances,’ just like it says in the Constitution, honey.”

“Quite a few local commanders would disagree. Especially the ones who were shot at.”

“You see, that’s the kind of media exaggeration—”

“That’s from the Weekly Insight , honey, which is the Post Raptural paper, and the only legal one in Athens.” He slipped his arm around her and said, “Jenny, I know your father is a politician with a backwards collar, and I know this is all part of ordinary life to you. And I’m doing my damnedest to learn to be a good politician besides being a good general. But every now and then you get way past me. I thought it was just some Post Raptural congregations throwing rocks and tantrums about Cam’s coup—which unfortunately, under the rules, he had every right to pull—”

“There are rights and there are rights, baby. Haven’t you thought about what I said about Tribulation? That even if Daybreak wasn’t really the Rapture, so this isn’t really Tribulation, this whole change is still doing the Lord’s work? And you can’t have more rights than you do when you’re doing God’s work. Now, the things you have to say to them are only that you understand their concerns, they should go home, and you’ll be meeting with Cam. All those things are true. Just say them.”

Before Grayson could emerge from his railroad car, militia troops had to clear a space on the platform; they helped him up onto an inverted crate, and that was the moment when he realized that like it or not, he would be giving a speech.

The crowd looked expectant, confused, afraid, angry—everything he could imagine. There weren’t many signs—paint of any kind was still scarce and difficult to make—but there was one bedsheet banner painted with II SAMUEL 17:3.

“What’s that verse?” he murmured to Jenny, who was standing next to him and holding his hand.

“Tell you later, baby, you have to talk to them now.”

The way they were looking at him convinced him she was right. Remembering what she’d outlined, he said, “Look, everyone, this is really a surprise, I thought I was just coming back from vacation. But I’m glad to see all of you here, and I’m honored that you turned out for me. I share many of your concerns and I understand what you are worried about.” ( Now there is a lie, he thought.) “For right now, I’m going to ask you all to return to your homes, and to your daily lives, and wait patiently for news and developments. All of us love our country, all of us love our God, and all of us will work together to bring about the right course of action. I’ll be meeting with Natcon Nguyen-Peters later this afternoon, and of course there are matters we’ll have to discuss. For the moment, rest assured that your concerns have been heard.”

The wild cheers mystified him even further, but Jenny said, “Baby, that was perfect, especially for spontaneous. Now just give’em a short prayer, be sure you end with Jesus, and send’em all home.”

Neville Jawarah was on the south wall, the dullest sector for a sentry in Pullman. The southeast gate took in at least a few refugees burned out by the tribals, fleeing along the old Lewis and Clark route, and some looters from Moscow. The west gate, at this time of day, would be almost busy, with the last few respectable traders coming in off the road; scammers and outlaws trying to pursue their prey; the inevitable, ubiquitous refugees looking for lost relatives; and a mix of spies pretending to be traders, crooks, or refugees. Most spies the sentries caught were from the tribes; a few were from Castles. There must also be some spies from the TNG, in far-off Athens, since Pullman was loyal to the PCG at Olympia, but presumably a Temper spy would be too competent and professional for an ordinary sentry to detect.