The Last President (46 page)

THE NEXT DAY. IN THE ADRIATIC SEA, ON BOARD
DISCOVERY
. 9:00 AM CENTRAL EUROPEAN TIME. WEDNESDAY, MAY 13, 2026.

Captain Halleck thanked the watch that would still have been in their bunks, and said, “This is simplicity itself. I think we've all been staying up with the radio reports from home, and we know that things are in a very bad way indeed back there. Well, not surprisingly, the government in Athens, which created this mission and owns this ship, has sent us orders that we are to abandon our research and return to Savannah, there to be outfitted as a warship. They do not want us to bring back or report on our research; the ship's company will be disbanded and members returned to their homes ‘as expeditiously as possible.' I suspect but cannot prove that this precipitate decision is in reaction to some of our biologists having done some field studies, back in Florida, in which the word ‘evolution' found its way into the titles.

“Now, there are two possible ways we can react to this. We can dutifully sail back to Savannah, protesting over the radio the whole way if we like, and when we get there, they'll toss our research notes and samples into the bay and convert us to a warship. Or we can go somewhere else and place ourselves under their protection, and avoid going to ports in—now this is truly weird—the CSA. For one awful moment I thought someone had revived the Confederacy, but actually that's the Christian States of America.

“Coincidentally, I happened to be talking by radio to Captain Highbotham in Christiansted, a place some of you may remember.”

Laughter and applause swept the deck.

“I thought we might take a vote.”

The vote was overwhelmingly for Christiansted. Only two very duty-conscious sailors, and two scholars who thought it would be more convenient to get off the ship in Savannah, voted the other way.

As Whorf returned to his station, Halleck stopped him and said, “I thought you might like to know that I have a relay, via James Hendrix at Pueblo and Captain Highbotham, addressed to you.” He handed him a sheet of paper, and said, “I assume this is some code I'm not familiar with.”

Whorf looked and grinned. “It's my family code, sir, we all use it in the family business—which has just relocated to Christiansted. This is great!”

“You're telling me,” Ihor said; he had been standing there quietly listening. “Now there's someone I can bother for a job.”

9 HOURS LATER. PUEBLO. 9:00 AM MOUNTAIN TIME. WEDNESDAY, MAY 13, 2026.

“We've put enough food in your pack so that if you're careful, you should be able to walk all the way to the Wabash from Wayne City, where the train will drop you off. If you cross any bridge along it, a patrol will challenge you. And then you cooperate, and they take you to Castle Earthstone, and you can decide what to do from there.”

Arnie Yang nodded. “Thank you. And if I ever come back out of the Lost Quarter, wanting to talk, what will you do?”

“Talk to you. Mostly about the Lost Quarter and what's going on there,” Heather said. “We're not exiling you for your ideas, Arnie—especially since they are not really your ideas and you don't hold them voluntarily. It's just that, while you're infected with them, it's better to have you keeping company with the other infected people, than out here.”

Arnie looked for a moment as if he might speak, then shrugged and hugged all of them before he boarded the train.

The next stop was Outgoing Crypto, where Heather told them, “All right, special request. Broadcast in clear.”

“You mean not coded, so anyone can read it?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I mean. I know it's not really crypto if it's not enciphered, but you folks have the biggest and best radio in this part of the country, and I need to make sure everyone reads this.” It was a short note explaining her claim to be President of the United States, resigning the office without a successor, and therefore declaring the end of the United States.

“Really,” she said, as they rode in the carriage to the airfield, “it's almost more of a relief. Now that I'm not the President, I'm not a target, or not much of one, anyway. And it will be nice, if Bambi really does make me a baroness—”

“I'm thinking at least a countess.”

“Well, whatever. I guess I should be happy it's not waitress or stewardess. Anyway, running a feudal fief seems like a much more reasonable job in the new world. And it'll be a decent place for Leo to grow up, if I have any say about it, and we can bring my father out to live with us, free babysitting with bonding on the side. Certainly better than the old job here.” She sighed. “Even though I'll miss everyone.”

A few minutes later, James and Leslie watched the Stearman, carrying Heather and Leo in the front cockpit with Bambi behind, bound off the runway and head west.

“This place was home for both of us, back before,” James observed. “And there's still some library work to do, getting those pamphlets and brochures out to people who need them but don't have them already. So we'll eat, eh?”

