Supernova Era

^{THE ICE CREAM BANQUET}

The Rose Nebula had not yet risen, and the streets of Washington, D.C., were shrouded in twilight. Not a single person could be seen on the Mall, and the last rays of daylight reflected off the high dome of the Capitol on Jenkins Hill over the chilly scene. The spire of the Washington Monument to the west stood eerie and alone, pointing straight up at two stars that had just come out. Few lights shone on the white buildings beside the Mall, the rotund Jefferson Memorial, the colossal Lincoln Memorial, the National Gallery of Art, and the Smithsonian museums, and the fountains in the reflecting pool were off, letting the untroubled water reflect the darkening sky. The city of European neoclassical buildings seemed like a desolate Greek ruin.

As if to shake off the city’s veil of night and silence, in the White House lights blazed and music blared. Parked outside the east and north gates were cars bearing flags of a host of countries. The president was hosting a banquet for the heads of state who had come to the United States to attend the first UN General Assembly of the Supernova Era. The banquet was meant to be held in the State Dining Room on the western side, but it could only hold around a hundred people, not the roughly 230 that were expected, so they had to hold it in the East Room, the largest in the building. Three large Bohemian-style crystal chandeliers installed in 1902 hung from the gilded plaster ceiling, lighting up the room where Abraham Lincoln had once lain in repose. Children in formal evening wear crowded together in the white-and-gold-decorated hall, some joking in small groups, some wandering around the hall with great curiosity.

The rest of the children crowded around the Steinway grand piano in front of a long window (the piano’s most notable features were its three American eagle supports) listening to the White House chief of staff, a pretty blond-haired girl named Frances Benes, play the “Beer Barrel Polka.” All of the children were pretending not to notice the long banquet table in the center of the room, piled high with mouthwatering delicacies: French classics like strip steaks in ginger sauce and escargot in wine, as well as typical Western fare like baked beans, pork chops, and walnut pie.

The army band struck up “America the Beautiful,” and all of the guests stopped their chattering and turned toward the door.

Entering the room was the first American president of the Supernova Era, Herman Davey, accompanied by the secretary of state, Chester Vaughn, and other senior government officials.

All eyes were on the young president. Every child has a physical trait that is striking, to some degree—be it eyes, forehead, or mouth—and if the most appealing traits of ten thousand children were extracted and combined into one, the result would be Herman Davey. The boy’s outward appearance was indeed a picture of perfection, so much so that the other children wondered about his origins, and even speculated that he had arrived on a gleaming alien spaceship as a little Superman.

In actual fact, Davey was not only born from his mother’s womb but was the product of no particular storied or noble lineage. His father was of Scottish extraction, but his family tree grew murky by the time of the Revolutionary War, nothing like FDR being able to trace his heritage back to William the Conqueror. His mother had been an undocumented immigrant from Poland after the Second World War.

Most disappointing to the other children was that Davey’s life before the age of nine was entirely unremarkable. His family was ordinary, his father a cleaning-products salesman who had none of the aspirations for his son that JFK’s father had shown; his mother was a graphic designer in advertising who had never given her child the education that Lincoln received from his mother. His family was politically unengaged; his father reportedly only voted in a single presidential election, and made the choice between Republican and Democrat by the flip of a coin. Nothing of note could be found in his childhood. He made Bs in most subjects at school and enjoyed football and baseball, but was never good enough to be even a benchwarmer. It was only with enormous effort that young reporters were able to dig up the fact that he had been a mentor for younger students for one semester in the third grade, but the school had made no comment as to his performance.

Like all American children, he whiled away the endless freedom of his younger days but always kept a third eye open for some opportunity, rare but possible nevertheless, that he could seize hold of and never let go. At the time of the supernova, Davey was twelve years old, and his chance had arrived.

When he heard the president’s announcement about the disaster, he understood immediately that history was reaching out to him. Competition was brutal in the country simulation, and he nearly forfeited his life, but eventually he defeated all of his adversaries by dint of a sudden burst of superlative leadership and charisma.

But it did not proceed without fault. Even as he was reaching the apex of power, a specter loomed in his mind, the specter of Chester Vaughn.

Anyone seeing Vaughn for the first time, be they adult or child, would suck in a chilly breath and then avert their eyes. Vaughn’s appearance was the inverse of Davey’s. He was shockingly skinny, with a neck so thin it made one wonder how it could support his disproportionately large head; his hands were little more than skin over bones. The only thing that differentiated him from a starving child from a drought-ridden region of Africa was the whiteness of his skin, so frighteningly white that the other children called him “Little Vampire.” His skin seemed almost transparent, revealing the fine reticular blood vessels beneath the epidermis. It was most conspicuous on his immense forehead, giving him the look of a mutant.

Vaughn’s other notable characteristic was his aged features, which were wrinkled enough that in the adults’ era it would have been impossible to guess his age; most people would have taken him for an elderly dwarf. Davey’s first encounter with Vaughn came when he stepped into the Oval Office to stand before the dying president and the chief justice of the Supreme Court, place a hand on the Bible lying on the desk, and recite the oath of office. Vaughn had been standing at a distance beneath the national flag, silent with his back turned, entirely unconcerned with this historic event. After the oath, the former president made the introductions.

“Mr. President, this is Chester Vaughn, secretary of state. Mr. Secretary, this is Herman Davey, president of the United States.”

Davey extended a hand, but then lowered it again in confusion when there was no move from Vaughn, who remained with his back turned. What further puzzled him was that when he was about to speak a greeting, the former president stopped him with a slight wave, like a servant stopping a presumptuous visitor from disturbing his master’s deep contemplation. After a long pause, Vaughn slowly turned around.

“This is Herman Davey,” the president repeated. “You’re familiar with him, I presume.” The tone of his voice suggested he almost wished that it were the weird kid who had the fatal illness instead of himself.

When Vaughn turned around, his eyes were still directed elsewhere, and it was only after the president had finished speaking that he looked at Davey for the first time. Then, without a word or even the slightest nod of his head, he turned back around again. That glance was the first time Davey saw Chester Vaughn’s eyes. Sunk into deep sockets under heavy eyebrows, his eyes were swallowed up in darkness, like two frosty pools deep in the mountains, concealing who knows what sort of fearsome creature. Even so, Davey could still sense his expression, a pair of monster’s hands, damp and freezing, extending out of those pools to seize him by the neck and strangle him. As Vaughn turned back round, the fluorescent lights glinted off his eyes, and in that instant Davey glimpsed two frosty explosions.

Davey had a sixth sense about power. That he, as the new president, had arrived in the Oval Office after Vaughn, the secretary of state, had not escaped his notice, nor had any detail of either the office or the encounter, and it made him uneasy. Weighing most heavily on his mind was the fact that Vaughn held the power to constitute the cabinet. While this power had been granted to the secretary of state in a constitutional amendment ratified after the supernova, the sitting president, and not his predecessor, customarily had the right to appoint the secretary of state. Moreover, the previous president had emphasized this particular power, which Davey felt was somewhat unusual.

After moving into the White House, Davey did his best to avoid direct contact with Vaughn, who spent most of his time in the Capitol; mostly they communicated by phone. Abraham Lincoln had once said, of a man he refused to appoint to a position, “I don’t like his face,” and when someone argued that a man isn’t responsible for his face, shot back, “Every man over forty is responsible for his face.” Vaughn may have been only thirteen, but Davey still felt he ought to be responsible for his face. He knew little about Vaughn’s background. No one did, in fact, something rather unusual in the United States.

