Daybreak Zero

^{THE NEXT DAY. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 12:25 PM EST. FRIDAY, JULY 25, 2025.}

General Jeffrey Grayson leaned across Cameron Nguyen-Peters’s desk and forced himself not to shout; the sound that emerged from Grayson’s clamped throat was a strained, half-voiced whisper. “You have apparently forgotten that you are not a king. You can’t just dissolve the legislature—”

“This is not a dissolution because I’m neither calling a new election nor appointing replacements. And the Board of Advisors to the NCCC of the Temporary National Government is not a legislature. It makes no laws and its votes are binding only on its internal organization. So the man who is not a king is not dissolving the body that is not a legislature. What are you so upset about, General Grayson?”

“Some people will say this looks like the start of a dictatorship.”

“That’s the safest prediction in American politics, whenever any part of the government does anything. Look, if it hasn’t occurred to you, General, in 2026 there will be full national elections, in at least our territory, Provi territory, and the states that haven’t committed firmly to either side. If we are shrewd, diplomatic, and lucky, we might be able to get California and Manbrookstat, and maybe even Hawaii, to come in too. Do you remember your oath, General?”

“I take my oath very seriously.”

“But do you remember it? Because in 2026, if we don’t screw things up— and the PCG doesn’t—we are going to put the Constitution back into force. That’s what your oath said, preserve, protect, and defend—”

Grayson glowered at him. “I don’t need a review—”

“I disagree, but I’ll refrain from further lecture. Meanwhile, go home early for the weekend, along with the other officers.”

“Along with the—”

“Naturally we have to keep the frontier with the tribes on alert, but otherwise, General, being realistic, the Provis are not going to attack us, at least not soon; the Jamaicans or the Cubans or whoever are not going to land in the Gulf and the Mexican government barely has one functional regiment, which spends all its time and effort guarding their alleged government at Veracruz. So there’s a low risk of attack, and because it’s been a long time since people had time off, I issued a large number of leaves for the weekend, particularly to commanding officers in safe areas. Some of them went on leave early this morning and will be back Sunday night; some will go on leave this evening for a Monday night return.”

The general’s face was slack at the realization. “You’ve neutered the Army.”

“Nonsense. Every facility is functional and has proper command—admittedly they are junior officers, aware they lack authority to jump into anything big on their own hook, but in a sudden attack or emergency, they’d show the required initiative. Excellent status for an army on standby. Why, General, were you expecting an invasion? a rebellion? a coup?”

Grayson opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Cam sat forward, folding his hands over each other, and said softly, “Now, listen closely. I am giving you a leave from now till noon Tuesday. Out of my own pocket, in fact, I’ve set you up in a nice bed-and-breakfast in Savannah, and I’ve taken the liberty of securing train tickets for you and Jenny. She’s already packing; just go home, get into your civvies, and go spend a few days. It’s on me, it’s a bribe, and I want you to take it like a sensible fellow—even if you decide later you can’t go anywhere with me politically. We all might as well cool off, and we can be unpleasant later if you wish.”

Grayson stood stock-still and said, “And you already set it up with Jenny?”

“Yes I did. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

Grayson’s face showed how potent that threat actually was. Beaten for the moment, he shrugged. “We’ll talk more next week.”

“Or sometime soon,” Cameron said. “You are still my deputy and I still want you to keep that position. Now quit thinking about politics, take your pretty girl away for the weekend, and relax as much as you can. I don’t want to have to make that an order.”

^{40 MINUTES LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 1:35 PM EST. FRIDAY, JULY 25, 2025.}

Grayson hadn’t yet made up his mind about what he wanted to do, but when Jenny opened the door and she was wearing one of her “show me off” dresses, her hair brushed, and some of the precious cosmetics applied, he laughed and said, “I guess it’s the decision of the household executive that we ought to accept the Natcon’s bribe?”

