The Last President

^{ABOUT THE SAME TIME. PULLMAN, WASHINGTON. 1:45 PM PACIFIC TIME. SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 2026.}

The uproar far behind him, toward town, probably meant the little boys in their soldier costumes had found the place on the city wall where Darcage had flipped one of their emergency stairs down. A couple of sentries who had been playing cards in the shade rather than watching from the wall would be bending over for Norman the Spanker, but that was a tiny benefit compared to the sheer pleasure of standing here, bent over, deep in the shade of a wrecked plaztatic little burb-house, sucking in cool sweet free air.

He could catch his breath more safely inside. The window opened at his upward yank. He balled the chain up in his hands and threw himself upward, catching himself on the sill with his elbows. From there, he wriggled his head and shoulders inside. Raising and curling his legs, he toppled head first onto the floor. He rolled over, stood, grasped the sash, and pulled the window closed. Now the only signs of his passage were dented spots in the dirt by the outside wall, and a clean patch on the windowsill where his shirt had rubbed.

He dropped to all fours and crawled to the kitchen, since it was closest, in search of tools.

Shouting close by.

He crawled as fast as he could in his chains, staying low, avoiding windows. Unfortunately the people who had lived here had had artificial fabric drapes and plastic miniblinds, which had all fallen in crusty, rotten heaps, so there was little cover and anyone could look through any window.

The initial burst of yelling had died down, but the searchers still sounded close. At least there was no barking; a trained dog would have been leaping and barking at the window by now.

The kitchen windows faced the back yard, which had a privacy fence, so by staying low, he was able to search through drawers and cabinets. He found only a can opener, which he pocketed in the hope of finding something to open, and a carving knife.

Motion caught his eye; a man rode by the back fence on horseback, but at the angle, Darcage doubted that he could see in through the glass, and anyway he’d been moving too fast for a good look. Nevertheless, he hastily peeked behind the closed doors, all the while watching and listening for any motion near the house, especially outside the kitchen window. He found an already-emptied pantry, a coat closet with zippers and buttons lying in congealed goo on the floor, and stairs to the basement.

Nerving himself, staying on all fours, he slipped through the door and pulled it closed behind him. If they just didn’t see the wiped sill and the footprints in the old flower bed… as he crept down into the basement, he kept his carving knife in hand, where it comforted him with a promise that if they found him, he had either his defense or his exit.

The basement stank of mold. Striations of water damage marked the walls, but the floor was dry. At the workbench, he found bolt cutters and a hacksaw; pausing to listen every few seconds, he freed himself, and then put the chains and tools under the stairs by the water heater, sweeping with the broom to get the shiny fresh metal swarf under the stairs as well.

As he finished sweeping, he heard distant hoofbeats approach, then recede, then approach again; silence, and then another pass. Apparently they were still riding around, oppressing the filthy destructive horses, human-tainted animals who would make a fine feast for some tribe someday, a cleaner and better use than in suppressing Mother Earth’s righteous wrath.

Still, the sentimental little boy he had once been was glad that he would probably not have to hurt a horse to get away; unlike people they were at least pretty, and in a couple generations the survivors could be wild again.

There was nothing to do but stay where he was; the windows were down in wells so unless someone came right up to one, they wouldn’t see him. If he could find a corner with no line of sight to a window, he’d curl up there with his knife beside him, and rest while he gave the hunt time to spread out and move farther away.

Meanwhile, what else might be useful?

When he opened one closet door, he suppressed a gasp of pure joy; ranks of cans filled the shelves on one side, and there was room to sit in the closet itself, completely out of sight of all the windows.

A moment later he was laughing at his own hopes; the rest of the shelves were piled with the glass and metal parts of home wine- and beer- making equipment. All the cans held wine-making grapes. Still, it was food, and he was hungry. He stepped forward and his foot found a rolling bottle.

When he looked down he saw the corpse.

The floods and the mice had stripped the face off the skull. The shirt had been artificial-fiber and had decayed into slime over the rib cage and the emptied abdomen, but the denim jeans, and the pile of gray hair remained in surprisingly good shape. The leather belt had been gnawed through and lay in pieces.