In the adults’ era, the background of every high-level leader was an open book to the electorate. Few children in the White House and Capitol had previously known Vaughn. The chair of the Federal Reserve did mention to Davey that her father had once brought a weird kid over to their house. Her father, a Harvard professor, had told her that Vaughn was extremely talented in sociology and history. The news was hard for Davey to wrap his mind around, since although he had heard of, if not actually met, lots of prodigies, they were all in the sciences or the fine arts. He had never heard of a sociology or history prodigy. Achievement in sociology, unlike in the natural sciences, can’t be made on the basis of intelligence alone, but requires its student to obtain a wealth of experience of society and keen observations of the world from every angle. Likewise with history; a child without real-world life experience would find it hard to gain a real sense of history, a sense that no true historian could be without. But where would Vaughn have found that kind of time?

Still, Davey was a pragmatic child, and he knew that his relationship with the secretary could not continue in this manner. Shortly after taking office, he decided to conquer his disgust and fear (even if he was unwilling to acknowledge the latter) and visit Vaughn at home. He knew that Vaughn spent the entire day buried in documents and books, speaking only if absolutely necessary, and had no friends. He stayed in his office reading until very late at night, so it was after ten when Davey paid him a call at home.

Vaughn’s residence was in Shepherd Park on Sixteenth Street NW, in an area in the northernmost part of the city known as the “Gold Coast.” It had once been a Jewish neighborhood, and later a home for predominantly black middle-class government and legal professionals. On the side closer to downtown was a large stretch of unrestored apartment buildings, one of the District’s neglected corners which, while not as crumbling as Anacostia in the southeast, was an area with a fairly high crime rate and drug trade during the adults’ time. Vaughn lived in one of those buildings.

Davey’s knock at the door drew a chilly “It’s unlocked.” He carefully opened the door to reveal a book storeroom. Books were everywhere beneath the light of a dim incandescent lamp, but there were no shelves, or anything else for that matter—not even a desk or chair. Books were stacked in piles, covering the floor. There wasn’t even a bed, just a blanket spread over some of the more evenly stacked piles, and there was no space for Davey to find a foothold.

Since he couldn’t enter, he just looked at the books from a distance. Apart from the English-language books, he could make out books in French and German, and even a few tattered Latin works. He was standing on a copy of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; just ahead was The Prince, whose author was obscured by another volume, William Manchester’s The Glory and the Dream. There was also Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber’s Le Défi mondial, Trevor N. Dupuy’s The Evolution of Weapons and Warfare, Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr.,’s History of U.S. Political Parties, Immanuel Kant’s A Critique of Pure Reason, K. Spidchenko’s Economic Geography of the World, Henry A. Kissinger’s The Necessity for Choice…

Vaughn, who had been sitting on a pile of books, stood up when Davey opened the door and came over, and Davey saw him withdraw a clear object from his left arm, a small syringe. Vaughn stood in front of him holding the syringe in his right hand, and didn’t appear to mind that the president had seen him.

“You do drugs?” Davey asked.

Vaughn didn’t answer, but just looked at him, and again those incorporeal claws reached out toward him. He was a little scared, and looked around him in the hope that someone else was there, but the building was empty. Once the adults left, there were lots of empty buildings like this one.

“I know you don’t like me, but you’ve got to tolerate me,” Vaughn said.

“Tolerate a druggie secretary of state?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“For America.”

Davey was forced to submit under Vaughn’s intense, Darth Vader–like stare. He sighed and broke his gaze away from Vaughn’s.

“I’m inviting you to dinner.”

“At the White House?”

“Yes.”

Vaughn nodded, and motioned out the door, and then the two of them went out toward the stairs. As Vaughn was closing the apartment door, Davey took one last look and noticed that in addition to the books and blanket, the room also held an unusually large globe. It stood in one corner, which was why he hadn’t seen it at first, and it was taller than Vaughn himself. It was on a stand formed from two intricately carved Greek figures—Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom, and Cassandra, empowered with the gift of prophecy. Together they supported the enormous globe.

The president and secretary of state dined in the Red Room, one of the four state reception rooms in the White House, and formerly the drawing room where the First Lady held receptions. The muted light illuminating the garnet-red twill satin fabric edged in gold scroll designs on the walls, the two eighteenth-century candelabras on the mantel, and the French Empire mahogany cabinets gave the room an ancient, mysterious aura.

The two children ate opposite the fireplace at the small round marble table, one of the finest pieces of furniture in the White House collection. It was made of mahogany and other hard woods, and on the inlaid marble surface supported by gilded bronze busts of women sat a bottle of Scotch. Vaughn ate little, but he was a drinker and quickly polished off a number of glasses in succession. Within the space of ten minutes the bottle was practically empty, and Davey had to get two more. Vaughn continued to drink, but the alcohol seemed to have no effect on him.

“Can you tell me about your mom and dad?” Davey ventured.

“I never met them,” Vaughn said coldly.

“So… where are you from?”

“Hart Island.”

They said no more, but ate in silence. Then the implication of what Vaughn had said hit Davey, and he shuddered. Hart Island was a small island outside Manhattan, the site of a baby cemetery where the unwanted children of drug addicts were buried in mass graves.

“Does that mean you’re…”

“That’s right.”

“You mean, you were put in a fruit basket and left there?”

“I wasn’t big enough for that. I was left in a shoebox. They said that eight were left that day, and I was the only one who survived.” Vaughn’s voice was as calm as could be.

“Who picked you up?”

“I know him by a dozen names, but none of them are his real one. He trafficked in heroin using a variety of his own unique methods.”

“I… I imagined you grew up in a library.”

“That’s true, too, only it was a big library and the pages were made of money and blood.”

“Benes!” Davey shouted.

The White House chief of staff, the blond-haired girl with doll-like features, entered the room.

“Turn on some lights.”

“But… the First Lady used to keep it this dark when receiving guests. For the nobles, she’d have to light candles,” she protested.

“I’m the president, not the First Lady, and neither are you. I hate these dim lights!” Davey said angrily.

In a fit of pique Benes turned on all the lights in the room, including the floodlights only used during photographs, and the walls and carpets of the Red Room glared blinding red. Davey felt much better, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at Vaughn. Now all he wanted was for the dinner to be over.

The gilded bronze clock on the mantel, a gift from French president Vincent Auriol in 1952, played a pleasing pastoral melody, informing the two children it was getting late. Vaughn got up and made a farewell, and Davey offered him a ride home, since he didn’t want the little freak spending the night.

The presidential Lincoln limousine drove along a quiet avenue. Davey was in the driver’s seat; he had stopped the boy who served as driver and Secret Service special agent from coming along with him. He and Vaughn remained silent on the road, but when they reached the Lincoln Memorial, Vaughn gestured and Davey brought the car to a stop. Immediately he regretted doing so: I’m the president, he thought. Why should I follow his signals? But he had to admit that the boy possessed a power beyond him.

Lincoln’s pale seated form loomed indistinctly above them in the night, and the young president looked up at the sculpture’s head, wishing that Lincoln could see him, too, but the great man did not move his gaze from the low horizon, where the Washington Monument pierced the night sky in the Reflecting Pool, and beyond it the Capitol at the end of the Mall.

Davey said, not at all naturally, “When he died, Edwin Stanton, the secretary of war, said, ‘Now he belongs to the ages.’ I believe that when we die, someone will say that about us.”

Rather than responding directly, Vaughn said only, “Davey.”

“Hmm?” Davey was surprised to hear Vaughn utter his name, since until now he had only called him “Mr. President.”

Vaughn smiled, something Davey had never imagined he would do. Then he asked a question that the president was utterly unprepared to answer: “What is America?”

From anyone else, the question would have irritated Davey, but Vaughn’s question set his mind going. Yes, what was America? America was Disneyland, America was supermarkets and McDonald’s, America was thousands of flavors of ice cream and a thousand and one hot dogs and hamburgers, cowboy jackets and pistols, moon rockets and spaceships, football and break dancing, the skyscraper jungle of Manhattan and the weird formations in the Texas desert, and presidential candidates debating on TV under the donkey and elephant insignias… but ultimately, Davey discovered that the America in his mind was a shattered piece of stained glass, a riot of scattered color, and he stared blankly back at Vaughn.