“If you cook, we'll eat well.” She slipped her arm into his. “It's funny, just when I start to see how big you grew in that job, you go and lose it. And I guess after you fail at restoring America, there's not very many jobs that could ever have the same appeal.”

James sighed. “Just when I get a job that impresses you, I find I'm more into the job than into impressing you.”

“That's perfectly okay. Can we take this very slowly? Long walks, complicated conversations, that kind of thing? There's just so much we don't know yet.”

“Actually we don't even know what country we're going to be in yet. Slow is fine.”

2 DAYS LATER. CASTLE CASTRO (FORMERLY SAN DIEGO HARBOR). NOON PACIFIC TIME. FRIDAY, MAY 15, 2026.

Dave and Arlene Carlucci, and Terry Bolton, all began by trying to tell Bambi how sorry they were about Quattro, and how much they had liked him. It was little consolation that they were simply telling the truth, but some stern glares and aggressive subject-changing from Heather shut them up gently, and after that, the luxury of really good food in abundance made them nearly as quiet as the Carluccis' teenagers, Paley and Acey.

It was a long time before they got down to business, too, because none of them had met Leo before, and “proper baby-admiring takes time,” as Terry pointed out. He seemed to be visibly brightening with each minute spent on the broad terrace, overlooking the sea, where Bambi preferred to entertain whenever the weather was favorable.

Finally, though, Pat O'Grainne took Leo down to the other end of the terrace to play, and it was time for adult business.

“Just to begin with,” Heather said, “you guys should know how grateful I am.”

“How grateful
we
are,” Bambi said. “And I can't imagine what you're going through and won't pretend to understand; you all were career FBI with decades of experience, and now . . . there's not only no job, there's no Federal Bureau of Investigation, there's not even a Federal. So we wanted to make you a special offer, in two parts.

“One, Heather has graciously agreed to be the Countess of Laguna Beach, and we'll start construction of Castle O'Grainne or Castle Laguna or whatever she decides to call it this summer, and probably she'll move in next summer, because the weathermen say that was our last really cold winter after the disaster; most of the soot is out of the air now, so we won't have snow next year, and only a normal volume of rain.

“Heather will need all of your skills—not just Dave and Terry's guns, but your experience with small-scale firefights, and Arlene's nursing experience. Any of you can have a job there, and the job will start well before the castle is built, since you'll be putting together a team. Carlucci, that also means that any of your local deputies that are interested will be first in line with Heather—or with me.

“Two may be more interesting, or less. I need a freehold to anchor your end of the coast; that's a very vulnerable area in my county, and therefore in my duchy, right now. So you guys could freehold together, set up two small freeholds, or one could freehold and the other could hire him. Any combination you like.”

Carlucci said, “Could I just . . . man.” He was wiping his eyes. “Bambi, I'm sorry, but I just feel like I lost the argument with your father, and him on the other side of the grave. I mean . . . no more America, you know? And I was a pretty rah-rah go-America U!S!A! kind of person—embarrassed my kids with super-patriot names and all”—he saw their glares—“which I won't explain right now, but anyway, it's a lot to give up. And you both know, we've been through a lot together, it might take me some days to make up my mind.”

Terry Bolton sat back and said, “You know, I guess I feel differently. If I could get the whole, old, back-before world back in one big swoop, sure, I'd do that in a heartbeat. But in this new world . . . well, I don't know about being a freeholder. But, uh, if you need a chief of arms, Heather—is it okay to call you Heather?”

“I'll insist. Especially if you work for me. And I like ‘Chief of Arms.' Can I ask, since you seem to be baby-experienced, to judge by how you get along with Leo, what you'll need for quarters?”

“Space for me and three kids, girl ten, boy eight, and boy six.”

“Caucasians, with any identifying tattoos or scars?” Heather was smiling.

“Yeah, well, we all get that way after a decade or two of filling out reports, don't we? My online dating profile had things presented pretty much the way they would be on a handbill in the post office. Anyway, I'm a single dad, now. My wife divorced me and she and her new husband were honeymooning in Hawaii on Daybreak day. Haven't heard from her since, not even in the first days when the hams were still up and operating. But if there'd be room for a little family at Castle O'Grainne? Even if the older boy is sort of ADD and aspy?”

“There would be. Start looking for guys you'd like to have serve under you, Terry.” Heather gazed at Carlucci thoughtfully. “Dave, I know you a little better, and just to point this out: you'd make a good freeholder.”