“It is,” she said, letting him in and standing on tiptoe to be kissed. “The men are harnessing the buggy and they’ll bring it back for us—and give Thunder and Fireball full and proper care afterward—as you know perfectly well. So you get to drive me to the station, accompanied by two burly types who will move our luggage. I’ve packed your civilian clothes so that you will not be striding around Savannah in uniform, scaring people and starting rumors. And Daddy’s at work on our response to Cameron’s coup.”

“Our?”

“You always tell me that a general is political but the Army is not, baby. So, our. You’ve got a political side, and it’s the one Daddy’s on.”

He kissed her lightly. “What if we’re ever on opposite sides?”

“Unthinkable, baby, but fortunately you have a whole weekend off from thinking, courtesy of the Natcon. I’m looking forward to this so much I’m almost grateful to the little turd.”

^{ABOUT THE SAME TIME. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 2:15 PM EST. FRIDAY, JULY 25, 2025.}

“Everyone else is celebrating,” Cam said, coming in with a picnic basket, “and I need someone to celebrate with, so you’re it. I know you don’t drink so I brought along an amazing find: pre-Daybreak Perrier.”

“Last for a long time,” Phat said. “The spring is around on the Mediterranean side of France. Does anyone have any contact there at all?”

“Discovery’s first mission, next year, is to explore the north shore of the Med. But there hasn’t been any radio contact since March and all the Argentine expedition is finding around the Med are tribes, and a few dug-in fortified settlements just barely hanging on. Somehow I doubt restoring the trade in Perrier will be a priority for a while.” Cam set out the fresh sliced ham, bread, and sliced vegetables. “I also brought red wine. We are going to celebrate avec des baguettes et du jambon et des crudités, l’eau gasseuse, and of course le vin tres ordinaire. In honor of a place the world doesn’t have anymore.”

“Wow, you sure know how to throw a cheerful event, Cam.” Nonetheless, Lyndon Phat held up his glass of Perrier, and clinked it with Cameron’s glass of red wine. “To our billions of absent friends.”

“Yeah.” They dedicated themselves to the good food, and Cameron said, “I am having a thought that you will not approve of. I think I would like to let you out of jail.”

“Like hell. If you let me go, I’m going to have to flee for my life—and the only place to flee to will be Olympia. And if they give me asylum, you’ll have Civil War Two on your hands for sure.”

“Would you be willing to reassume command of the Army and jail me? On grounds that I exceeded my authority by not putting Graham Weisbrod in as Acting President?”

“Well, it’s a nice prison, as prisons go, Cam, but it’s still a prison. Why are you so eager to move into it?”

“Because I’ve just slapped down the Post Rapturals and their allies in the Army, and given Grayson a political wedgie along the way. I’m guessing I’ve got a couple weeks before they hit back hard. And after due consideration, as a serious constitutionalist—and sometimes I feel like the last one in America—right now the God-Army-flag team here is proclaiming their loyalty to the Constitution like a rooster crowing that he’s the best hen-impregnator in the county, but they’re violating half or more of it. The Provis at least try to go through the forms; they’re also doing things that were never envisioned in the Constitution, but my feeling is they’re closer to the original intent. At least they’re not trying to set up an established church, abolish the rights of defendants, or carve out huge exceptions to freedom of speech, press, and assembly. I wish the Provis weren’t so loaded up with university types and career Civil Service, and that they had a keener sense of the possible, but their hearts are in a better place.

“So my thinking is this. You and I made a huge mistake. Me by not putting Graham in, and you by not kicking my ass out and putting Graham in. If we’d just stuck to our oaths, swallowed our doubts, and followed the rules, we’d have lived through our disagreements with Graham. He’s a smart, persuasible guy, and we’d have brought him around to our side on anything crucial that we were right about. So… we broke it. Can we fix it?”

Phat leaned back, swishing the Perrier in his mouth, and swallowed, relishing it. “I guess we owe it to the absent friends. I think you’ve got reach out via Pueblo; you surely don’t want Grayson and Whilmire to catch you talking to Olympia on a back channel, but they can’t object to your working more closely with the RRC. Do you have a channel for contacting Heather O’Grainne?”

“Not yet, but I’m expecting an opportunity soon. Or maybe I should say my opportunity is expecting soon.”