“And any impressions from your childhood?” Vaughn asked, changing the topic, with a mind that few children could keep up with. “Before the age of four, what was your home like, in your eyes? Was the refrigerator a refrigerator? Was the television a television? The car a car? The lawn a lawn? And the lawn mower—what did it look like?”

Davey’s mind spun to catch up, but he still had to respond with a blank, “Do you mean…”

“I don’t mean anything. Come with me,” Vaughn said, and headed toward a side chamber. He could admit that the president had a sharp mind, but that was just by comparison to ordinary people. By his own standard the kid was insufferably dense.

“Why don’t you tell me what America is!” called Davey after him.

“America is a giant toy.”

Vaughn’s voice wasn’t loud, but it seemed to produce a larger echo in the hall than Davey’s question had, and it stopped the young president in his tracks near the back of Lincoln’s statue. It took him a few seconds to recover, and although he didn’t entirely get what Vaughn meant, he was a clever child and could sense that it was something profound. He said, “Even now children are treating America like a country. The fact that the country is running as smoothly as it did under the adults is proof of that.”

“But that inertia is fading. Children are emerging from the hypnotic spell the adults put them under, and when they look at the world with their own eyes, they’ll discover to their delight that it’s a toy.”

“Then what? They’ll play? Play with America?” Davey asked, somewhat surprised at his own question.

“What else can they do?” Vaughn said with a slight shrug.

“How will they play? Football in the streets? All-night gaming sessions?”

They were nearing the memorial’s southern chamber. Vaughn shook his head. “Mr. President, you have a lamentable imagination.” Then he motioned for Davey to enter.

Davey stepped gingerly past the columns into the darkness. Behind him, Vaughn switched on the lights. Once his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he found to his astonishment that he was in a toy world. He remembered that the south wall of the chamber had been covered in a mural done by Jules Guérin, an allegorical portrayal of Emancipation, paired with a depiction of Unity on the north wall of the opposite chamber, but toys were now piled from floor to ceiling, blocking off the wall entirely. More than he could count—dolls, blocks, cars, balloons, skateboards, and more. It was as if he were at the floor of a colorful valley of toys. Vaughn’s voice echoed behind him: “America. This is America. Look around you. Maybe you’ll find some inspiration.”

Davey scanned the mountain of toys, and suddenly one object caught his eye. It lay inconspicuous off to one side, half buried in a gaudy pile of dolls, and from a distance looked like nothing more than a black tree branch. He went over and freed it from the dolls, and a grin broke out on his face. It was a light machine gun. Not a toy.

Vaughn explained, “That’s an FN Minimi, Belgian made. We call it an M249. It’s one of the US Army’s standard-issue light machine guns. Small caliber, uses a 5.56-millimeter cartridge, compact and lightweight, but with a decent rate of fire. Up to a thousand rounds per minute.”

Davey hefted the black barrel, whose metal physicality somehow felt more appropriate than the flimsy toys surrounding him, in a way he couldn’t put into words.

“Like it?” Vaughn asked.

Davey nodded, fondling the smooth cool barrel.

“Then keep it as a memento. A gift from me.” Then he turned and headed back to the central chamber.

“Thanks. I’ve never received a nicer gift,” Davey said, cradling the gun and following after him.

“Mr. President, if my gift has inspired you in the way it should, then I am pleased as well,” Vaughn said lightly. Just behind him, Davey looked up from the gun at his retreating back. He made no sound as he walked, and passed through the shadows of the hall like a wraith.

“You mean… that out of that mountain of toys, I noticed this one first?”

Vaughn nodded. “In that little toy America, you noticed a machine gun before anything else.”

Now they were outside, at the top of the steps. A cool breeze brought Davey to his senses, and he realized the implication behind Vaughn’s words, and shivered involuntarily. Vaughn reached over to take the gun from him, and Davey wondered at how it seemed light as a stick in his withered, seemingly weak arms. Vaughn lifted the gun to his eyes and inspected it in the starlight.

“They are the most impressive works of art humanity has ever produced,” he said. “Embodiments of the animal’s most primitive instincts and desires. Their beauty is irreplaceable. A cold beauty. A sharp beauty. One that grips the soul of every man. They are humanity’s everlasting toys.”

Vaughn pulled back the bolt with a practiced hand and fired three six-round bursts, shattering the silence in the capital, and the chain of shrill explosions made Davey’s skin crawl. Three even tongues of flame issued from the muzzle, the light flickering against the surrounding darkened buildings. Bullets screamed through the night sky as they raced madly over the city, and eighteen casings fell with a pleasing tinkle to the marble steps, the last bars of the whole melody.

“Listen, Mr. President, to the song of the human soul,” Vaughn said, his eyes half closed in reverie.

“Wow—” Davey gasped. Then he grabbed the gun from Vaughn’s hands and stroked its warm barrel in wonder.

A police car came racing round from behind the memorial and screeched to a halt in front of the steps. Three child police officers got out and shone their flashlights upward to the president and secretary of state. Then they exchanged a few words with each other before getting back in the car and driving off.

Then Davey remembered what Vaughn had said. “But that inspiration is… terrifying.”

Vaughn said, “History doesn’t care whether or not it’s terrifying. The fact that it exists is enough. History is for the politician what oil paints are to a painter. There is no good or evil, all that matters is how you control it. There is no bad history, only bad politicians. Now, Mr. President, do you understand your own purpose?”

“Mr. Vaughn, I’m not used to the tone you use, like a teacher addressing a student, but I do appreciate the sense of what you’ve said. As for a purpose, is it any different from the adults’ purpose?”

“Mr. President, I wonder whether or not you understand how the adults made America great.”

“They built a fleet of aircraft carriers!”

“No.”

“They sent a rocket to the moon!”

“No.”

“They built American science, technology, industry, finance…”

“Those are important, but they’re not it either.”

“Then what is it? What makes America great?”

“Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.”

Davey thought in silence.

Vaughn went on, “In self-righteous Europe, in insular Asia, in impoverished Africa, in every corner of the world, in places unreachable by aircraft carriers, Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck can be found.”

“You mean American culture permeates the globe?”

Vaughn nodded. “The world of play is dawning. Children of other countries and nationalities will play in different ways. Mr. President, what you need to do is to make the children of the world play according to America’s rules!”

Davey took another long moment to think about this, and then he said, “You really have the makings of a teacher.”

“These are just the basics, and yet you feel ashamed already. As you should, Mr. President.” When he finished speaking, Vaughn walked down the steps without looking back and vanished silently into the night.

Davey spent the night in the Queens’ Bedroom, the most comfortable room in the White House, where Queen Elizabeth I, Queens Wilhelmina and Juliana, Winston Churchill, Leonid Brezhnev, and Vyacheslav Molotov stayed during their visits to the United States. Previously he had slept well on the canopy bed formerly belonging to Andrew Jackson, but tonight he lay awake. He got up and paced the room, stopping at times at the window to look out northward at Lafayette Square, stained blue by the Rose Nebula, and then going to the fireplace, above which hung a floral painting and mirror in a gilded frame (a gift from Princess Elizabeth on behalf of her father King George VI in 1951), to stare at his perplexed face.

He sat down in exhaustion in a mahogany chair and began the longest period of contemplation in his life.

Just before daybreak, the young president stood up and went to a corner of the Queens’ Bedroom where a large video-game machine had been set up. The device paired oddly with the room’s classical décor. He set the machine humming and clanging in an interstellar battle, getting more into it the longer he played, until the sun was high in the sky and his former self-confidence had returned.

The band at the White House banquet played the final notes of “America the Beautiful” and immediately struck up “Hail to the Chief.” President Davey went into action and began shaking hands with his young guests.