At least a dozen empty bottles lay around the body. Probably he or she had sat here and drunk till it was all gone, and then died in any of the ways a really drunk passed-out person dies: choking, alcohol poisoning, diabetic coma, stroke.

Darcage pushed the mostly skeletal corpse up to lean face-first against the door; if anyone opened that, they were in for a surprise and would probably make some noise, giving him time to react. At the back of the closet, he sat on a metal stool, and opened one of the big cans of grapes, then held it aloft in a thankful toast. I’m not sorry for what happened to you at all, but I appreciate your being my guard, and I am glad that you found an exit via something you love.

^{ABOUT 2 WEEKS LATER. ON LAKE ERIE, NORTH OF LONG POINT, ONTARIO. 3:30 PM EASTERN TIME. SUNDAY, MARCH 29, 2026.}

“We’re here,” Rosie said. “That’s Pottohawk Point on the horizon, across the big ice sheet, just like the escaped slaves described.” He handed his field glasses to Scott Niskala, shivering beside him in the crows’-nest of Kelleys Dancer.

Niskala looked, adjusting the binoculars for his eighty-year-old eyes. The moon, a couple of days short of full, was low in the western sky, silhouetting the tribal camp around the old marina. He counted three of them patrolling, and two groups of soldiers around fires.

The partly smashed and sunken dock led down to a sheet of ice which reached a full mile toward them. On the ice, Niskala counted more than a hundred wooden structures, each about the area of a small house, and maybe a third the height. “Give me and the guys till dawn, but be ready to run as soon as we get back.”

Their canoes moved through the water without sound until they scraped on the pebbles of the beach. They dragged them between two big bushes to be easy to find and hard to see.

“Reminders,” Niskala whispered. “Kill two. Plant four. Come back.”

The three boys all nodded and slipped into the darkness; Niskala slipped quietly through the darkness towards the tribal encampment. Being out on a night raid-and-rec was as familiar as an old sweater. He had grown up in the Iron Range, where venison was a staple and a rifle was a tool for acquiring it; his father had pushed a military career so hard that Niskala had done most of a tour in LRPs before he’d really considered doing anything else, and even then, he’d gone straight into the Forest Service and spent his life in the woods, often carrying a weapon. Wonder if I’m the only Vietnam vet currently serving in the US Armed Forces?

Wonder if the Wapak Scouts Company of the Stone Laboratory Militia Battalion counts as US Armed Forces?

Wonder if it’s still the US?

Shut up, old man.

That last thought was by far the most comforting.

His first kill was easy; the man was bent over a frying pan on the little fire, poking at his dinner with a stick. Niskala slid in beside him and hatcheted the back of his head so hard that the blade went in up to the shaft. Letting the body lie facedown across the fire, he planted a foot on the neck and wrenched the hatchet back out.

The second was almost trouble; he glimpsed motion on the far side of a tent, crept around slowly, and looked into the wide, white eyes of a man squatting to crap on the ground. His hatchet lashed out in a hard backhand, knocking the man over sideways, but embedding itself in his jaw.

The tribal screamed through his shattered mouth, a bubbling inarticulate sound, and Niskala stepped over the thrashing body, pulled a garrote from his pocket, and wrapped the man’s neck, but not before his target moaned again. “That’s right,” Niskala said, loud enough to carry. “Take it all the way, bitch, take it all the way.”

He heard laughter from the surrounding tents. Weird thing about tribals, they’re communal but there’s no community spirit. I guess people that are all planning to die anyway don’t get so attached. He tightened the garrote more, hampered a little by the hatchet handle still sticking sideways out of the man’s jaw. A moment later his victim went limp. The damp night air reeked of warm shit and blood.

Niskala pulled out the hatchet and set about planting his four “little bottles of surprise,” as Fred Rhodes, back at Stone Laboratory, had called them. Each was a bottle of wood alcohol; to set them, Niskala inserted a test tube into the neck, filled the test tube with acid from the flask he carried, dropped in a gelatin capsule of whatever it was that Fred had brewed up, inserted the narrow part of an oversized cork into the test tube, and pushed the tube and cork down into the bottle till the outer edge of the cork seated.