“Boo. We’ll talk again, Cameron, but if you don’t mind, since we can’t accomplish much else just now, let’s declare business concluded. I think we should just enjoy the food you’ve brought, especially since either of us might soon be strictly on jail food.”

^{THE NEXT DAY. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 12:15 PM MST. SATURDAY, JULY 26, 2025.}

“Remember how much business in DC used to turn around getting somewhere in time for reservations?” Heather asked Arnie, cheerfully, as she dragged herself over to her main worktable. “Well, we have’em at Johanna’s, so we need to finish this quick. Wow, all those stairs are a climb in the heat.”

“Enjoy heat while you can—the weather forecasters are saying this couple of weeks might be our only real summer, and what’s coming is going to be like a volcano winter, cold, wet, and early. All the soot.”

“Yeah, I know, and I intend to bitch about that when that happens, too. Right here—this is eyes-only stuff for me and my top analyst, and no matter how secure Johanna tries to keep her upper room, it can’t be secure enough for this conversation.”

Intrigued, Arnie joined her at the worktable. She laid out three single sheets of paper from a black folder. “Critical facts. Agents in TNG territory confirm that Cam handed weekend passes out like candy to base and fort commanders, and sent General Grayson out of town, just after dissolving the Board. Looks like he was afraid of a coup. Two, Cam communicated a request to Graham Weisbrod to discuss an earlier merger of the two governments, last night. So it looks like Cam is moving toward resolving the two-government problem by dissolving his own, and it also looks like he’s scared that he won’t be able to.”

Arnie felt strangely numb and confused, as if he’d been told that nothing he was doing mattered, but he made himself say the expected thing: “That might be good news if he pulls it off.”

“It might. But this morning, our highest placed agent in Athens—Red Dog—reported that the Post Raptural Church is gearing up for massive protests, and Red Dog thinks Cam might be in danger of being overthrown by a religious revolution, at least as much as he might be by a coup. Red Dog’s super-deep source”—as close as I will ever get to breathing the fact that Shorty Phat is reporting his conversations with Cam to us through Red Dog—“and Red Dog himself recommend we move strongly to support Cameron. What’s your take, Arnie?”

Arnie Yang froze in thought; there was nothing unusual about that, and given how complex the problem was, Heather preferred that he take his time. But when he finally spoke he said, “I guess you have to pay attention to Athens but I’m still really worried about the tribes, and I want to keep focusing on investigating Daybreak.”

“Lobby me all through lunch about that and I’ll not only listen, I might be persuaded, Arnie. But I really want your take on this. Should Red Dog approach Cam, try to set up a back channel alliance? There’s a lot to gain, but if Red Dog is blown, the whole network could be rolled up. Come on, you are the best analyst I’ve got and my right hand. Analyze.”

He looked down at the papers and said, “For some reason, I just can’t seem to form a conclusion.”

She gave him a full minute before she said, “Well, if that’s really your answer—”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

At lunch, he talked of absolutely nothing but Daybreak, the tribes, and the need for further, deeper research.

That evening, as Heather played with her big chart, she wanted to concentrate on the tribal pathway, as Arnie had so emphasized, but her eyes kept drifting back to the tangled knot of yellow and red labeled TNG PARTICIPATES IN RESTORATION. Eight lines crossed and knotted there, and at each report from Red Dog, the number of possible bad outcomes seemed to double and the number of her options seemed to halve. Could be worse, she thought. I could be where Cam is. But the Natcon had been a friend for many years before, and she couldn’t help thinking how much she’d rather have him here, safe, than there, in that bunched knot that looked to her, more and more, like a pit of snakes.

With a sigh, she moved and repinned the few things affected by her small amount of new information, looked at the rest, and could not think of anything to do but wait. It’s the other side’s move, hon, she remembered Dad saying, when he was teaching her checkers. That’s one thing you can never do anything about; they get a turn.