The first to shake were President Jean Pierre of France and Prime Minister Nelson Green of the UK, the former a ruddy, enthusiastic chubby fellow, and the latter a beanpole. In solemn expressions and formal evening dress with handsome bow ties around high white collars, they looked every inch the gentlemen, as if they had come to show off the traditional style of European adults.

President Davey had reached one end of the table and was ready to make an address. Behind him was the full-length portrait of George Washington, rescued from destruction by Dolly Madison, who took it from its frame before occupying British troops burned the White House in the War of 1812. Now the sight of Davey dressed in a smart tweed suit, with that storied painting as a backdrop, impressed Pierre enough for him to whisper to Green, “My god, look at how handsome he is! In a powdered wig, he’d be Washington. In a beard, Lincoln. In fatigues, Eisenhower. If he was in a wheelchair and a black overcoat, he’d be Roosevelt. He’s America, and America is him!”

The prime minister was not impressed with Pierre’s superficiality, and replied, without turning his head, “In history, great individuals are ordinary in appearance. Like your Napoleon, a hundred and sixty-five centimeters tall. A short man. They use their internal power to attract people. The pretty ones are mostly just embroidered pillows.”

The children expected the president to begin, but he waited, mouth closed, his eyes searching the crowd. Then he turned to the chief of staff and said, “Where’s China?”

“We just received a call. They’re on their way, and will be here any minute. Carelessness meant that countries beginning with C got notified late.”

“Are you stupid? Don’t you know that the Cs include a country with a fifth of the world’s population, and two with an area larger than ours?”

Benes protested, “It was a problem with the email system. How is that my fault?”

Davey said, “Without the Chinese children, we can’t discuss anything. We’ll wait a bit more. Have something to eat and drink, everyone.”

But just as the children were surging toward the table, Davey shouted, “Wait!,” and, surveying the sumptuous feast, turned to Benes and said, “Did you arrange for this slop?”

Benes opened her eyes wide. “Is something wrong? This is exactly how the adults did it.”

Davey said loudly, “How many times have I told you, stop talking about the adults. Don’t keep showing off how closely you can follow their stupid rules. This is the children’s world. Bring out the ice cream!”

“Ice cream at a state banquet?” Benes stammered, but nevertheless sent someone to fetch it.

“That’s not enough!” Davey said upon seeing the place settings of ice cream. “Not those little packages. I want big plates piled high with scoops!”

“How tasteful,” Benes muttered. But she carried out his request all the same, and had servers bring in ten trays of ice cream. The trays were so big they needed two kids to carry them, and once all ten were spread out on the banquet table, even at a distance you could feel the chill. Davey picked up a goblet and dipped it into the creamy mountain, and then pried it out by the stem, full of ice cream. Then he held it up and in a few bites swallowed its entire contents, quick enough that the watching children felt their own gag reflex triggered, but Davey smacked his lips in satisfaction, as if he had only taken a sip of coffee.

“So everyone, we’re going to have an ice-cream-eating contest. Whoever eats the most, their country is the most interesting. Whoever eats the least, their country is the most boring.” Then he scooped up another gobletful of ice cream and took a bite.

Despite the questionable nature of the standard, one by one the heads of state came forward to dip their goblets as Davey had and defend their national reputation. Davey downed ten glasses in succession, and it didn’t faze him one bit; to prove their countries weren’t boring, the other children took huge bites, as a gaggle of excited reporters snapped photos of the competition. By the end, Davey took top honors with fifteen goblets, while the other leaders turned their stomachs to freezers and more than a few had to race off in search of a White House bathroom.

After the ice cream, they warmed their insides with alcohol, sipping glasses of whiskey or brandy and chatting in small groups. The mix of lively native languages and rigid machine translations into English drew peals of laughter from a few groups. Davey moved among them holding his glass, a large translator hanging around his neck, and at times he interjected his own lengthy opinions. The banquet proceeded in this spirit of pleasant merriment. Servers shuttled back and forth, but no sooner had they put food on the table than it was snatched up. Fortunately the White House had ample supplies. A pile of empty bottles grew next to the piano as the children grew tipsy. Then came something rather unpleasant.

Prime Minister Green and President Pierre, along with the heads of some northern European countries, were engrossed in a discussion of a topic of interest to them when Davey came over holding a large glass of whiskey. Pierre was speaking, with expansive gestures and facial expressions, and Davey tuned his translator to French, and heard the following in his earpiece:

“…at any rate, as far as I am aware, there is no legitimate claimant to the British throne.”

“That’s right,” Green said, nodding. “It’s a worry for us.”

“There’s absolutely no reason for that! Why not follow France and establish a republic? Yes, the Federated Republic of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. It’s entirely justifiable, since the king died on his own, and wasn’t sent to the guillotine like ours was.”

Green shook his head slowly, and then in the manner of an adult, said, “No, my dear Pierre, that would be unthinkable, both today and in the past. Our feelings about the monarchy are different from yours. It’s a spiritual support for the British people.”

“You’re too conservative. That’s the reason why the sun eventually set on the British Empire.”

“You’re too eager for change. The sun set on France, too, and on Europe. Could Napoleon and Wellington have imagined a world congress like this held not in London, Paris, or Vienna, but in the crude, rude country of cowboys? Forget it, let’s not talk history, Pierre,” Green said, shaking his head sadly when he saw Davey.

“But reality is just as hard. Where will you find a queen?”

“We’re going to elect one.”

“What?” Pierre gave an ungraceful yelp, attracting the attention of more people. Their conversation had circle become the largest at the banquet.

“We’re going to get the prettiest, most adorable girl to be queen.”

“And her family and lineage?”

“None of that matters. Simply being English qualifies. But the key is that she’s got to be the prettiest and most charming.”

“That’s fascinating.”

“You French like revolutions. This might count as one.”

“You’ll need to find candidates.”

Green pulled a sheaf of holograms from a pocket in his evening jacket and passed them to Pierre. Ten candidates for queen. The French president flipped through the holograms, sighing in admiration at each one. Practically every child in the hall gathered round to pass the photos, and they sighed in admiration along with him. The girls in the photos were like ten little suns in their radiant beauty.

“Gentlemen,” said the band conductor, “the next song is dedicated to these ten queens.”

The band struck up “Für Elise,” and in its hands the gentle piano tune remained as touching as ever, even more absorbing than the piano version. Awash in music, the children felt that the world, life, and the future would be as beautiful as those ten suns, and as adorable.

When it finished, Davey asked Green politely, “So what about the queen’s husband?”

“Also decided by election. The prettiest and most adorable boy, of course.”

“Any candidates?”

“Not yet. There will be once the queen is elected.”

“Oh, right. You’ve got to listen to the queen’s opinion,” Davey said, nodding in agreement. Then, with that particular brand of American pragmatism, he said, “One more question. How can such a young queen give birth to a prince?”

Green snorted rather than answering, as in contempt for Davey’s lack of breeding. Few of the other children present were well-versed in the specifics, so they all just pondered the question and for a while no one spoke. Eventually Pierre broke the silence: “I imagine it’s like this. Their marriage is just, well, what’s the word, symbolic. They’re not going to live together like adults do. They’ll have kids after they grow up. Is that it?”

Green nodded, as did Davey, to show he understood. Then Davey cleared his throat, seeming suddenly shy. “Um… about the pretty boy.”

“What about him?”

Davey tugged at his white gloves and gave a self-conscious shrug. “I mean… there’s no candidate yet.”

“That’s right, there isn’t.”

Davey crooked a finger back toward himself and said, “So how about me. Do I qualify?”

The surrounding crowd tittered, to the annoyance of the president, who barked, “Quiet!,” then turned back to Green and waited patiently for his response. Green turned slowly toward the banquet table and picked up an empty glass, and then made a subtle motion for a refill to the server beside him. When his glass was full, he carried it over to Davey and waited until the surface was still. Then he said, “Why not see for yourself?”