When the acid ate through the gelatin, an hour or two from now, there would be a small hot explosion to set the alcohol on fire and scatter it around. For the last half hour before detonation, the thinning gelatin capsule would be less and less stable, so that a light touch might set it off; if they found it right away, the Daybreakers might disarm it, but after half an hour it would be on a hair trigger until it blew spontaneously.

Keeping to shadows, Niskala crept down to the old pre-Daybreak buildings, figuring they would have been reserved for something important. They were up a couple of feet on pilings, so he rolled a bottle in under the first one; he realized there were people sleeping under the second, so he crawled in and wedged the bottle into the brace of a floor joist, less than a yard from a particularly dense huddle; when the blazing liquid hit their blankets, with them trapped in this low space, that ought to be good for plenty of chaos and panic, which was what the mission was all about. Like I tell the boys, try to exceed specs on the core mission.

Following the marked path to the nearest raft on the ice, he found it was sitting up on concrete blocks. Sort of clever. Bottom and sides don’t get frozen in. Then when it thaws, it just settles into the water, and the blocks sink away.

A snore alerted him; peering over the gunwale cautiously, he saw that several of them were bunched together in an open-fronted cabin, piled onto each other like stacked cordwood. Probably the crew-to-be. He felt along the gunwale and found several oarlocks. All right, and they’re planning on rowing. Enough intel, let’s go to ops.

Rather than chance climbing in, after preparing his bottle, he reached over the gunwale and wedged it into the external corner of the aft cabin. That’ll make another wakeup call.

That left one bottle and plenty of time to go. He thought about it for a moment, and decided to leave it in the sailboat with the tallest mast, moored in the pool of kept-open water by the pier. Quietly, he crept out on the pier; by the moon, he still had more than an hour.

Something was subtly wrong. A dark smear on the deck led his eye to a hand stretched outside a doorway.

His shoulder was gently squeezed with the Morse for 73—“friend.” He turned.

It was Kyle, who pointed at the boat and drew a finger across his throat. Niskala held up the bottle; Kyle gestured that there was already one aboard the boat.

Lying prone and leaning out, with Kyle holding his feet, he planted it on the crossbeam closest to shore under the pier; if the pier itself burned, it might take several boats with it.

Still not having spoken, they crept in the shadows of the trees by the shore back to the canoes, where Derek and Marty were already waiting. As they pushed off and glided away, Niskala thought, I really ought to do something about getting these boys their Eagles. This is one hell of a service project and I think we can waive a merit badge or two.

The moment they had swung their canoes aboard Kelleys Dancer and tied them down, Rosie whispered, “Ready? Everyone back aboard?”

“Yep,” Niskala said. “Went real well.”

“Need two of you on the lines and two working the anchor winch.”

In less than a minute, they were moving, with Rosie going aft to take the tiller from Barbara. The wind was light but steady. In an hour the rising sun would raise a land breeze against them. “We might have to make you all row, so stay dressed,” Barbara warned. “Meanwhile I’ve got some hot broth and not-too-awful biscuits.”

The biscuits were delicious and abundant. As they finished wolfing them down, Barbara leaned in to say, “Rosie says something you should see on deck.”

The bruise-red sun rose from the lake in front of them, turning the snow-covered ice a dozen shades of crimson, pink, and orange. The dim peninsular shore to their south, shrouded in dense mist, bent around west behind them, and Niskala watched that way, waiting for sounds or light.

After a little while, the low clouds were lit with orange flickers, and sounds of screaming and shouting came to them through the fog. Abruptly, flames reached above that black horizon.

“The ground at Pottohawk would’ve been just out of sight from the crows’-nest about now,” Rosie observed. “So the flames are about that high, which is forty-nine feet. One of you sure hit the jackpot.”

“Any chance any of them saw our sail?” Niskala asked.

“Maybe. But even if they try to run all the way to the tip of Long Point to cut us off, we’ll get there before they do.”

“What’s burning that high?” Niskala asked. “I bombed a raft, the old pier, and a couple of the main buildings. Nothing I’d’ve thought would go up like that.”

Derek laughed. “That was probably me. They had this massive wood-fired still, and a big pyramid, of barrels of booze. I shoved one bomb way deep into the middle of that pyramid. So if that booze was distilled enough to burn, the whole thing probably went off in one big whoosh.”

