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“Good afternoon,” she says, her voice echoing from the high walls, distorted and tinny in her own ears. “As most of you know, I’m Kirsten King, and as far as we know, I’m the only survivor from the President’s Cabinet in Washington.

“I need your help. We’ve fought off a major attack by the androids and their allies, but we haven’t defeated them yet. There’s lots more out there where those came from, and there’s humans cooperating with them. We still don’t know what they want or who is responsible for the uprising. Those are things we’re going to have to deal with.

“The people of Rapid City and the troops of Ellsworth Air Base shed their blood at the Cheyenne to keep us alive and free. Our duty now is to keep our laws and our Constitution alive and free, too, to make sure we don’t fall into anarchy or the rule of force. That means we need to do such things as have elections for Mayor and Council of Rapid City. It means we need lawyers and judges. We need free commerce, with fair prices, and we need peace officers to make sure that it doesn’t become profiteering. If you have special skills, if you’d like to serve in office, please let the census-takers know.”

Kirsten pauses, and the quiet lies thick about her. Not a word, not a shuffling foot breaks the silence. The faces turned to her are serious, some clearly worried, all resolute. Hearts and minds.

“You are the free people of the United States. You live in a country founded on law and the idea that every person is valuable. The need for law has never been greater; each person has never been more valuable. I ask today for your help in restoring our nation. We can never go back to what we had; too much has been lost. Too many have been lost.

But we can begin today to reaffirm our Constitution and our laws. And with them, we can be a nation again that can stand against any enemy.

“I ask for your help in that work. Long live freedom! And long live the free people of the United States!”

She lowers the bullhorn, looking out over the sea of faces, dazed. My God, where did that come from? She barely has time for the thought before the wave of sound breaks over her, shouts of “Free-dom! Free-dom! FREE-DOM!” mixed with “Kir-sten!” and “Ells-worth!” tumbling over her in a roar. Then, from amid the shouting, she hears the clear chords of blind Harry’s twelve-string, strumming out a rhythm. Gradually the crowd quiets, and he begins to sing.

As I was walking that ribbon of highway,I saw above me the endless skyway.I saw below me a golden valley.This land was made for you and me.

As he goes into the chorus, the crowd joins him, clapping and stomping.

This land is your land, this land is my land,From California to the New York Island,From the redwood forest, to the Gulf Stream water,This land was made for you and me.

The verses go on and on, to end with:

Nobody living can ever stop meAs I go walking my Freedom Highway.Nobody living can make me turn back,This land was made for you and me.

The last chorus ends with a crescendo of whoops and rebel yells, the pounding of hands and feet shaking the floor like an earthquake. As the music fades Kirsten stands for a moment silent, then turns to step down. Her knees shake so hard she nearly falls as she escapes the crowd of admiring officers, all talking at once. It is too much. The noise of the cheering crowd batters at her, at her ears, at her mind.

Too much.

Brushing past the officers and her startled guard, she makes for the emergency exit and the privacy of the open air.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

SOUTH DAKOTA SPRING has come decked out in her Sunday finest, seemingly overnight. Between the setting of one day and the dawning of the next, trees which had previously shown the sky their brittle bones are budded out in verdant greens and purples and pinks and whites. The air is a perfumed delicacy and the breeze bears the warm promise of summer on its breath.

Sitting on the small porch in front of Maggie’s house, Kirsten takes it all in with peaceful pleasure, thanking any god currently in residence that she’s finally free—if only for the moment—of the dreadful Atlas-weight of her position within this newly ripening society. The trip back from Rapid City had been a silent one, and Kirsten extends her silent thanks to Maggie, who knew enough to know that Kirsten needed the silence to decompress.

The trip had been a mixed blessing. As far as the census went, they had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. Unfortunately, however, they hadn’t encountered a judge or lawyer in the bunch. Or at least that anyone wanted to admit, anyway. Three paralegals had been the best they could come up with, and Kirsten was seriously considering promoting them to a judgeship, Bar Association be damned.

“Someone’s coming,” Maggie remarks from her place on the lawn, directing Kirsten’s attention toward a perfectly maintained—if decades old—truck currently headed in their direction. Squinting, the young scientist can just make out Dakota’s dark form riding shotgun, and her heart accelerates of its own accord, spreading a warm, welcoming tingle throughout her body. A smile curves her lips, though she dutifully ignores the smirk thrown her way by the watching Air Force colonel.

The driver appears to be an elderly male with a hawk-like profile and eyes to match, from what she can see behind the reflection of the setting sun on his thick glasses. She briefly wonders if this man is Dakota’s father, or even grandfather, but dismisses the notion out of hand when the truck turns up the short driveway. His features, hawk-like though they may be, scream Anglo-Saxon from a mile away.

“I’ll be damned,” Maggie half-whispers as she gets a good look at the driver.

“What?” Kirsten asks, startled.

An unwilling grin crosses Maggie’s face. “If that’s not ‘Hang-em High’ Harcourt, I’ll eat my service ribbons.”

Kirsten looks at her askance. “’Hang-em who?”

The man in question brings the truck to a stop, turns off the ignition, and slips out through the door he’s just opened. Quite tall, and, like his truck, well-maintained despite his advanced years, he cuts an imposing figure as he looks down at Kirsten through clear, piercing eyes. After a moment, he gives a quick, if stiff, bow of his head. “Madame President.”

Kirsten simply stares.

With a quirk of his lips that could almost pass for a smile, he turns his gaze to the woman standing, hands on hips, to Kirsten’s left. “Major Allen,” he says by way of greeting.

Maggie manages to conceal her surprise and straightens. “It’s ‘Colonel’ now.”

That quirk of his lips comes again. “Indeed.” His eyes flick over her body almost dismissively. “I do hope that the increase in rank brought with it a concomitant increase in the ability to, I believe the phrase is ‘keep tabs’ on the men and women under your care?”

Maggie’s dark skin hides her flush, but Kirsten believes she can feel the heat of it from where she’s standing nonetheless. She experiences a flash of anger move through her; an emotion that dissolves into puzzlement as Maggie throws her head back and laughs, loud and long.

“You actually know this gnarled old oak?” Maggie shouts to Dakota between bursts of mirth.

“I’ll take that as the compliment it was no-doubt intended to be,” Harcourt replies primly as Koda, grinning, rounds the truck and comes to stand with the group.

Taking pity on Kirsten, she lays a soft hand on the smaller woman’s shoulder. “Kirsten, I’d like you to meet Judge Fenton Harcourt.”

“Retired, Madame President,” Harcourt murmurs. “Quite retired.”

The name tickles her memories. She sifts through them quickly, then looks up, jaw nearly dropping. “Aren’t you—you’re the one who turned down a seat on the Supreme Court!”