The group burst out laughing. The laughter spread until even the servers and army band members were cackling uncontrollably at their president, chief of staff Benes the giddiest of all.

In the center of it all, the president’s face contorted. In point of fact, he wouldn’t have been found wanting; what disqualified him was his lack of British citizenship. The international mockery annoyed him, of course, but he was most irritated by Green. As he had met with the heads of NATO countries for the past several days, it had been the prime minister who had bothered him the most. No sooner had he arrived in the United States than he began asking for things—steel, oil, and above all, weapons. Three five-billion-dollar Nimitz-class nuclear-powered aircraft carriers and eight two-billion-dollar ballistic nuclear submarines, in one fell swoop, as if angling to re-create the Royal Navy of Admiral Nelson’s time.

Even worse, he wanted land. Just the return of a few former colonies in the Pacific and the Middle East at first, but then he rolled out a stinky old seventeenth-century parchment, a map with no lines of latitude or longitude, nothing at all at the north and south poles, and brimming with errors in Africa and the Americas.

Pointing out areas of the map, Green informed Davey of all the places that once were England and remained so (only omitting any mention of North and South America prior to the revolutionary wars). He felt that due to the special relationship Britain had with the US, even if the US was unwilling to aid it in recovering those lands, it should at least permit it to reclaim some of them, since the measly territory it now occupied was tremendously disproportionate to the immense contributions it had made to Western civilization through the ages. The United Kingdom had been a cherished ally of the US in two world wars, and in the second had exhausted its national power to protect the British Isles and prevent the Nazis from crossing the Atlantic, only to suffer such a precipitous decline as a result.

Now the cake needed to be redivided; surely Uncle Sam’s children would not be as stingy as their fathers and grandfathers! However, when Davey made the demand that once conditions were ripe, NATO would place a dense installation of medium-range ballistic missiles in Britain to prepare for an advance to the East, he immediately turned as tough as the Iron Lady and declared that his country, and all of western Europe for that matter, would not become a nuclear battlefield. No new missile installations; as a matter of fact, he was going to dismantle some existing ones.

Now on top of that, making jokes at the expense of the president of the United States, in the manner of a fallen aristocrat who can’t resist grandstanding like a fool. Davey’s anger bubbled over at the thought, and he threw a fist into Green’s jaw.

The sudden punch sent the skinny prime minister, smugly holding a wineglass up as a mirror for Davey, tumbling backward over the banquet table. The hall erupted into chaos. Children pressed around Davey shouting angrily, and the prime minister managed, with some help, to get to his feet. Ignoring the caviar and mayonnaise on his clothes, the first thing he did was straighten his tie. He was helped up by the foreign secretary, a brawny boy, who made a dash for Davey but was held back by the prime minister. Even before he stood up, Green’s mind had made the transition from overheated to cool, and he understood that now was not the time to lose sight of the bigger picture. Amid the chaos, he was the only one who retained an enviable calm. With aristocratic grace, he extended his right index finger and said to the foreign secretary, in a tone entirely unchanged from usual, “Please draft a diplomatic protest.”

Reporters’ flashbulbs popped, and the following day, large photos of Green, in evening wear covered in a spectrum of ice cream flavors and raising a genteel finger, ran in every major newspaper, informing all of Europe and the Americas of the prime minister’s noble demeanor as a politician. He exploited this stroke of luck to the full, while Davey could only blame drunkenness. Now, facing a crowd of furious young heads of state and sneering reporters, Davey began to defend himself: “What’re you calling me? Hegemonic? If America’s hegemonic, what about the English? Just wait till you see how hegemonic they can be!”

Green raised a finger to the foreign secretary again. “Please draft another diplomatic protest against this shameless attack on the United Kingdom by the president of the United States of America. This is our statement: We, and our fathers and mothers and grandfathers and grandmothers, are the most courteous people in the world. They have never, and will never, take such uncultured barbaric acts.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Davey said, waving both hands at the crowd. “I’m telling you, back in the tenth century, England called itself King of the Seas, and they called all the waters they could navigate the British Seas. On these seas, when another country’s ship met an English ship, it had to lower its flag in salute, or else the English navy would fire on it. In 1554, Prince Philip of Spain sailed to England to wed Queen Mary, and because the salute was forgotten, he was fired upon several times. In 1570, again because of the naval salute, the English navy almost fired upon the Queen of Spain’s ship. Ask him if it’s true!”

Davey remained Davey, and his fiery retort rendered Green speechless. He continued, “You want to talk hegemony? That’s a word invented by adults. But it’s really just a simple thing. A few centuries ago, England had the world’s biggest navy, so what they did wasn’t hegemonic, it was glorious history. Today, America has the world’s biggest navy. We’ve got Nimitz-class aircraft carriers, nuclear submarines, planes as numerous as mosquitoes and tanks as numerous as ants. But we’ve never forced anyone to lower their flag to salute US ships! How dare you call us hegemonic? One of these days—”

Before he finished, his jaw was the recipient of a heavy fist, and like Green he went toppling head over heels over the banquet table. He brushed away the arms trying to help him up, but twisted like a fish back to his feet, in the process grabbing a bottle of French champagne as long as his arm and brandishing it in the direction from which the blow had come. But he stopped midswing, and the remaining champagne bubbled out of the bottle and into a foamy pool on the oak floor.

Standing opposite him was Ōnishi Fumio, the prime minister of Japan. The tall, thin Asian boy wore a calm expression, and if you didn’t look at his eyes it was hard to believe that he was the one who threw the punch. Davey relaxed his grip and let the empty bottle fall away.

Two days earlier, Davey had seen a report shot by CNN showing the famous statue in Hiroshima of a girl who died as a result of the atomic bomb holding aloft a paper crane. Now there was a mountain of white objects, piled up like snow to half the statue’s height. At first glance Davey thought they were the same paper cranes children had always offered at the statue, but when the camera zoomed in for a closer look, he realized what they actually were: paper fighter jets. Groups of children in white hachimakis emblazoned with the sun flag came forward singing “Drawn Sword Corps” and throwing more folded fighter planes toward the statue. Those paper planes spiraled round the girl like white spirits, and piled higher and higher at her feet, bringing her ever closer to burial.

And then the Chinese guests arrived, weary from the journey. Huahua and the ambassador to the US, Du Bin, were accompanied by the American vice president, William Mitchell.

Davey met them at the foot of the stairs and greeted them with an enthusiastic embrace. Then he said to the rest of the children, “Good. Now that children from every country are here, we can begin discussing the important issues of the children’s world.”

^{CANDYTOWN IN AMERICA}

When the Chinese plane finally reached the end of its arduous journey and arrived in the airspace over New York’s JKF Airport, all they could see below them was empty ocean. The tower informed the pilot that the water on the runway was shallow, not even midcalf, so they could safely land using two files of widely spaced black dots as runway markers. Through binoculars they determined that the dots were vehicles parked in the water on the runway. The landing itself produced clouds of spray, and when it dispersed, Huahua noticed that the airport was under heavy security. Armed soldiers were standing everywhere in the water. When the plane came to a complete stop, it was quickly surrounded by a dozen armored vehicles that had been following it like speedboats through the shallow water. A group of fully armed soldiers in field camouflage jumped out of the vehicles and began running around like weird insects, and they and the vehicles quickly formed a perimeter around the plane. The soldiers, guns in hand, faced away from the plane and looked around warily, as did the machine gunners atop the armored cars.

The hatch opened and several American children hurried up the stair that had been put in place. Most of them were carrying rifles, and one had a large bag. Huahua’s two armed guards flanked the aircraft door to prevent them from entering, but Huahua had them make way, since he had seen a Chinese kid at the front of the group, the ambassador Du Bin.