^{THE NEXT DAY. WAYNE CITY, WABASH (PCG) OR ILLINOIS (TNG). 10 AM CST. SUNDAY, JULY 27, 2025.}

Steve Ecco hadn’t slept well on the train. He’d awakened every few minutes when something bumped or shuddered. After a quick breakfast of leftover Cold Fried Don’t Ask, he splurged on some hot water and soap for a shave and a sponge bath, and put on the clean clothes he’d been saving. I guess that’s about as spruced up as I’m getting. At least I combed my hair.

The platform at Wayne City was just a big slab of concrete with a frame and fabric roof, and Ecco was the only one who got off there. He didn’t quite have time to look around before a tall, thin man, maybe thirty years old, stepped up onto the platform. He was dressed in the mix of deerskin, camo, and denim that tended to be popular among serious wilderness scouts like Larry Mensche; unlike Larry, he wore a large coonskin cap and the seams of his deerskin shirt were fringed. His shoes were low moccasins rather than Larry’s heavy snake-highs. “Mister Ecco?” the man said, extending a hand that felt like rocks under rawhide.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Freddie Pranger. I’m s’pose to take you on over to Pale Bluff. It’s a nice day and there hasn’t been much bandit or tribal trouble lately, we’ll walk it in maybe three hours, but you might want to visit the plumbing first.”

Ecco hurried into the public restroom by the station. Freddie Pranger, Jesus, they sent Freddie Pranger to pick me up. Sure, part of Pranger’s reputation was just because he was buddies with Carol May Kloster, the star reporter around here, but still… this was like going into San Antonio and being met by Travis, Bowie, or Crockett.

And why should it matter how Freddie Pranger got to be famous, as long as he really is as good as they say? He refastened his fly. Buffalo Bill was nobody without Ned Buntline to report him. Ecco breathed deeply once, feeling the hand of his inner, smarter, braver self resting on his shoulder, and to himself he said, with far more confidence than he felt, Wanna be a legend, Steve Ecco, just like you’ve always dreamed? Here’s where we start.

^{2 DAYS LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 11:10 EST. TUESDAY, JULY 29, 2025.}

As the train pulled into the station at Athens, Jeffrey Grayson rose from his seat, gaping at the crowded platform. “My God, there must be three hundred people out there.”

“More than that,” Jenny said. “Daddy promised me at least five hundred.”

Grayson sat down with a thump; he was forever discovering, one more time, the rigorously practical mind that was part of the package with Jenny’s pale blonde hair, big breasts, and constant adoring support. “He what? Were you—”

“Well, the family does have a house in Savannah, and Daddy went down there in another car on the same train we did. And then the next morning, you were getting a real good sleep for the first time in months, baby, and Daddy came by the hotel, and we went down to some early breakfast, and talked a little bit. That’s all.” She snuggled against him. “Just another enhancement to your career, baby.”

“Did it have anything to do with the Post Raptural riots—”

“Those were not riots. Daddy would not have anything to do with a riot. Those were the people exercising their ‘right peaceably to assemble for redress of grievances,’ just like it says in the Constitution, honey.”

“Quite a few local commanders would disagree. Especially the ones who were shot at.”

“You see, that’s the kind of media exaggeration—”

“That’s from the Weekly Insight, honey, which is the Post Raptural paper, and the only legal one in Athens.” He slipped his arm around her and said, “Jenny, I know your father is a politician with a backwards collar, and I know this is all part of ordinary life to you. And I’m doing my damnedest to learn to be a good politician besides being a good general. But every now and then you get way past me. I thought it was just some Post Raptural congregations throwing rocks and tantrums about Cam’s coup—which unfortunately, under the rules, he had every right to pull—”

“There are rights and there are rights, baby. Haven’t you thought about what I said about Tribulation? That even if Daybreak wasn’t really the Rapture, so this isn’t really Tribulation, this whole change is still doing the Lord’s work? And you can’t have more rights than you do when you’re doing God’s work. Now, the things you have to say to them are only that you understand their concerns, they should go home, and you’ll be meeting with Cam. All those things are true. Just say them.”

Before Grayson could emerge from his railroad car, militia troops had to clear a space on the platform; they helped him up onto an inverted crate, and that was the moment when he realized that like it or not, he would be giving a speech.