A big, blazing orange ball of flames climbed out of the tribal camp, and the screaming became wailing.

Marty and Kyle laughed with obvious admiration, and clapped Derek on the back, telling him he had the bragging rights for the op.

Not exactly the kind of scouts I used to produce, Niskala thought. He wished he were already back with Ruth.

^{THE NEXT DAY. GIBRALTAR. 11:45 AM CENTRAL EUROPEAN TIME. MONDAY, MARCH 30, 2026.}

“First time I saw the Rock,” Ihor said, “I was fourteen, and my papers said I was eighteen, and they were working me so hard I felt like I was a hundred. But it was beautiful, and just like all the pictures.”

“It’s a big white rock,” Whorf said. It sounded stupid to him even as he said it.

As usual when coming into a port, they were standing by with nothing to do, waiting to be madly busy. On their way across the Atlantic, all the scholar-sailors had had plenty of time for study, and everyone else had been happy to help them fill it. Whorf had drawn images from the microscope for Lisa Reyes till his hand was sore, and then until it was strong, and finally till it was indefatigable. Ihor’s knack for languages had made him the pet of their three language-and-linguistics specialists, so he had spent his time cramming Portuguese, Arabic, Catalan, and Italian.

“This is nice, just waiting to pull on a rope,” Whorf said. “My brain’s about ready for a rest.”

“Yours and mine both,” Ihor said. “That is how you say it?”

“That is. You sound Old New York already.”

“Someday when we are old, nobody will believe we remember Old New York, before it was Manbrookstat, and the kids—”

Then Halleck’s bellowed orders set them scrambling, as Discovery worked her way into the harbor under sail alone, the immense white rock larger whenever Whorf had time to look.

^{THE NEXT DAY. CASTLE SUNSNAKE, HOME OF THE PEOPLE OF GAIA’S DAWN, IN THE FORMER HELLS CANYON NATIONAL RECREATIONAL PARK. 8:30 PM LOCAL SOLAR TIME. TUESDAY, MARCH 31, 2026.}

Darcage had watched the entire Play of Daybreak with tears of joy pouring over his face just to be home.

He knew he was believing, totally and utterly, something he had not always believed. Of course, once he had been someone else and had a different name. His memories overlapped peculiarly.

One of the most hateful of all the hateful things in his involuntary stay in alleged civilization had been the cruelty and relish with which they had repeatedly forced Darcage to confront those inconsistencies. They had dug into his mind like painful little burrs: how could he remember both his initiation as a man into his tribe, at age fourteen, and first hearing of Daybreak when a girl he was hot for took him to a warehouse dance-and-chant in south Queens? Why could he be tricked into crossing himself if he had been raised as the son of a Teaching Shaman of the Guardian on the Moon? Why did he insist on pronouncing his name dar-SAHJ like some phony Frenchman when his memories did not include France, and why, when they asked him the question in French, had he started to answer it?

Every little burr of conflict had been the seed of a tooth-rattling seizure, from which he had emerged to worse questions, uglier threats, more abuse of himself and his tribe and Mother Gaia, between mocking, laughing visits from the Horrid Bitch.

Now, he simply wallowed in the way that he could just accept all the pieces of the contradiction, knowing that he had always been destined for a special shamanhood, conducting diplomacy between the tribes by leading them all to the correct and real Daybreak, and knowing that he had lived off the grid but on the net in a Daybreaker nest filled with computers and fabricators until Daybreak day in 2024, when they had picked up the buckets of biote culture and nanospawn from the benches, climbed to the roof to throw them into the early morning breeze, broken the doors off, and left forever.

His mind held his first Sun Dance and his first Sundance Festival comfortably next to each other, and that was one of the finest comforts of home. Now he relaxed and accepted all those dreams of memories and memories of dreams, drifting graceful and untouched between the horns of the dilemma and into its friendly, gentle, toothless mouth.

The Play of Daybreak was the tribe’s weekly enactment of the story he had always known, loved, and lived. Mother Gaia’s seven daughters lovingly seduced the servants of the Seven Misters, and brought forth the nanospawn and biotes to end the plaztatic world; if somehow it seemed to overlie or exist at the same time as Star Wars and First Communion, that was not anything to worry about right now. Eventually, the world would be consistent.

