Heather’s coding always amused him; she was always careful to use synonyms for stop and break so as not to create a pattern that might identify the dictionary to the opposition, but there was something inspired, he felt, about fractionate for break and replete whoa for full stop . Also, he liked astronomical and horrendous ; in a dictionary code it is not only as easy to send a big word as a small one, but more secure because it varies the vocabulary.
November 20th at earliest, he thought, pulling his attention away from the interesting coding to the frustrating message. Forty days from today. The time it rained on Noah, or the time Jesus spent in the wilderness. Of course, they had a hell of a lot more and better backup on tap than I have.
4 DAYS LATER. CASTLE LARSEN (NEAR THE FORMER JENNER, CALIFORNIA). 2 AM PST. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2025.
I’m glad the weather held, Bambi Castro thought. She sat on the big chair next to Quattro’s, on the platform at the south end of the hastily hand-mown soccer field. Before them, at least a thousand people were scattered in a gradient of seriousness—the rows up close to the platform were filled with freeholders and their families, all sitting very straight and serious for the investiture and pledging ceremonies that would create the League of Northern Castles. Behind them were prominent locals, trying to look as serious as the freeholders. The less interested and the less serious had arrived later, till the back area faded into Standard California Outdoor Festival, with guys playing hacky sack, mothers chasing babies around and playing silly games with them, friends picnicking on blankets and loudly critiquing everything they saw, hairy shirtless guys playing guitars, and girls in long skirts twirling rhythmlessly wherever there was music.
The one problem with the best seat in the house, Bambi realized, was that she could see everything except what she wanted to see—Quattro in his finery: a splendid combination of French diplomatic corps formal attire, the Marine dress uniform, and German petty king, with tall black boots and a magnificent plumed hat that looked like something between a European doctoral cap and one of the five hundred hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, as re-envisioned by D’Artagnan and modified by a feather salesman. He said Heather had insisted, which didn’t sound anything like her, so Bambi figured it must be some obscure joke.
Anyway, there was no question about it, Quattro was gorgeous, and this was a show all about him—all that Bambi had to do was look nice in her long dress. So it seemed as if, being his wife, she should be allowed a good view of the beautiful front, rather than stuck here watching his back as he accepted the allegiance of seventeen other freeholders and the shouted acclamation of the assembled crowd. Four times the vassals Daddy’s got, representing probably ten times the economic strength and population; no wonder Daddy has that funny expression. He’s got peons envy.
Harrison Castro was seated at the extreme left—the right side of the audience—in the highest spot for visiting dignitaries. Next to him, two chairs stood conspicuously empty: the seats reserved for the PCG and the TNG representatives. They had been invited and had sent the curtest possible snubs. Wonder who Heather had write those notes for them, now that she doesn’t have Arnie?
This just meant more attention for Harrison Castro. Daddy looks like an Imperial bureaucrat from Star Wars or the Postmaster General of San Banana. But all the same, he definitely adds something. Too bad we couldn’t get a bishop.
After the ceremony, they posed for pictures, hoping that state-of-the-art redeveloped photography would produce some acceptable result. Standing between her father and Quattro, Bambi turned on the beauty contestant smile.
Castro said, “Hey, you realize your firstborn child can inherit the Duchy of California?”
Squeezing Bambi’s hand, Quattro said, “Just so you don’t mind my family tradition of naming kids after cars. I kind of like the sound of Duke Lexus of La La Land.”
3 DAYS LATER. SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA. 10:30 PM PST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 17, 2025.
Harrison Castro’s first awareness that anything was wrong, as he entered his bedroom, was when a strong man yanked a bag full of feathers over his head, pinned him to the wall, cuffed him behind his back, and bound his feet. Unable to remove the bag, unable to breathe through the dense feathers, Castro was reeling, red flashes in the blackness of the bag, sucking desperately at the little bit of air that penetrated.
“You can have air and you won’t be further harmed,” a voice said, seemingly from a million miles away. “If you give your word of honor not to shout or try to attract attention, then tap my hand, here, twice.”
Terrified, suffocating, Castro tapped. At once the bag was ripped from his head, and a great mass of dense feathers knocked from his face. He gasped; the air pouring in made him dizzy all over again.
The man in front of him wore black shoes, pants, gloves, and hoodie, with the drawstring hood pulled tight around his face, and a black ski mask. He said, very softly, “Should you break your word I am quite capable of cutting your throat, ethically, and equally capable of escaping, practically. Keep your voice down, Mister Castro, I would dislike cutting your throat over the semantic difference between speaking loudly and shouting. There are so many better differences.”
Still gasping, Castro nodded, and let himself sink backward to sit on his bed. The man moved forward to stand in striking distance, blocking Castro from rising again from his seat. “Here is what you will do. We would like to see your League of South Coast Castles succeed, and we want you to be the sole sovereign in this part of the world. You will stand back and close your doors when the Bright Venus Tribe and its allies strike at the FBI Headquarters, the naval command, and the other Federal offices around the bay. You may accept refugees but only on the condition that they leave the area by the first available ship; there are to be no Federal offices, either Temper or Provi, anywhere south of Los Angeles or west of the mountains, ever again. The authority of the Constitution is ended.
“Once that is accomplished, the tribes will want to discuss alliance—which you and we will both need, to keep the Federals from returning. We will be more than willing to ally with you, and even to swear limited fealty, as long as it is understood that most of this area must become wilderness again; San Diego can be a trading post where we obtain some of the things we’ll need, but it must not grow into a city again. That is what we propose in broad outline; we will tell you details once you agree.”
Castro said, “You’re talking about the future of my land, my family—you have to give me time to think. I don’t need much, but I’d rather die than make a decision of so much importance in two minutes with a knife at my throat.”
“We thought you might feel that way. We will strike in about two weeks against the Federals. You may have ten days, though it would be better to say ‘yes’ sooner.”
“And if my answer is no?”
The man shrugged. “We can get to you. If your answer is no, someone else’s won’t be. After I free you, you will remain quietly in this room for at least half an hour. It would be very inadvisable to shout for help or bring guards in any sooner; I might not be alone and I might not be gone, and we have already established that I am not afraid to die, and you are.”
He hauled Castro painfully to his feet by the hair, turned him, and flung him facedown on the bed. The cuffs fell away. “You may untie your feet.”
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