The crowd looked expectant, confused, afraid, angry—everything he could imagine. There weren’t many signs—paint of any kind was still scarce and difficult to make—but there was one bedsheet banner painted with II SAMUEL 17:3.

“What’s that verse?” he murmured to Jenny, who was standing next to him and holding his hand.

“Tell you later, baby, you have to talk to them now.”

The way they were looking at him convinced him she was right. Remembering what she’d outlined, he said, “Look, everyone, this is really a surprise, I thought I was just coming back from vacation. But I’m glad to see all of you here, and I’m honored that you turned out for me. I share many of your concerns and I understand what you are worried about.” (Now there is a lie, he thought.) “For right now, I’m going to ask you all to return to your homes, and to your daily lives, and wait patiently for news and developments. All of us love our country, all of us love our God, and all of us will work together to bring about the right course of action. I’ll be meeting with Natcon Nguyen-Peters later this afternoon, and of course there are matters we’ll have to discuss. For the moment, rest assured that your concerns have been heard.”

The wild cheers mystified him even further, but Jenny said, “Baby, that was perfect, especially for spontaneous. Now just give’em a short prayer, be sure you end with Jesus, and send’em all home.”

^{10 HOURS LATER. PULLMAN, WASHINGTON. 7:30 PM PST. TUESDAY, JULY 29, 2025.}

Neville Jawarah was on the south wall, the dullest sector for a sentry in Pullman. The southeast gate took in at least a few refugees burned out by the tribals, fleeing along the old Lewis and Clark route, and some looters from Moscow. The west gate, at this time of day, would be almost busy, with the last few respectable traders coming in off the road; scammers and outlaws trying to pursue their prey; the inevitable, ubiquitous refugees looking for lost relatives; and a mix of spies pretending to be traders, crooks, or refugees. Most spies the sentries caught were from the tribes; a few were from Castles. There must also be some spies from the TNG, in far-off Athens, since Pullman was loyal to the PCG at Olympia, but presumably a Temper spy would be too competent and professional for an ordinary sentry to detect.

This lousy south wall looked out across the former Jackson Street, and beyond it, a two-block-wide swath of deliberately burned and leveled houses. A simple, gateless, eight-foot palisade with a catwalk four feet above the ground on the back side was adequate against opponents with rocks, spears, and bows. Their bows weren’t accurate enough at the distance, so Jawarah stood up, mostly thinking about the poker game tonight and the bets he had down with Jimmy for—

A man and a woman ran headlong into the cleared space from the narrow slot between a wrecked ranch house and its garage, straight for Jawarah.

The gray-bearded man wore a slouch hat, camo pants, deerskin shirt, and knee-high moc-boots. The younger woman was in baggy knee-length dirty red homemade pants, a belted gray tunic that hung to mid-thigh, and a baseball cap. They were running away from something—and nothing out there was friendly.

Jawarah yanked the alarm bell’s rope, clanging three times, moved five yards east, and pushed the flip-step over the side of the palisade. Clutching his over-and-under .45 black-powder rifle, he descended, shouting, “This way!”

They turned toward him. As Jawarah ran out to meet them, the man shouted, “Federal Agent Larry Mensche, they’re right behind us.”

“Follow me!” Jawarah ran back toward his flip-step; the girl, who was running barefoot, saw it, put on a burst of speed, and got there first.

An arrow passed over Jawarah’s head. “Over the wall!” he yelled at Mensche. He turned and knelt for a better firing position.

At least forty men and women dressed in a mixture of thrift-store gypsy, low-budget pirate, old hippie, and fake Indian were charging across the cleared space with spears, clubs, knives, and axes. The nearest waved a spirit wand, a stick with a bunch of sacred crap glued to it. Per orders, Jawarah aimed at the man’s chest and fired the top barrel.

The tribal pitched forward. Jawarah shot the woman who lunged to pick the spirit wand up. I don’t think she even looked at her buddy, he thought, she wanted to save that damned stick.