Daybreak loved him.

Every terrifying moment of his captivity, escape, and flight was now worth it just to be back here in the sanity.

His heart leapt up at the final dance by the whole cast, as the Servant of Mister Atom proclaimed that he was going to live on the moon and hurl his thunderbolts against anyone who tried to resurrect deadly Mister Electron again, and for a moment, he did not realize that the Servant of Mister Atom had just asked, “Would Darcage, of the New Green World People, please come forward?”

Darcage stood and walked slowly down the aisle; the people around him rose and cheered, welcoming him, loving him, making him feel he belonged there. He approached the Servant of Mister Atom slowly and tentatively, much like the first time a very young child knows who Santa is. “Kneel, Darcage, for I have a blessing for you.”

Applause thundered through the crowd, for everyone knew the story of the horrors Darcage had witnessed in the last holdouts of the plaztatic world. The People of Gaia’s Dawn themselves had lost a shaman and a war leader to the Provis’s brutal regime within the last two months. “Will Crystal Vision please come forward to assist Darcage?”

He felt her strong, cool hands on his shoulders, but did not look back at the chief shamaness.

“I speak now as the representative of the Guardian on the Moon.” The actor’s voice took on the slow, precisely articulated quality that marked a direct message from Daybreak itself. “Blessed are you, Darcage, for a mighty work is prepared for you as soon as you are strong and well. One task remains in your life before you go to dwell with the Guardian on the Moon, and for this task, you will be known forever to all the tribes who keep true faith with Mother Earth. Crystal Priestess, you may whisper his mission to him now.”

He felt the soft touch of her lips by his ear, and realized she had taken a moment to kiss his neck first. She whispered, “You have been chosen to slay the last President of the United States of America, and free the world from the shadow of plaztatic empire. Come to my sleeping place for the details tonight. And then”—her tongue ran slowly over his earlobe—“stay there, in the bed, for I want to bear the child of the Great Slayer.”

The surge of joy in his heart was accompanied by a more primal surge in another organ.

She led him to the front of the stage where he took several bows while the crowd roared at him in a glorious, joyous thunder of approval. They guided him to a seat of honor with the chiefs and shamans, and the play resumed.

The Servant of Mister Atom declared that his exposure to evil plaztatic radiation had made him unfit to father children, and therefore he would take no spouse. He proclaimed that he would fly to the moon, there to listen for the whisperings of Mister Electron trying to rise from the grave, and hurling the fire he had taken from Mister Atom and the lightning of Mister Electron himself against them whenever he heard the least trace, being ever vigilant and ready to strike.

The burial of Mister Smart, everyone was assured, would be forever permanent.

After a last choral hymn to Mother Earth, Crystal Priestess came forward to lead him to her home, but they had to stop first and delay a while, because the whole tribe wanted to hug Darcage. At last, however, he was free to go home with her, where he accepted both the spiritual and physical gifts of the priestess with immense enthusiasm.

^{2 DAYS LATER. CASTLE EARTHSTONE. 3:30 PM LOCAL SOLAR TIME. THURSDAY, APRIL 2, 2026.}

Robert watched the man’s eyes widen at the sight of the heads on sticks. First, they sent the Cop; then Gandalf; then Enchantress Woo Woo. They must be running low on quality people to sacrifice, because what they’ve sent me here is Scared Little Man.

“Well,” Robert said. “You have a message to deliver. Maybe you should.”

The little gray man, in his oversized T-shirt, blanket poncho, and pigskin moccasins said, “Daybreak has commanded me to ask a favor.”

“Whether I do anything for Daybreak, or not, and whether I accept your message, or not,” Robert said, “stay with us. We will help you through withdrawal from that wrong and untrue version of Daybreak that your tribe uses to control you. And we’ll give you the True Daybreak, and make you a better and happier man here than you ever were there.”

“I was chosen because I am of little value,” the man said, tears running down his face, “and I want—I want—” He fainted.

“Now what, boss?” Bernstein asked.

“He’s having one of those seizures, obviously.”

Bernstein was already kneeling by the little man, turning him so he wouldn’t choke and firmly pushing his flailing limbs down. “I know that, boss, I’ve seen as many as you have. I mean, why’d you do it?”