“That's what worries me,” Carlucci said. He nodded at his son. “Paley already tells me my politics are medieval.”

THE NEXT DAY. RUINS OF PALE BLUFF. 3:00 PM CENTRAL TIME. SATURDAY, MAY 16, 2026.

When Larry Mensche and Dave McWaine met up again after combing through the town in opposite spirals, they still had not found Freddie Pranger. Pale Bluff had been his home town; he'd known who lived in most houses, climbed most of the apple trees in the orchards, and recognized most of the names in the town cemetery. The Army officers had asked him to identify bodies but he'd darted into the town and vanished as soon as they'd arrived.

Larry and Dave finally found him by giving up; he was saying goodbye to Roger Jackson, who was hobbling on crutches, but whose leg seemed to be healing straight, at least so far. “Just wanted to make sure I said bye-bye to all my old scout buddies before I took off for good,” Freddie said. “I'll do their body identification, though it makes me sick, but then I'm resigned and off on my own.”

“What will you do, then?” Larry asked.

“Well,” Freddie said. “You, uh, ever hear of a guy named John Johnson? That's kind of how I feel about those Castle Earthstone assholes. Haven't quite figured out what my trademark is going to be, but I'll have one soon enough.”

Larry considered for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I have. Going to make a career of that?”

“Well, Johnson didn't. He did lots of things afterward, mined and ranched and was a lawman. So maybe not forever. Maybe just till I catch up with Lord Robert and give him my personal payback, after paying back some of his men. But for right now, that's the project that I'll be undertaking. So I'm out of the army, out of the scouts, and off to take care of that.”

He very solemnly shook hands with each of them, slung up his gear, and walked off to the chief of scouting to tender his resignation.

Roger Jackson said, “Okay, so who is John Johnson, and I'm betting his trademark wasn't on baby shampoo?”

“Well, he was a mountain man who had a real big vendetta against the Crow, which is why one of his nicknames was ‘The Crow Killer.' And as for his trademark, they called him ‘Liver-Eating Johnson.'” Mensche looked around at the many carts hauling bodies and the soldiers with clipboards compiling lists, and said, “Mind you, looking at this town, if I were from here like Freddie is, I'd be seeing his point of view very clearly.”

2 WEEKS LATER. PULLMAN, WASHINGTON. 6:15 PM PACIFIC TIME. SATURDAY, MAY 30, 2026.

No one recognized Neville Jawarah on the walk from the railroad station; maybe they hadn't seen much of this uniform before they all went east, maybe they didn't want to see anyone in this uniform because so many had not come back, maybe it didn't occur to them that Neville might be inside this uniform. Didn't matter, he didn't want to talk in the street. There was one place he wanted to be.

When he came through the door, his mother virtually pinned him to the wall with her hug, hanging onto him and crying. “I don't even know how to ask how it was,” she said, rubbing her face with her apron. “We heard such horrible, horrible things.”

“They were mostly true,” Neville said.

“Did you see any bad things?”

“More than I'm going to tell you about.”

“And . . . did you do anything . . . ah—”

“I survived and I did everything they asked. That was a lot.”

“And . . . Jimmy?”

“He didn't make it, Maj'. Something big and sharp got him in the face, I wasn't there when it happened, but I saw him laid out afterward, there were long rows of bodies, I never . . . aw, shit.”

Neville hung on to his mother and cried until she pried him off and gave him a bowl of soup and some warm bread. That night, he looked up at the old dog-eared
Lord of the Rings
on his bookshelf, thought
Well, I'm home
, and felt the tears begin to flow just before he fell asleep.

5 WEEKS LATER. CHRISTIANSTED. 10:15 AM ATLANTIC TIME, SATURDAY, JULY 4, 2026.

When James Hendrix, Leslie Antonowicz, and her dog Wonder stepped down from the pontoon of Bret Duquesne's seaplane and into the row-taxi, it was a little awkward for James, natural as breathing for Leslie, and time for a joyful jump and bark for Wonder. Wonder wedged himself between them, so they held hands around him as they approached the beautiful little town under its deep blue sky.

“Pretty place,” James said. “Going to have to brush up on those fresh-seafood skills.”

“Looks like there's space to get some exercise,” Leslie added, practically.

On the pier, he met the local dignitaries, each of whom had to tell him how much they had always appreciated the Jamesgrams, and shook his way through a forest of hands before meeting the two people he most wanted to talk to.

