John Barnes - Directive 51

Weisbrod smiled broadly. “Carol May Kloster, I was hoping there’d be notes, because I’m not sure I remember what all I said—I was speaking from the back of a parking-ticket envelope I scribbled about twenty words on.” He signed and dated with a flourish.

As he turned to go to his room, Allison Sok Banh was standing in front of him. “Graham,” she said softly, “what have you done?”

“I did something wrong?”

“You pledged to give up the presidency that it’s already cost us our safety and security—and a couple of men their lives—to give to you. What if it turns out that the EMP is the proof that we really are in a war?”

“It might be ironic, but it would simplify things,” Weisbrod said. “And I wouldn’t give up being President; the legitimate succession is too valuable. I’d just tell Cameron I was willing to stooge for him, take the oath, and do and say whatever he told me to; as soon as he had a Congress available, I’d appoint whoever he picked as VP, and resign immediately after confirmation. If he does turn out to be right, what else can I decently do?”

She was standing very close and glaring into his eyes; her intense anger startled him. “ You’re the president. If it turns out we’re in a war, you’re supposed to lead us, as best you can—not find someone else to do it, not take instructions, but lead . Having been wrong once doesn’t excuse you from doing your duty.” She seemed to force herself to stop before saying more than she wanted to, and finished with, “The Constitution and the Congress made you the president. Be the president.”

“Well, at the moment,” Weisbrod said, “my presidential priorities are identifying a place for the president to sleep tonight.” He meant it as a light joke to deflect the subject; but he saw in her face what she had thought for a moment, and that it was a welcome thought. Awkwardly, he said good night; looking down, he realized he was holding her hands.

When he looked up again, she was smiling. She squeezed his hands and said, “Sleep well,” and was gone around the corner to sleep with the other women tonight.

“You are going to be in deep shit for this,” Abel said, leaning over Chris’s shoulder, “and I am not so sure that I will not be in deep shit for setting it and printing it.”

Chris looked up and said, “Now you’re a critic.”

“I ain’t a critic, but if I got to be I’ll sure as shit be a censor. You are going to embarrass the crap out of the NCCC, and he is not going to take it well, because just now he’s dealing with the fact that he’s sort of the president, and Graham Weisbrod is sort of the president, and that’s one more than people are used to, so everyone’s good and nervous to begin with. Then on top of that, there’s the fact that good old Cam, it turns out, was keeping his good old buddy Graham all wrapped up tight in secret jail, and all the time giving out that they was still friends and Graham was calling the shots, which means NCCC-Cam’s now established for a big fat liar, and he’s got this escaped other president, and if that story about him taking the oath in that little town in Illinois from a city traffic judge is true, it’s a sworn-in and taking-control kind of president. Last time anything like this happened around here, a guy named Sherman burned the damn state down.”

“He also freed your ancestors.”

“Yeah. Everybody’s got some good points and sometimes you got to take the bitter with the sweet. But now that I’m free—and like you say, right now I’m America’s leading publisher and the founder of a media dynasty—I don’t want Georgia burned down anymore. It’s like once you own , instead of rent , you care about the property more, you know? No more Shermans, that’s what I say. And when you got two governments in one nation, that kind of thing can happen.”

Abel’s goofing around, of course, but he’s got a more-than-real point. Chris considered for a moment. “How many people would you guess feel like you do?”

“All of ’em, if they have any brains. Look, go out in the street and interview the man in it, and tell me we ain’t worrying about a new Civil War. Talk to some of the army guys and see if they ain’t worried stiff that they’re gonna have to shoot some of their own. Ask a guy who just got a roof over his family’s head again, and something for his kids to eat, if he wants it bombed. And then ask any of them if they think it’s a good thing to have two governments, and one trying to arrest the other one. It’s like two cops gone bad, both playing for different gangs, and the whole damn country is stuck in the crossfire.”

“Well,” Chris said, rising from his chair and pulling on his hat. “Yeah, I think you’re right, I’d better get out and do some man-in-the-streets, and talk to some people up at the campus, and see if I can put together something about this.”

“I was trying to talk you out of it entirely. I’m telling you, you’re embarrassing the government, and that is not something a government forgives.”

“It’s Cam Nguyen-Peters, Abel. I know him. I’ve interviewed him over beer and pizza, you know? And there isn’t a guy in the whole blessed Republic with more of a commitment to the Constitution, which includes the First Amendment. I’m telling you, he is not going to jail a newspaper editor.”

Abel sat on the desk, resting his large, strong hands on his massive thighs, looking like an imminent human avalanche. “And I am telling you, you’re embarrassing a man with power, and two-thirds of his power is the respect he gets. And as for the Constitution, yeah, he loves it—and he’s trying his damnedest to put it back—because we ain’t under it, right now . And weren’t we just talking about him locking up a buddy? But I can’t stop you, so I guess I’m just gonna wait for my chance to say I told you so .”

“I guess we’ll have to go for a third printing,” Chris said, though his arms ached and he was thinking They must call this job the printer’s devil because you work like hell . “That’s the sixth newsboy to come in empty and needing more. We can set out the sandwich trays for them and have papers in their hands in an hour, if we hustle.”

Abel looked with satisfaction at the mountain of cans and jars, and the box stuffed with TNG scrip. “Definitely our most profitable day,” he said, “I got to give you that.”

They turned back to the press; it didn’t like to work this long without wipe-downs and general cleaning, as the lye they used to keep the nanoswarm off the electric motors tended to turn all the lubricants into soft brown soap that burned into black gunk in the bearings. Have to tear the old girl down for a day after this run is over, Chris thought. Glad we’re not a daily yet. He glanced down at the marked-up sample sheet. Now, this headline will be part of history:

“Hey, Mr. Big Editor, quit daydreaming so Mr. Lowly Scum Printer’s Devil can get to work.”

“Caught!” Chris said, and started to move one of the big rolls of paper into the ready rack.

“Mr. Manckiewicz?” a voice said.

He turned to see a man who wore a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, and might as well have worn a sign around his neck: COP. The man held out a piece of paper and said, “I have a warrant; you need to come with me.”