“Just a wild hair up my ass, maybe. I have an idea, maybe a good one. We’ll see when he comes out. Talk nice to him when he does, gentle him, you know how we did with the slaves.”

When the man’s eyes opened and Bernstein had made some soothing sounds and given him a drink of water, Robert said, “You are welcome to stay; it may be rough for a few days. But I won’t throw you away the way Daybreak did you. All my people here matter to me. We don’t keep slaves. Everyone can get married, and I don’t make them kill their babies. Everybody has a name and we’re not looking for a way to use you all up and kill you. You’re going to like it here. For now, though, I guess we should hear your message.”

The little man, seen close up and helpless on the floor, looked even smaller and less prepossessing; the sort of fellow that, back before, had worked a counter, pushed a mop, or guarded a building that didn’t need guarding, and been nearly invisible. He gasped and more tears gushed; his mouth worked but no sound came out.

Robert knelt on one knee and said, “If your message pisses us off, we know it ain’t your message, so you got the same deal whether we love it or hate it. Now stay with us, let us take you out of the false Daybreak and make you one of us, and we will never say that you are ‘of little value.’ But for right now, just tell us the message. We know it ain’t from you, but it’ll be better if we hear it while you ain’t in the Daybreak trance, so’s you can tell us the truth about it.” He made himself smile; the little man was crying hard now.

Studying him, Robert could see that he was probably younger than the sixty or so he looked; the deep wrinkles and chapping from two winters outdoors, plus the gray skin from eating badly and rarely washing, had made him old, tired, and sick. I don’t think I have ever felt a drop of pity for anyone in my whole life, but if I did, this is the one I’d start on, Robert thought, and forced himself to speak gently. “Now, just tell your message. It’s your job. Don’t be afraid. And as soon as we hear it, we’ll see about what we can do for you. You are more important to me than the ones who sent you.”

The little man sat up, drew a deep breath, and looked down at his feet. “The words they made, made, made me memorize were ‘The evil Armies of the Old Plaztatic Order have joined together, forces from the pretender empires at Athens and Olympia, from the treacherous genocidal Duchy of California, and from the very heart of Black and Vile Plaztatic Technology at Pueblo. They have attacked the tribes preparing to carry Daybreak into Kentucky, and by cruel brutality, evil tricks, and sheer—’”

Robert said, “Okay, so the prelude, without all the spinny bullshit is that General Grayson and the army, which Daybreak would have been expecting if it had known crap or understood anything, came over the river in the middle of the night, and because they’re a disciplined force with guns and horse cavalry and a few airplanes, they surrounded the big mob of tribals that was supposed to wreck Kentucky, and wrecked them first, then moved down the Ohio like a lawnmower for people, ripping the guts out of Daybreak’s spring offensive before it could launch. The tribes have been running north like deer out of a forest fire, Daybreak has lost the north bank of the Ohio, and right now they look like they’ll run all the way to Indianapolis, maybe further. What’s Daybreak want me to do about that?”

He gasped, choked, and forced out, “Daybreak Council told me to say if you let them be swept away and destroyed over the summer, next summer you will have to fight the Restored Republic all by yourself.”

“They have a point,” Robert said. “Were you gonna bring back a message?”

“I was told to bring one back if you gave me one and if you let me go.”

“We ain’t sending you back after what they’ve done to you. Unless you want to go back.”

“No, no, no—” The little man fell sideways, kicking and struggling.

“Bernstein, keep an eye on him. Nathanson, find me the rudest guy with balls you’ve got that you’d like to get rid of.”

“I got twenty of those at least. Ever since you freed the slaves. What d’you need a guy to do, chief?”

“Give me someone to go insult the Daybreak leaders to their ugly faces. If they kill him I can be all aggrieved and give them shit and demand more from them, and if they take shit from him, it means they’re weak and I’ll have a list of more shit for him to demand. Either way we get as much as we can and they get shit.”

“I have the perfect man in mind.” Nathanson grinned.

“Is it Calhoun?”

“Yeah. I warn you, though, Lord Robert, he’ll be twice as impossible if he comes back alive.”

Robert shrugged. “If we can’t fix the impossible, we can always fix the alive.”