The first of these was Tarantina Highbotham, who seemed more solidly muscled than he had imagined, but even more alert and quick. She gave him a lightning-fast rundown of the arrangements she had made; he would have a week to settle into his new quarters and go over the paperwork before the summer term started at the new academy. There was already an abundance of students sixteen and younger; he would be adding and developing courses for older students, up at least through a bachelor's degree. They'd have an extension service that would publish newer and better pamphlets than Pueblo had had available, and eventually occupational journals as well.

He'd never met Highbotham in person before, but they seemed to get along very well, and by the end of the conversation, she was cheerfully explaining, “You get knowledge into them, I'll keep the pirates away from them, and we'll have ourselves a civilized Caribbean again before you know it. The rest of the world can go through a Dark Age if it wants to; we're doing a Dim Decade, max. Now, this handsome young man is Whorf Rollings—don't look so surprised, Whorf, you are handsome, and it's the privilege of a lady old enough to be your grandma to discuss it in front of you. Whorf was the person who wrote to you, and brought it to my attention that there was good reason to bring you here and employ you. Then after you freshen up a little in your quarters, he'll be taking you, and you too, Ms. Antonowicz, to hear two gentlemen with a remarkable story.”

Their rooms, on a second floor of the old country club, were pleasant and spacious, and someone had set out fresh fruit on the table. “Headmastering is definitely looking better than librarianing did,” James said, between bites of orange.

“I'll miss skiing but I have a feeling the swimming and sailing will make up for it.” They each took turns washing in the basin, and then, since Whorf hadn't knocked yet, they sat down in the wicker chairs facing the big French doors onto the balcony, and looked at the view over the town toward the sea.

“Well, we could definitely have done worse for a place to live,” James said.

When they opened to a discreet tap at the door, Whorf was waiting for them with a slim young red-blond man about his own age, and an older, burly black man with thick dreads. “This is my buddy, Ihor Reshetnyk. He was along on
Discovery
too, and saved my ass several times. He's coming along because I trust his judgment. And this is my father, Jamayu Rollings, who is skipper of the good ship
Ferengi
where Ihor is second mate. Dad is coming along because if he didn't get to he'd curl up and die.”

They walked the half mile or so down into town to the little house; the three men pointed out many more things than James and Leslie could possibly remember, ranging from the bar with the cheapest beer to the spot where a pirate treasure had been uncovered two hundred years before. Everyone seemed a little nervous.

The two men living in the small brick house were an Iranian robotics engineer, Rezakhani, and a Chinese software engineer, Tang. When everyone was seated and had been served tea, Rezakhani said, “Now, I don't know how much Mister Whorf Rollings shared with you in his letter.”

“The main thing he did was to explain that the two of you had worked on the Iranian-Chinese industrial expedition to the moon—that test-bed project to see if you could manufacture anything worthwhile there—and that you had some insight into the moon gun. Other than that, everything you say will probably surprise us.”

“Oh, it will do that,” Tang said.

Rezakhani said, “Let me launch directly into the parts that were never released to news media; you can ask about anything that's unfamiliar as we go, but I'll assume you know anything that was widely covered.

“All right, then. So as you probably know, what we sent to the moon was actually not a fleet of construction robots so much as they were a demonstration set of mobile rock-sorters with some little drills and saws for cutting bigger samples. Well, shortly after they landed and we activated them, all the little mining units stopped acknowledging control signals from Earth and crawled away—eighty kilometers to the Northwest, right to where the moon gun is, at least if Captain Highbotham and her excellent observatory team are right. But the mining robots could not have built it, any more than a flatworm can play the guitar.

“Well, our bosses were hardly going to come out and admit that anything of this sort had happened. Instead they covered it up and kept monitoring the site from the lunar orbiters. In mid-2023—about eighteen months before Daybreak—the mining robots were seen by a Chinese lunar orbiter to be fleeing the area where they had been working, putting themselves on the far slopes of a number of ridges from an immense flare that appeared on August 1, 2023, with a full moon at midnight right over the Pacific—the time when there would be the fewest observers, with the least ability to see what was happening. The US Naval Observatory reported a possible meteor impact; at that time, only the Chinese orbiter was working, and the government of China was not sharing any information. But Mister Tang eventually became privy to what they had seen: on the next orbit, a large object, something the size of a good-sized warehouse—which I am quite sure was your moon gun, it was the right size, shape, and everything—was standing where the flare had appeared.