Once the children entered the cabin and had caught their breath, Du Bin introduced a blond-haired boy to Huahua: “This is vice president of the United States William Mitchell, here to welcome you.” Huahua took stock of the boy, the large gun he had strapped at his waist that looked extremely out of place next to his tailored suit. Du Bin then introduced another boy, wearing fatigues. “This is Major General Dowell, who’s in charge of security for UN attendees.”

“This is how we’re being welcomed?” Huahua asked Mitchell, which Du Bin translated.

“You can have the red carpet and an honor guard if you’d like. The day before yesterday the president of Finland was given a ceremony on a temporary stage, and had his leg shattered by a bullet,” Mitchell said, and Du Bin translated for Huahua.

Huahua said, “We’re not here to visit the United States, so we don’t need such formalities. But this is a little unusual.”

Mitchell sighed and shook his head. “Please forgive our situation. I’ll explain in detail on the way.”

Then from his bag Dowell pulled out jackets for the Chinese children to wear, bulletproof clothing, he said. Then from another bag he took out a few snub-nosed black pistols and handed them to Huahua and his entourage, saying, “Careful. They’re fully loaded.”

“Why do we need these?” asked Huahua in surprise.

Mitchell said, “In today’s America, if you go out unarmed it’s like going out without pants!”

They all deplaned and walked down the stairs, and, closely surrounded by a group of soldiers to shield them from any stray bullets, Mitchell led Huahua and Du Bin to an armored car parked in the water. The others got into separate cars. The cars were dark and cramped and smelled of fuel. The children sat on hard benches fixed to either side, and then the fully armed motorcade sped away.

“The ocean level’s rising quickly. Is Shanghai like this?” Mitchell asked Huahua.

“It is. Hongqiao Airport is flooded, but the adults rushed some dikes in place so the water hasn’t reached the city yet. It won’t last for much longer, though.”

“New York is still free of water, but it’s not really suited for a UN General Assembly.”

The motorcade headed toward the city and eventually reached dry roads. At times, overturned vehicles on the roadside were visible through the armored car’s small windows, their sides pockmarked with bullet holes, and some of them on fire. There were also large numbers of armed children, clearly not military, walking along the road in groups, or crossing nervously, clutching guns nearly as big as themselves, their bodies slung with ammo belts. When Huahua’s car passed one group, they suddenly threw themselves to the ground as practically simultaneously a rain of bullets from one side impacted on the car’s armor shell with a thunderous din.

“None of this looks normal,” Huahua said, after a glance out the window.

“It’s the times, man. Abnormal is normal,” Mitchell countered. “We ought to have received you in bulletproof cars, but yesterday a Lincoln was shot up by special armor-piercing bullets, and the Belgian ambassador was injured. So we’re taking these armored vehicles as extra insurance. Tanks would be even better, of course, but the city’s elevated roadways won’t hold up under their weight.”

It was dark when the motorcade reached the city. The buildings of New York’s skyline gleamed like a miniature Milky Way. Like every child, Huahua had been full of desire to visit one of the world’s biggest cities, and he looked eagerly out the window at the dazzling skyscrapers. But he soon noticed another light flickering in the buildings, the crimson of firelight, and pillars of smoke reaching to the sky. Sometimes a ball of fire rose in the air, and the shadows of the skyscrapers wavered in its magnesium glare. Closer to downtown, he heard the crackle of gunfire, the whine of stray bullets, and the odd explosion.

The motorcade came to a halt, and they received word that the road was barricaded up ahead. Ignoring warnings, Huahua got out to have a look, and saw sandbags piled up into a fortification that cut off the road. Behind the barricade, children were feeding belts into three heavy machine guns. Dowell was negotiating with them.

One of the children behind the sandbags waved a handgun and said, “The game won’t be over till midnight. Take a detour!”

Angrily, the major general said, “Don’t be cheeky. Do you really want me to call in a squadron of Apaches to take you out?”

Another boy behind the barricade said, “Why can’t you be reasonable? We’re not playing against you. We arranged it with the Blue Devils this morning. If we don’t play, then we’re the untrustworthy ones, you see? If you really don’t have anyone to play with, then wait back there. We might be done early.”

Just then Mitchell walked up behind Dowell, and one of the kids behind the barricade recognized him. “Hey, isn’t that the vice president? That might really be a government motorcade.”

A kid with a shaved head jumped out from behind the barricade and inspected Mitchell and the others from closer up. Then he waved back at the others. “We shouldn’t obstruct official business. Let’s let them pass.”

The children jumped up and began moving sandbags, but as they were doing so, rapid gunfire sounded from the other end of the street, and then the air around them was filled with the whine of bullets and of armor being struck. Everyone out in the open dove into armored cars or behind sandbags. Du Bin pulled Huahua back into the car, and then they heard a kid behind the barricade shout through a loudspeaker, “Hey, Blue Devil leader! Stop! Stop!”

The gunfire stopped, and from that same direction came a kid’s voice over a loudspeaker: “Red Devils, what’s the problem? Check your watches. Didn’t we decide to start the game at eighteen thirty Eastern time?”

“A government motorcade is passing through. It’s a foreign head of state going to the UN General Assembly. Wait for them to leave first.”

“Okay. Hurry up, though.”

“Then you all send over a few people to help.”

“Fine. Here we come. Hold your fire!”

A few children came running from a grassy slope opposite the road. They threw their weapons down into a pile and helped the others move sandbags. Before long an opening was made. When they were done, the Blue Devil children picked up their guns and headed back, but the shaved-head kid called after them, “Don’t go yet. Help us rebuild the fortification in a bit. Also, two of us got injured just now.”

“So what? We didn’t break the rules.”

“True. But when the game restarts we won’t have even teams. How do we know who wins?”

“That’s easy. Mike, you stay on this side. This time you’re with the Red Devils. Of course you’ve got to play for them as hard as you would for the Blue Devils. But you can’t tell them our battle plans.”

Mike said, “Don’t worry. I want it to be interesting, too.”

“Great. Red Devils, we’re giving you the Blue Devils’ best shot. Yesterday on Wall Street he took out three of the Bears. Now that’s fair, right?”

Mitchell was about to get back into the car when one of the children called, “Mr. Vice President, we’ve got something to say to you.” Then he was surrounded by a group of children, their faces smeared with black camouflage so that only their teeth and eyes flashed in the firelight. The children began pelting him with questions.

“What the hell are you doing? The adults spent trillions on tons of fun stuff, but kids are only allowed to play with this crap!” said one, smacking the M16 he was holding.

“That’s right! Why can’t you give us all those aircraft carriers to play on?”

“And fighters and bombers. And cruise missiles. Those would be fun.”

“And ICBMs too!”

“Right. Bringing out the big guns would really make it interesting. But all those toys are going unused right now. It’s a waste of American wealth. The government should be ashamed!”

“If American kids aren’t having fun, you’re going to be responsible.”

Mitchell spread out his hands. “My apologies to you all. I can’t speak for the government here. The president spoke on TV last night about these questions—”

“What’re you afraid of? There aren’t any reporters here.”

“I heard that Congress is going to impeach him. If that happens, that’s the end for you Democrats.”

“The Republican leader promised on TV last night that if they come to power, they’ll let kids play with all of the army, air force, and navy’s big boys.”

“Ooh. He’s awesome. I’m going to vote Republican!”

“I also heard that the army is going to use them for itself.”

“That’s right. Don’t listen to the government. Playing on their own? What’s the point of them staging exercises all the time? Bring them out and play for real!”

Dowell barged into the group and found the kid who had said the army would play by itself and seized him by the collar. “You little bastard. If you spread rumors about the US Army again I’ll have you arrested!”