Nathanson nodded and was gone. Robert turned back to where Bernstein was attending to the little man spasming on the ground.

“He’s really fighting it now, chief. We can send in a couple people to carry him to bed and have the usual people do the deprogramming.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Make that happen.”

As they left the inner courtyard, Bernstein added, “Well, this is your day for not doing things I expect, Lord Robert. You want to share what’s on your mind?”

Robert nodded. “Remember right after Lord Karl died, when you threw in with me and helped make me the Lord?”

“Of course.”

“Well, so do I. Little Mister Scared will be loyal to whoever stops him being afraid. Calhoun will be loyal to the man who gives him a chance to get killed doing something impossible. Loyal people generally work out for me, one way or another.” He patted Bernstein’s shoulder. “Beer time yet?”

“With you, Lord Robert, always.”

^{12 DAYS LATER. LUNA PIER, NEW STATE OF SUPERIOR (FORMERLY MICHIGAN). 5:30 AM EASTERN TIME. TUESDAY, APRIL 14, 2026.}

The moon was a thin crescent like a bow bent toward the not-yet-risen sun. It back-lit more than a hundred low rafts coming in to the sand beaches south of the pier. Lookouts lit the fires and rang the bells.

Outnumbered twenty to one, the town militia still mustered behind the crude breastwork, just a row of sawhorses with corrugated iron sheets nailed to them, arranged in a line on each side of their single rocket launcher.

The old people, children, and others unable to fight picked up what they could carry in backpacks and wheelbarrows and set off north toward Allen Cove; there was little question the Daybreakers could chase them down if they wanted to, but perhaps they would choose to do something else. As the rafts neared, they could hear the singing and the drums, then the splashes of the oars, and finally the grunting of the rowers.

“Canoe with a truce flag!” one of the lookouts shouted, and a moment later, another cried, “They’re shipping oars.”

Still out of rocket range, the tribal armada paused in the water; a lone canoe, with a single passenger holding up a white flag, moved swiftly toward the beach.

On the sand still spattered with ice and snow, the mayor of Luna Pier confronted the Daybreaker representative. The mayor looked like what she was, a civic-minded grandmother, dressed in baggy pants and multiple sweaters, her helmet under her arm. The tribal representative wore a buffalo-horn hat that must have been stolen from some fraternal lodge; it was festooned with feathers, bits of metal, jewelry, and—the mayor saw to her disgust—a dried human hand. Below that he wore an old minister’s or professor’s gown, the three stripes of the doctorate still attached. He crossed his arms inside the big sleeves, mandarin-style, and bowed low.

“I shall begin by asking you to concede one obvious fact: if we storm your town and take it by force, we will get everything that doesn’t burn, we can kill all of you, and you not only won’t be able to stop us, you won’t even be able to hurt us much,” the Daybreaker said. “Therefore, by contrast, my offer is going to be generous.”

“I came here to hear it,” she pointed out, holding her voice level though she felt her bowels wanting to slither out of her and down into the ground.

Buffalo Hat turned and pointedly stared out into the lake, at the long column of rafts crowded with Daybreaker spearmen, stretching clear to the horizon along the red road the just-rising sun made on the smooth water. “Normally,” he said, “of course we would burn your plaztatic little town and end your brutal seizure of resources from Mother Gaia. Normally we would remove the filthy curse of your presence from the face of the Earth, and take away your children to be raised in harmony with the Earth. Normally we would do all those things. But.” He drew another breath, let it escape, turned back, and smiled slightly. “We’re in a hurry. I will send five hundred of our people into your city to carry out all the food, clothes, and blankets they can carry. Your people will open any door they are told to. If one shot is fired, if one hand is raised against us, if anyone even mutters one word of protest, we will butcher all of you like pigs, burn every building, knock down every wall, and pile your corpses right here where you and I stand. But if you stand quietly by while we take everything we want, we will march on and leave you alive and unharmed, with whatever is left.

“That is our offer. Make your people take it if you can.”

“I will.” Some impulse made her stick out her hand to shake on the deal.

The man in the buffalo horned hat looked at her hand as if she were holding out a piece of spoiled meat. “This is not an agreement. We will do one thing if you cooperate and another if you resist. That is all. Go talk to your people.”