An arrow sailed by him; he needed to reload and this was no place for it. He rolled backward and stretched out prone, pulling out his coil-spring crossbow and sending a piece of old welding rod into the oncoming crowd.

Then he heard the most wonderful sound—the slow thudding of one of the black-powder machine guns on the wall, followed by the resonant claps of black-powder rifles firing from the palisade behind him. Staying low, he crawled backwards.

One screaming woman, red hair trailing behind her, wildly swinging a hatchet two-handed, fixed her gaze on him. He threw his small ax awkwardly from his prone position. It cut her shin, and as she bent to grab at the wound, someone above shot her in her exposed back; she sprawled, struggling.

Jawarah’s back foot touched the palisade. A voice from above—his buddy, Jimmy: “Wait…” Two quick shots, then Jimmy shouted, “Now.”

Jawarah scrambled up the flip-step, careful of the sharp glass pieces on top of the palisade, and down onto the catwalk.

“Thanks.”

“Had to, you owe me $3.86 from last night’s game.”

“Yeah, right. Are those Feds okay?”

“Yeah, the cap sent’em straight to the post office—something urgent for the radio. Looks like it’s a big deal.”

Another arrow sailed over the wall.

“Those guys think so too.” Jawarah reloaded. A spear bounced off the palisade between him and Jimmy. He leaned out and pointed down to shoot a tribal who was boarding the flip-step. Jimmy yanked the flip-step in; Jawarah shot at, but missed, another tribal who looked like she was rallying the others.

Normally the tribals broke and ran as soon as they were driven back from the wall, but this particular bunch of hippies from hell weren’t retreating; if anything they seemed to be forming up a more organized assault in the wrecked houses across the no-man’s-land. But for the moment the open space was clear, and Jawarah rolled over and reloaded. He had dropped that awkward, silly crossbow out there, so at least he wouldn’t be responsible for it until the battle was over.

A figure sprinted between two wrecked cars. Jawarah fired, and the body fell and lay motionless.

“You’re hot tonight,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, I was just thinking how dull it was. Be careful what you wish for.”

Trails of smoke from the houses beyond the cleared area suggested that these tribals were putting together a fire rush, a banzai-style charge with thrown torches and slung balls of burning fabric carried by the less-skilled fighters. The cap had been tough about keeping flammable stuff away from the palisade, so fire rushes had never worked here; no tribals had tried one in the last month. Must be a tribe that doesn’t know us.

Looked like a long night, but he’d been about to go off shift, so it would all be overtime at the militia rate—more fun and more lucrative than poker, and if it went long enough, he’d get comp time and escape from putting out the second planting of potatoes tomorrow.

They’d be bringing free meals out to the wall, too. Life could be a lot worse.

Jawarah peered over the wall, looking for another good shot, muttering like a crapshooter who has bet ten the hard way:

^{THE NEXT MORNING. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 6:15 AM MST. WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, 2025.}

“What do you mean, I need my sleep!” Heather was looking around at her office staff as if she had never seen them prior to turning over this singularly ugly rock. “Larry Mensche comes running out of the woods, with a whole tribe at his back and radios that he’s carrying information too sensitive to send by any code. Followed by a battalion-strength battle, and tribals laying siege to Pullman—and you ‘decided I needed my sleep’!”

She’d been aware of doors opening and closing around the office while she’d been delivering her tirade, but she hadn’t seen MaryBeth Abrams come in. MaryBeth was a big lady—she’d played field hockey for Howard—and the only other woman in Pueblo tall enough to look Heather in the eye. She did, now, and strode up to her. “Your staff,” she said, “is trying to protect you and your child. You are two weeks from due.”

Heather looked down at her immense belly. “Wow, thanks, I needed to be reminded.”

“Well, you are acting like you need to be reminded. Heather, your people are good and they are handling it. They were trying to tell you that a relief force is already on the train from Fort Lewis, with two squadrons of cavalry and half the President’s Own Rangers. Your people are taking care of things, and you cannot put yourself in charge of every little thing right now, and that goes double when you’re in the delivery room!”