The kid struggled to speak. “Then go arrest the commander of the Atlantic Fleet and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They’re the ones that said they’ll play on their own!”

Another kid pointed in the direction of the ocean, where lights flashed periodically, like a storm on the horizon. “See! The Atlantic Fleet has been firing offshore for the past two days. Who knows, maybe they’ve already begun to play!”

Mitchell looked around him, and then said in a low voice, “We never said we won’t let you play. The president and the government have never said that. But if we play, the whole world has to play. It’s suicidal if it’s just ourselves, right?”

The other children nodded.

One kid tugged at him and said, “So these leaders are coming to the UN to discuss the games?”

Mitchell nodded. “That’s right.”

Another kid, holding an antitank rocket launcher, said through smiles, “Awesome! Make it a good talk. You all are responsible for making the world a fun place!”

The motorcade proceeded onward. Huahua asked Mitchell, “If the roads are so dangerous, why not use helicopters?”

Mitchell shook his head. “That would be a simpler solution, of course, but a destroyer in port last week lost ten Stinger missiles, and one of them took down an NYPD helicopter the day before yesterday. The FBI believes the remaining nine are still somewhere nearby, so it’s safer if we stay on the ground.”

Huahua looked out at the vast ocean, and the colossal illuminated figure rising out of it.

“Is that the Statue of Liberty?” Huahua asked, and when Mitchell nodded, he looked carefully at the symbol of America. But he found something wasn’t quite right. “Where’s her torch?”

Mitchell said, “Knocked off by some asshole with a recoilless rifle last week. Her left arm had a hole blown in it by a rocket.”

Huahua asked, “What are American kids up to?”

Beneath the car’s dim red overhead light, Mitchell appeared extremely irked. “What’re they up to? I’ve received dozens of national leaders and that’s what you all ask. They’re kids. What’re they up to? Playing!”

Huahua said, “Our kids don’t play like this.”

“Even if they wanted to, they don’t have the guns.”

Du Bin leaned over to whisper in Huahua’s ear. “This is Candytown in America. The entire country is playing violent games.”

At last the motorcade reached the UN. When Huahua got out of the car to look at the building that at least nominally was the world’s office building, he stared in shock. The Secretariat was pitch-black, in stark contrast to the blazing lights in the surrounding buildings; a whole chunk was missing out of the upper left corner of the monument-like building; half of its exterior windows were gone; and there were several other large holes, one still smoking.

As they crossed the glass and cement fragments on their way to the building, a nearby little boy caught Huahua’s attention. The kid looked to be only three or four years old, and was holding a gun almost as big as himself. He struggled to hold it level, and aimed it at a compact car a few meters away. The kickback knocked him onto his ass, and he sat there staring straight at the car, but when he realized that nothing had happened, he pulled himself up using the gunstock—his bare bottom, peeking through his open-crotch trousers, had two circular smudges of dirt—and then slammed the muzzle on the ground and loaded another cartridge, and again tried to hold the swaying barrel steady enough to take another shot at the car. Again he fell back to the ground, and again the car made no reaction. The kid stood up again to take another shot. Every time he fired he fell backward, but on the fifth shot there was a boom and the car burst into flames and black smoke. The kid crowed “Woohoo!” and bounded away carrying the huge gun with him.

Will Yagüe, the Argentine boy who was the first secretary general of the UN of the Supernova Era, was waiting for them at the entrance to the building. Half a year earlier, Huahua had watched the televised handover between him and the last secretary general of the Common Era, but the boy in front of him retained nothing of his former dignity. Now he was covered in dust, and he had taken off his tie to stanch the blood on his head. He looked thoroughly beaten down. When Mitchell asked about the situation, he answered irritably, “Another bomb hit the tower just five minutes ago. Look—right there!” He pointed at the smoking crater in the center of the building. “I had just come outside, and a storm of shattered glass rained down…. I repeat my demand that you provide adequate protection for the United Nations headquarters!”

Mitchell said, “We’ve done all we can.”

“All you can?” Yagüe snarled, jabbing a finger at the crumbling building. “I asked you long ago to clear out heavy weapons from the vicinity.”

Dowell said, “Please let me explain. That one,” he pointed at the building’s missing corner, “is at least a one-oh-five-millimeter, and has a range of roughly twenty kilometers.”

“Then clear out all heavy weapons in a twenty-kilometer radius!”

Mitchell shrugged. “That’s not realistic. Carrying out a search and then imposing military controls over such a large area will be tricky. It’ll give those Republican bastards an opening. Sir, we’re a democratic country.”

“A democratic country? I feel like I’m in some twisted pirates’ den!”

“Your country isn’t much better off, sir. A soccer game has broken out in Buenos Aires with more than a hundred thousand players on a playing field that covers the entire city, with two enormous goals bigger than the Arc de Triomphe set up at either end. A hundred thousand players with a single ball, surging after it wherever it goes. Thousands of people have been trampled to death in the fortnight the supergame has been in progress, and there’s no sign of it stopping anytime soon. Your capital has been thrashed to pieces. Play is in children’s nature. Sometimes it’s even more important than eating or sleeping. You think you can stop them?” Mitchell pointed at the building, “True, this place isn’t really suitable for a UN meeting. I also know that the General Assembly building had its roof caved in by a bomb. And that’s why we’ve proposed to hold the session in Washington, D.C.”

“Bullshit! This time it’s D.C., next time it’ll be on an aircraft carrier! This is the United Nations, not the US Congress, and we’ll hold it on UN territory.”

“But all the heads of state are in Washington already. That’s the only place in the country where the games are banned, so it’s the only place where security can be guaranteed.”

“Bring them back! They have to take that risk, for the good of the children’s world!”

“They and their countries won’t agree to holding it here. Besides, even if they did return, where are your staff? How many kids are you down to in that building?”

“Those cowards! They’ve all run off. None of them is worthy of working for the UN.”

“Who’d want to stay in this hellhole? We’re here for two reasons. First, to give the Chinese children a look, so they can understand why we’re not holding the session here. It’s their choice whether or not they go to Washington. Second, to invite you to come with us. We’ve arranged a dedicated workspace for the UN on Capitol Hill, and have outfitted a brand-new team for you—”

“Shut up!” Yagüe shouted. “I’ve always known you want to replace the UN!” Then, to Huahua, he pointed out places in the distance. “See, those buildings are all untouched. Only the UN has been hit so many times. I wonder who the hell fired all those rockets?”

Mitchell raised a finger and said, “Mr. Yagüe, you are maliciously slandering the United States government. If you did not have diplomatic immunity, we would sue you on the spot.”

Yagüe ignored him and tugged at Huahua. “As a permanent member state, you have a responsibility to the UN. Let’s stay here together!”

Huahua thought for a moment, and then said, “Mr. Secretary General, the purpose of our visit is to make contact with the other world leaders, to hear their views on the new world and to exchange opinions. If all the heads of state are in Washington, then we have to go there too. We can’t do anything by staying here.”

Yagüe waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. You all go then. It’s clear to me now that the children’s era is the most abominable in all of human history!”

Huahua said, “Mr. Secretary General, the world has indeed changed. You can’t solve any problems by applying the mentality of the adults’ era. We need to adjust to this new world.”

Smiling, Mitchell said to him, “You don’t appreciate the secretary general’s ambition. He once had the notion that the children’s world would eliminate all national governments and be unified under the direct leadership of the UN, in which case the secretary general would naturally become the head of Earth—”

“Shut up!” Yagüe said, thrusting a finger at Mitchell. “Wanton slander!” But Huahua recalled that he had indeed voiced such an idea not long after the start of the Supernova Era.

“You go adjust to the new world,” Yagüe said. “I’ll remain here and see the United Nations through to the end.” Then, cradling his head, he turned and walked back into the dark, smoking building.

