John Barnes - Daybreak Zero

The hotel owner accepted an RRC purchase order for Larry’s bill, conserving his cash and trade goods. “I guess the RRC is more stable than any bank we have. I still don’t get it, is the RRC Provi or Temper?”

“Yes.” Larry was trying not to fuel gossip. The owner looked annoyed—accepting that p.o. had been a big favor. Larry softened it a little: “The Provis and the Tempers in Athens are both trying to bring the country back together under the Constitution. Mostly they disagree about mechanics and details. We’re trying to help them in the areas where they agree. What we’re not is against either of them.”

“I guess that’s the answer you have to give.”

“Well, that, and it’s true.”

“For an outfit that calls itself the Reconstruction Research Center, you don’t seem to have much information.”

“Hey, we’re a research center. If we knew anything it wouldn’t be research, would it?”

The owner shrugged. “I guess government hasn’t changed that much since Daybreak. It’s still hard to see what we get for our taxes.”

If you’re paying taxes, Larry thought, you’re the only one. I guess habits of speech die hard. “I do need to research one subject. I’ve got to outfit an expedition up into the wild country north of here in a hurry. Do you know anyone that can rent me some mules, help me handle them, and doesn’t mind carrying a gun on the job?”

The owner grinned. “Is it okay if it’s my brother-in-law?”

“You’re right, things haven’t changed that much.”

Ryan and his son Micah lived on the far side of town, but this wasn’t much of a problem; Larry had only what would fit into his backpack, and anyway he needed to check at the biofuel plant to see if they had any avgas they were reasonably sure was sterile.

As he walked he saw that Ontario, Oregon, was in better shape than most towns: Fortifications mostly finished. Militia drilled and ready. Salvage crews working through ruins in an orderly way. Community mess hall reliably open. The blacktop on the streets was falling apart, of course, as the volatiles in the asphalt spoiled, and there were still flooded spots, packs of feral dogs, and abundant cars and electric wires yet to be hauled away, but you could feel the town coming back together.

The biofuel plant had clean avgas, and Ryan and his son Micah were indeed open to the idea of an expedition north into the mountains. “To make good time,” Ryan said, “you want to under-load the mules and use more of them. Mile Marker 178 is 108 miles away, a week’s trip nowadays. To fill up your friend’s tank, I make that three mules hauling four jerry cans each, with not much else, plus two more mules for supplies for the three of us, so’s we’ve got hands free to fight when the tribals turn up.”

“You’re sure they will?”

“I don’t go up there unless the money’s awful good. Tribals are why.”

“Then I won’t haggle about money,” Larry said. “So five mules will do it?”

“Unless you want to ride, or pay for me and Micah to ride.”

“Nah. People ought to be self-propelled.”

Detailing Ryan and Micah to acquire supplies, fill jerry cans, and load mules, Mensche went to the post office to radio Heather and then to the town square to trade for ammunition.

At the biofuel plant, Larry found Ryan and Micah almost ready to go, and paid for the fuel with another RRC p.o. Larry sprang for a quick brunch at a stew-and-bread stand in the square, and they set off at about 10:30 in the morning, not bad for a job he’d been unaware of at 7:00.

Like Larry himself, Ryan and Micah wore a mix of camo, denim, and deerskin, and carried black-powder guns, crossbows, axes, and big belt knives. Together, they looked like three old-time mountain men who had walked through a time machine for a ten-minute shopping spree at Wal-Mart.

The mules’ hooves clopped over the high truss bridge, loud in a town with no automobiles or electricity, but soft and lonesome against the roar of the river below. One down, and one hundred seven to go.

“Given that everything I know to do came out of a 1942 Merck Manual,” Dr. Abrams said, “I think we’re doing real well to tell you that you’re going to have a baby. Other than that, all I can really say is that nothing I can find is wrong.”

Heather sighed. “I understand. Really I do. But I’m having my first kid as a widow right after my fortieth birthday. Look, the main thing I wanted to ask—is it true that a mother’s stress can affect her baby?”

Abrams laughed. “The manual here tells me to assure you your kid won’t get a birthmark.”

“Uh, I guess I was worried about the more modern superstitions.”

“Why? You might as well have a quaint old-fashioned superstition to go with our quaint old-fashioned way of life. At least don’t add the stress of worrying about the stress. Eat well, sleep as much as you can, stay active as long as you can without overdoing it, and do your best to remember that you’re a strong healthy woman and everything about the pregnancy is textbook normal—even if the textbook is eighty years old and came out of a dusty library basement.”

“What the hell, that’s no worse than half the congressmen I used to work with.” Heather left with the same comfortable feeling Dr. MaryBeth Abrams always gave her. I suppose it’s one more way we’re back to the old days. Reassure the patient and let nature do its thing. Not unlike what I’m trying to do with the United States.

She was most of the way back to the old Pueblo County Courthouse when Patrick charged around the corner, holding out a message. “I checked at Room F to see if there was anything for you, Ms. O’Grainne, so you wouldn’t have to wait for their regular delivery.”

Room F was Incoming Crypto.

“And I bet they gave you one lousy coupon.”

“Well, it’s a pretty good coupon, actually,” he said, smiling. “I hear it’s gonna be hamburgers at the Riverwalk Kitchen tonight, a train hit a cow over by Goodnight.”

“Well,” Heather said, “since it’s hamburgers, you and Ntale will both want seconds and one of you might even need thirds.” She scribbled out a coupon for five entrees; he pocketed it and handed her the folded message. “Gotta run, Ms. O’Grainne. The mail must go through.”

It was a note from Larry Mensche:

arr ontor lst nite BRK

bambi down abt 100 mi n of here BRK

US 95 1/2 mi N of ID mi mkr 178 BRK

located clean fuel BRK

located mules & skinners BRK

departing now BRK

plz authze $3k govt scrip BRK

will need on return (est 12 days) BRK

no troops/planes/special indic @ present but plz stdXjic BRK

no worrying & tell Q 2 BRK

Mensche

EOM

“Plz stdXjic” was Larry’s personal abbreviation for Please stand by just in case. Plz stdXjic had turned out to mean he’d needed a troop of cavalry, two doctors, three kegs of beer—not all on the same mission. It took her a moment to realize that “Tell Q 2” meant “tell Quattro too”—in other words, that Quattro wasn’t supposed to worry either.

She felt a kick and looked down. “All right,” she said. “Larry’s in Ontario, Oregon, and he’s on the job. None of us is supposed to worry.”