Rocked back by MaryBeth’s vehemence, Heather said, “I’m sorry, I worry about my agents. Larry’s been missing a while.”

Elyse, the youngest member of the staff, said, “To finish out the report, Ms. O’Grainne, he still had his daughter Debbie with him, she’s fine, and he said that if you don’t swear her in right away, he quits.”

“Well, if he’s blackmailing me, it’s definitely Larry, not an imposter. And Pullman is okay?”

“The local commander says they could lift the siege themselves but they’re trying to keep the tribes hanging around long enough for the cavalry and Rangers to catch them,” Elyse said.

“You see? You have good people,” Dr. Abrams said. “That would be plain as an ax in the head to anyone who wasn’t pigheaded, impossible, and you.”

Heather sighed, apologized, and soothed everyone’s feelings as best she could. When most of them had gone and she had settled down to her uncomfortable breakfast, she thought, Kid, get here soon. You’re missing all the excitement.

^{3 DAYS LATER. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 11:42 AM MST. SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 2025.}

As Debbie Mensche told of her months with the Northwest tribes, Arnie Yang’s pencil raced through his notebook. When Debbie finished, Arnie said, “So at least four months ago, the inner circle of the Gaia’s Dawn tribe was taking orders from someone on the radio.” He looked around the room. “That would explain how the tribals from the Sangre de Cristos, Ouachitas, and Rio Grande all managed a coordinated attack on Mota Elliptica. Jeez. Orders from the moon.” He looked at his three “tame Daybreakers” and asked, “Beth, Jason, Izzy, any thoughts?”

Jason said, “Well, now I know why Daybreak encouraged me to write so much, uh, really bad poetry, and to dream about being a bard and traveling from tribe to tribe; The Play of Daybreak and other stuff like it must be part of how Daybreak keeps itself going without an Internet. And the parts Debbie could remember sound a whole lot like the Daybreak poetry I used to write—some of it might even be taken from my poems, I suppose. The tribe idea was definitely there in Daybreak for years before the big day; ‘millioners’ like me were totally all about it.”

Arnie said, “You’ll need to explain that for some people here.”

Jason shrugged. “It’s embarrassing. But I guess mass murder should embarrass people. Within Daybreak, there was a split over whether to go back to horse-drawn plows and organic wheat and like that, you know, simple and natural like in the old TV commercials. We called those guys billioners because they wanted the world to have about a billion people. The ones like me that wanted to go back to skin tents, caves, stone knives, were called millioners, because our vision of Daybreak was a planet with fewer than ten million people.”

Izzy said, “Or being blunt about it, which is the main way I keep Daybreak from taking my mind over again, the big internal debate was whether we ought to kill 7 out of every 8 people on Earth, or 7,999 out of every 8,000.”

Heather said, “Arnie, this sounds like one of those times when you try to work me gradually toward a conclusion I’m not going to like. Since you’re usually right, let’s skip to the part where you tell me that you’re now dead certain that the rise of the tribes wasn’t an accident, and we have to stop fretting about whether Daybreak really is still there and just say, it is, and we have to fight it.”

Colonel Streen said, “I thought that would have been obvious after Daybreak started bombing us from the moon.”

Arnie balanced a hand. “The analysis certainly leaned that way before, but to my mind this new material about The Play of Daybreak clinches it. The tribes are talking with the moon, which is referencing their quasireligious rituals. I don’t want to reopen anything—three months ago, we almost had a civil war because the Provis thought Daybreak had been purely a system artifact, a great big self-generated meme on the Internet, and therefore it was useless to try to find and destroy Daybreak, because it had no single physical location, it was gone with the Internet; and the Tempers thought there must be a malicious, intentional command structure someplace, marshaling resources and planning to attack us, and therefore finding and destroying Daybreak had to be our top priority. Well, it turns out, folks, we’ve got the worst of both worlds: we have a malicious, intentional enemy that has no single physical location. It can and will think of new ways to destroy us, but as for either negotiating with it or fighting it—we might as well try to propose a treaty with, or declare war on, a fashion trend or a pop song.”