John Barnes - Daybreak Zero

“But if we sacrifice—”

“I was including the other side in ‘we,’ Reverend. And if you were referring to sacrificing the un-Constitutional expedients that have been forced on me by circumstances, good riddance. We’re getting our Constitution back. I know that the general, at least, understands the words ‘uphold’ and ‘defend.’”

Grayson’s tone was polite, even deferential—a good sign. “Sir, I think you are unnecessarily antagonistic—”

“I’ll accept that I’m antagonistic. I’m not sure I’m as antagonistic as necessary, but I’m doing my best.” Nice fishie, swallow that hook hard. He hoped it wasn’t only in his imagination that Grayson had seen the advantages.

Of course he could also just shoot me, frame a PCG agent, declare war, and rule by decree. Petty harassment and pranking of guys who are already thinking of shooting me —Cameron emphatically finished the thought with— keeps them off balance, makes them look silly, reminds them of all the times they’ve chickened out before, and gives me some badly needed amusement. Funny how free you are once you just do the right thing; after that all they can do is kill you.

“Steve Ecco,” James said, holding the glass of blood-red wine up.

“Steve,” Leslie agreed, and clinked glasses with him. “And all the others going in after him. That’s what’s hard for me to imagine. Ecco going in was brave, but going in after what happened to him…” She extended her glass again.

James clinked it, and they drank deeply, more a passionate communion than a toast. “You know, I’m not used to being around brave people or adventurous people, even now after all we’ve been through here.” He broke off a piece of bread, warm from his oven, and handed it to her; they chewed slowly. “At these Monday night dinners, what did we talk about back before all our friends were going off to risk death?”

Leslie smiled and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “The Heart of Leslie Antonowicz, also known as The Love Of My Life Of The Week. Ways I tried to get myself killed out in the boons, skiing and climbing and all that. Of course, nowadays the boons are much more dangerous—and given that condoms are extinct, so is catting around.”

James sat back, blinking, and said, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Old man, you need to get out more. I know this widow—”

“No, I didn’t mean on the personal level. I meant we’ve got an AIDS epidemic coming. The drugs are gone and it’ll be a long generation before we can put the things that make them back together, and we’ve got famine, epidemics of other diseases, mass grief that we’re only starting to wake up and feel—very likely most of the HIV-positive people are going to convert to full-blown AIDS in the next few years. Then on top of that, condoms were plastic themselves, often wrapped in plastic, and anyway we’re not making any more of them—I mean, holy crap, we’ve got to make sure the next generation is careful, you know?”

“Sounds like an oncoming Jamesgram.” That was her nickname for his frequent one-page memos to Heather, about every possibility from lions on the Great Plains to cholera in Morgan City.

He made a face. “It was my memo about the situation east of the Wabash that gave her the idea of sending poor Ecco out to Pale Bluff, and I don’t know if it was decisive, but I sent a note about the implications of Debbie’s report and why we needed to get someone inside the Lost Quarter soon. Jamesgrams have consequences.”

“Are you feeling guilty?”

He thought for a moment. “No, I guess not. We had to try. I just feel sorry for Steve Ecco; what an awful way to go.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “One drunken night he tried to pick me up, and I heard the story and philosophy of his life. He died the way he thought he wanted to. Bet he didn’t like it as much as he thought he would, though. No background music. That’s the trouble with an adventurous life, sooner or later it really hurts, and there’s no pizza afterwards.”

“That seems kind of cold about a guy who’s dead.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure I wanted to say that, myself. Let’s get into that steak salad you said was going to curl my toes.”

“Only way I ever get to hear you make noises like that.”

“Dirty old man.”

The banter was forced, awkward, sounded silly to them both, but it was better than what they had been talking about, and almost ten years of Monday dinners together had at least given them a reliable script for avoiding awkward, emotionally difficult moments. Still, as James sliced the steak into thin strips, he seemed to feel his thumb pressing the handle more than usual, and looked at it with a strange fond tenderness. Seeing that, Leslie began a long, pointless story about someone trying to pick her up in Dell’s Brew, and James supplied ten times the commentary that seemed necessary.

In the wee hours in Uniontown, the whoosh of the dark black river drowned out any other sound. The narrow streets—bent, tangled, and truncated by the town’s being pinned between the river and the mountains—showed no light; Uniontowners had learned to assume there were watchers across the river.

Debbie Mensche followed her guide for an hour along the trail downstream, until, at one bend, he stopped, let her catch up, and touched her elbow.

The shore-side edge of the triangular rock was about chest high to them; they climbed up onto it and crept a few feet forward on their bellies to look over the edge. Beyond the fast, noisy riffles in the river, the end of the dam reached toward them. Her guide yipped like a coyote; on the other side, at the tip of the dam, a man stood and waved his arms, twice, once, then three times, and finally once again.

With steps nailed and tied on to form a ladder, climbing into the big oak wasn’t difficult, even in the dark. The guide tugged on the line that led away across the river, and received an answering tug. He fitted the metal logging helmet over her head and fastened the chin strap; helped her into the harness; and rigged her to the overhead pulley. “Just let your legs trail, and keep them close together. They’ll catch you by the legs and guide you in. But even if you lose your grip and come in upside down and flailing, the guys on the other end know what to do, so try to remember you’re safe, okay?”

“’Kay.”

“Anything at all before you go?”

“No, nothing. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Come back sometime when we can show you our little town. Pack on good?”

“Yeah.”

“Harness is good,” he said, rechecking. “All right. Grab the handles, walk to the edge, and lift your feet up high. Stretch out again as soon as you clear the platform.”

Debbie walked forward to the platform edge; she could see a path had been cut through the branches, and beyond she could see the river, the dam, and the opposite shore. She took a good grip on the handles and bent her knees; at first she was pulling the line down, then pulling it tight, and finally her feet came up, leaving the edge. The forward lurch startled her, but she remembered to extend her legs and then she was…

Flying, she thought. Like a dream of being a bird. She swooped out through the opening in the tree, and the slope fell away below her; she was gliding down toward the riffles below, looking around at the vast dark river spanning the horizons, the thundering pale confusion where the Wabash poured into the Ohio, and the tree-covered hills.