The motorcade moved on to the outskirts of the city where helicopters were waiting for them, and they took off toward Washington with New York’s sea of lights blazing below them in the night.

Huahua asked Du Bin, “Are you aware of our domestic situation?,” and seeing Du Bin nod, he asked, “Do you see any similarities between their Candytown period and ours?”

Du Bin shook his head. “I only see how they’re different.”

“Look down there. New York remains brilliant even through the storm of bullets. Look at the roads, and all those cars and buses driving along like normal.”

“True, that’s a point of similarity. Even in these conditions, the systems of their society are still functioning normally.”

Huahua nodded. “It’s a phenomenon unique to the children’s world, unimaginable in the adults’ time. Back then, if social conditions deteriorated half as much, the country would have collapsed.”

“But I wonder how long things will remain normal. The American military apparatus is in a precarious state. American children have in their hands the greatest weapons systems in the world, and it burns them up that they can’t play with them. On the other hand, the biggest political transformation in America since the start of the Supernova Era is the ascent of the military to the political stage, and its expanding control over the country. To placate the military, the US government has staged exercise over pointless exercise. But drills will never satisfy the American child.”

“The key question now is how are the American children going to play?”

“They probably won’t just play among themselves. It’s different with light weapons, but when they bring out the big guns there’s no way to do it alone…. I’m not sure I should go on.”

Night now completely covered the North American continent. The only illumination was from the navigation lights on the other aircraft. They seemed to be hanging stationary in the night sky.

“The situation is grim…” Huahua murmured, clearly aware of what Du Bin was thinking.

“Exactly. We should prepare for the worst,” replied Du Bin in a shaky voice.

^{WORLD GAMES}

The world leaders continued their meeting in the East Room. The American president started into his opening remarks.

“Boys and girls in charge of the countries of the world, welcome to America!

“First of all, I’d like to express my apologies for having had to receive you in Washington, D.C., I would have preferred to hold this banquet on the top floor of the New World Trade Center in New York. I dislike Washington. This city in no way represents the United States. On a new continent covered in skyscrapers, the city we’re in seems like a retreat to medieval Europe. This White House—I mean, it’s just a country manor. I wouldn’t blame any of you for wondering whether there are stables out back.” Laughter from the crowd. “The adults located the beating heart of America here for continuity with the past, not just to L’Enfant’s past, but even farther back, for continuity to your homelands,” and he gestured to the cluster of European leaders.

“This neatly describes the awkward situation in which we now find ourselves. We’re a world of children, but we’re still living the lives of adults. Think back to the final days of the Common Era, to our vision of what the coming new world would bring. That vision to an extent mitigated our sorrow at the adults’ misfortune, because we were convinced that at the cost of their leaving we had obtained a wonderful new world. But to look at it now, the world remains as dull and boring as ever. Is this the new world we wanted? No, absolutely not! We are seeing disappointment at the new world envelop the globe. This cannot be allowed to continue.”

After a round of applause, Davey went on, “We are gathered here today to establish a new order for the children’s world. What is the foundation of the new order, you might ask? Not the ideology of the Yalta System, nor the economic development of the post–Cold War period. There can be only one foundation: games! Games are to our era what religion was to the Middle Ages, what exploration was to the Age of Discovery, what ideology was to the Cold War, and economics to the late Common Era. These things served as a basis for existence, a starting point and a destination for the world. Now, in this new world, the dreams of our time ought to become reality!

“Luckily the world’s children have more or less realized this and have already begun to play. The purpose of this meeting is to begin games on a global scale, and to turn our entire world into a world of fun!

“Naturally there are an infinite number of possible ways to play, but the games we’re going to start here must satisfy two conditions: They must be played between countries, and they must be thrilling. And there’s only one kind of game that can satisfy both conditions: a war game!”

Davey held his hands out palms down to calm the applause, and remained in that pose for quite some time, as if the whole world were cheering him on. But in fact there was no applause, just a spell of silence as the world leaders stared blankly at him.

“The war games that American children are playing right now?” asked one kid.

“The very same. But we’re going to do it on a national scale to let the whole world play.”

“I object!” Huahua shouted, and then leapt up to the dais and said to the children below, “This game is just a disguised world war.”

The children flipped their translators to Chinese, and when they finished listening to his words, Russian president Ilyukhin jumped up on the dais and said, “Well said! It’ll turn the children’s world into hell!”

The other children echoed these sentiments:

“Right. We don’t want a world war.”

“We’re not going to fight! We won’t play this game!”

“That’s right. Let the American kids play by themselves.”

Davey remained composed and smiling, as if he expected this development. Standing between Huahua and Ilyukhin, he clapped his arms good-naturedly about their shoulders, and then leaned toward Huahua and said, “Don’t get carried away. It’s just a big game. We’ll adopt the format of the Olympics. It’ll be the first Olympic Games of the Supernova Era. The war games will be played entirely according to the rules of sports competitions. Every country will compete fairly at a prearranged location, with heats and finals, and gold, silver, and bronze medals. In what way is that a war?” Then he turned to Ilyukhin. “How’s a world of fun going to go to hell?”

“A bloodbath Olympics?” Huahua retorted furiously.

“It’s just play. Everything has its price; where would the thrill come from otherwise? Besides, countries will participate voluntarily. If you don’t want to play, then forget it.”

“You’re the only country that wants to play,” Ilyukhin snorted.

Davey waved a finger back and forth in front of his face. “No, my dear friend, once things have been made clear, I guarantee you that all countries, including yours, will voluntarily take part in these irresistible Olympic Games.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?… Now, let’s discuss which country will host the next Olympics. That ought to be a major agenda item for this meeting. If I’m not mistaken, the next city scheduled to host in the adults’ era was Manchester.”

“Absolutely not!” shouted Green, as if he’d been burned. “Do you really believe England will permit the world’s armed forces to enter its territory and turn it into a battlefield?”

Davey smiled faintly at the prime minister. “So is the British Empire simply abandoning the honor it fought so hard to win in the Common Era?” Then he turned to the Turkish president. “How lucky you are. If I recall correctly, Istanbul received the second-highest number of votes after Manchester.”

“No. We won’t do it!”

Davey looked about him, and then clapped Ilyukhin on the shoulder and pointed down at the prime minister of Canada. “Russia and Canada have the largest uninhabited areas. They’re fully capable of holding the Olympics there.”

“Shut up!” the Canadian prime minister yelled.

“Since you all proposed the war games, the Olympics really ought to be held in America,” Ilyukhin said, to a round of applause.

Davey burst out laughing. “I expected it would come to this. No one wants to hold the greatest Olympics of all time in their own country. But in fact this problem has a simple solution. You’re all forgetting that there’s a place on Earth that doesn’t belong to any country, and is entirely uninhabited. It’s as distant and as empty as the moon.”

“You mean Antarctica?”

“That’s right. And don’t forget, it’s not too cold anymore.”

Huahua said, “That’s a gross violation of the Antarctic Treaty!”

Davey smiled and shook his head. “The Antarctic Treaty? That’s an adult treaty. It doesn’t affect our play. Antarctica was an icebox that would freeze you to death in the Common Era, and that’s the condition underlying the treaty. If it had the climate it has now, hah! The continent would have been carved up long ago.”

The heads of state were silent, their minds racing as they realized the true nature of the question before them. Antarctica had turned into a habitable new continent since the supernova, and that fact had not escaped the world’s attention. For the many countries that had lost sizable portions of land to rising waters, that continent was their last hope.

Davey gazed meaningfully at the young leaders below him. “Once again, I note that participation in the World Games is completely voluntary. Perhaps, as President Ilyukhin said, no one will be willing to attend apart from us. Very well, we’ll go. The American children will go to Antarctica. Now let’s see which country doesn’t want to play!”

No one said anything.

“I told you,” Davey said smugly to Ilyukhin. “Everyone wants to play!”