John Barnes - Directive 51

“Norcross?” Jason exclaimed. “We haven’t heard from the President yet, and they’re running Norcross’s speech?”

Zach shrugged. “Well, Norcross is running for president, even if almost everyone is ignoring that fact.”

“I don’t want any damn candidate . The world’s blowing up, and I want my president! ”

“Funny remark for an anarchist.”

“Hey, no anarchists in foxholes, or something like—” An emblem appeared on Jason’s laptop screen. “Here we go.”

Norcross looked calm but worried; Chris zoomed to catch the firm-set jaw and little wrinkles around his eyes, like your favorite uncle about to break bad news. “Well, thank you all for coming out and listening to me when there’s so much else happening. Let me begin by saying that all our prayers should be with the family of the late Vice President, John Samuelson; I suppose it’s no secret that he and I disagreed about very nearly every possible subject almost all the time, but on the personal level, he was a man who could listen, and care, could hear your—”

Pull back wide to show the ragtag crowd, catch the feeling that everyone, Norcross included, was deciding what to think and feel as they went along.

“—ask all Americans to join me in praying for President Pendano and his team as well. Now, I have no desire to be a backseat driver—”

Apophasis, Chris thought; saying you’re not going to say something in order to say it. Nixon’s favorite device, and Newt Gingrich’s, and Karl Rove’s—fine old Republican tradition.

That’s a beautiful girl with red hair in a Pendano T-shirt, great boobs, and that big cross around her neck helps show them off—cut there for a reaction. Wish she’d jump up and down—not that kind of speech.

“—go beyond politics, because our country comes first. So I am speaking to urge all my friends and supporters, every one of you who rings doorbells and makes phone calls, every blessed one of you with a bumper sticker supporting me or Governor Milton or the Christian Bill of Rights—”

Wow, nice. Cut back to close in on Norcross, look at the firm way he’s laying it down. Okay, next reaction is… that slightly bewildered young family in robes and pajamas… catch them right when Norcross hits his authority voice— yes! look at Daddy nodding solemnly, and taking Mommy’s hand, perfect! Gotcha!

“—no backbiting, no second-guessing, no analysis of how this affects our chances—just get in there and help . There will be time enough for politics later. So this is my—”

Wow, he’s already winding up. That was fast. Okay, throw in all the reactions I can:

Maid in uniform leaning on a dust mop, next to the obvious Washington guy, face careworn and exhausted, in the pricey perfect-fit suit.

Young black father holding a small girl.

White hair, DAV cap, wheelchair, how come those guys always have a flag with them? Never mind, on to:

Desk clerk in uniform, slumped against a pillar but smiling radiantly, as if she had just heard exactly what she wanted to hear, bowing her head in prayer.

Back to select, close up, focus, hit it:

Norcross’s grin, like a boxer who is half a minute from going back into the ring; here was a guy who believed .

“—beyond liberal and conservative, beyond Christian and secular, beyond business as usual. It’s about our country. So if you support me— support the president. Support our officials, support the nation, and pray for them and for all of us. Thank you and good night.”

Stay on him… expression of a man sure he has just done the right thing.

Pull back to show the room. Pop cuts around to:

Stone-faced Secret Service.

Eager reporters clicking away at their computers.

The crowd: young, old, men, women, children, many races, uniforms, jeans, T-shirts, bathrobes, suits—all nodding, solemnly, seriously, as gazes caught, held, were acknowledged in one another’s reactions.

He caught, over and over, that instant when fearful grimaces and stunned slack jaws became weary, determined smiles, like Norcross’s, as they decided we are in it together, and we will get through it.

In the corner of his screen: lexy: strike&go if no qns. Norcross was already at the door, so Chris moved swiftly, automatically, shutting down remotes and slipping them into cases, locking the cases onto his cart.

Residual pride insisted that he avoid taking the phone call that fired him in front of other people. He zipped through shut down and pack up. No call.

Back in the hotel room, he set about the ritual mechanics of pretending to himself that he would relax—pouring a double of Myers’s Dark Rum and RC Cola over cracked ice; taking a fast shower while thinking, don’t-ring-don’t-ring-don’t-ring, I don’t want to be fired while I’m wet and naked at the phone on the sink; settling the thick, soft robe around his shoulders.

The phone didn’t ring.

He nerved himself and dared to look on BackChanL, the instant archive on demand; they had broadcast it just as he’d sent it. He watched right to the end. Yep, my best work. Ever. And it went out to the public and look at all those hits, twenty times the nearest competition, my work defined that event for history! Worth getting fired for.

Cletus still didn’t call. Now, that was interesting.

Chris took a slow, welcome, savored sip of the rum and cola. Till it rang, life would be good. It might even be okay after.

The headlights swept out a long path as they descended the hill, and for a moment a fox’s eyes shone back at them like tiny, starry mirrors from the pointed face; then the bushy tail flickered over the railing, and the fox was gone.

All the news feeds filled up with chattering commentators, and Jason said, “I think I can do better commentary than any of those guys. Sheesh. That’s a way I’ve never seen Norcross. Is that what everybody on your side talks about, that he’s real different in person than he is through the media filter?”

“Well, I didn’t see the screen, busy driving, but yeah, it sounded more like the two times I saw him in person and not like the usual chopped-up version on TV.”

“I guess I can see why people vote for him.”

After a little while, Zach said, “You know, I hope when everything settles out from Daybreak, and this, and all, we will still have a President. Having one is kind of comforting.”

“Like Pendano would be, if he’d just talk.”

“Yeah.”

After a while, because no more news was coming in, and it didn’t sound like the president would be making a statement soon, they put the laptop into news-warn mode and talked about family, and music, and how confusing and wonderful it was to deal with women. The lights reached out in the darkness, and Jason watched for more wildlife, but apparently that fox was going to be it for the night.

Graham Weisbrod arrived and went straight into a small conference room with Pendano. Though Weisbrod was twenty years his senior, the president hung on his arm. The silence in the ops room was even deeper and more awkward than it had been, until Cam said, “All right, everyone, break’s over, noses to the screens, let’s have some good options waiting when the President comes out.” People got back to work, but much too quietly.