by John Barnes
The smell grew stronger, the bangs and thuds more frequent, and some of the drivers were angrier with him, and some more resigned. When the sun came up at eight, and the temperature started to rise rapidly, the remaining tires started to blow in great volleys, and the reek became strong enough so that many of the stranded motorists were throwing up on the roadside.
He had a moment of hope when the dispatcher called to tell him a Daybreak specialist was coming out, but then the rest of the explanation came: “He’s a microbiologist from Wright State. He’s walking out to you—it’s about six miles—and he’ll be taking samples of the rotting tires.”
“Is there anything he can do?”
“As far as we know, he’ll just take samples and start walking back. Might be a day or more before he even gets to his lab, and the power just went off up there, so he might not even be able to study the Daybreak bugs when he gets them there.”
“Great. Well, there aren’t too many cars that can move anymore, so I guess it doesn’t matter if you get me traffic-control backups, or not.”
“They’re all stranded with flat tires. Right now we’re trying to find some way of evacuating, but tell anyone who can walk home they should start, and not waste daylight. Nobody’s going to come into the city today from the north—all those routes are under quarantine. The microbiologist will look for you by your car, so be there in an hour or so.”
It was in perfect keeping with Trooper Davis’s day that when he returned to his cruiser, it rested on four soggy, stinking piles of black goo. Can’t cry in front of the civilians, he reminded himself, and leaned against the cruiser, drinking the coffee from his thermos while it was still hot. All he had left, emotionally, was a small shrug, and an unvoiced Well, shit.
Feeling better for the coffee, and unable to remain passive for long, he started his long walk up the highway, looking for anyone in trouble he might be able to help. He found plenty of people in trouble.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. ON US 64. JUST WEST OF UTE PARK. NEW MEXICO. JUST AFTER 5:00 A.M. MST. TUESDAY. OCTOBER 29.
Jason had been walking along 64 for about forty minutes, ever since the bus’s front tires both burst while the guy was trying to slow on a downgrade, and he’d slid sideways into a disabled semi in a runaway lane. That had scared the piss out of Jason, the three old Indian ladies, and the two servicemen on leave—all the passengers on the bus—but it had not been at all as bad as it seemed; the bus had not rolled, and the bump against the semi trailer had been at less than ten miles an hour, just a sort of steel-to-steel kiss really. So after all the fear, there they were, off the road, bus upright, able to take their stuff off, and the bus driver had had a working phone, so he’d called for someone to come and pick everyone up with a van from Taos, not far away.
Except he’d conspicuously not mentioned Jason, and the moment he’d gotten off the phone he’d said, “So you, get lost. You’re not riding with us.”
“What?” Jason couldn’t believe this. “I paid for my ticket like anyone else.”
“Yeah, but you got long hair and a beard and you look like a fuckin’ hippie, kid. And everything was fine all the way from Lubbock, till you got on my bus, and now my tires are gone and they smell like moldy cheese. That might be a coincidence and it might not. So I’m splitting the difference. They said to be alert for Daybreakers, and maybe you are and maybe you ain’t. You look like a hippie and you got on the bus at one weird time. But I’m not turning you in—unless you decide to act like a shithead—but I’m not giving you no ride, either. Argue and go talk to the sheriff, or start walkin’—don’t be around here when the van gets here.”
One of the servicemen, an Army sergeant, had tried to intervene on Jason’s behalf, but Jason could see that all this was going to do was strand two of them, or maybe three if his buddy backed him, so Jason said it didn’t matter, he wasn’t going to ride with people who treated him like shit, and walked off with his pack on his shoulder.
64 was usually pretty empty but tonight it was really-o truly-o empty, like a walk through a pine-scented void with brilliant stars. The crescent moon shed just enough light to silver the east-facing rock cliffs of the mountains and reveal the rest as dark lumpy shadows. It was cold and quiet, a perfect chance to think and reflect, if he’d had enough energy to form an actual thought. He kept putting one foot in front of the other; no sense freezing or giving up when it was mostly downhill anyway.
When he finally heard a truck behind him, Jason didn’t believe it at first, but as the headlights flashed around the bends up the mountain from him, he stuck out his thumb. A second miracle happened; the truck slowed and pulled over into a turnout. Jason ran to the passenger side.
The truck driver, a plump, balding man with aviator glasses, did not look friendly or welcoming.
“How’d you end up out here tonight?”
Jason answered without thinking, “The bus got two flats, and the driver threw me off for looking like a hippie.”
“Hunh. I saw the bus back there a ways. You’ve been walking a while.”
“Yeah.” Jason thought for a second. “I don’t know how to prove I’m not a Daybreaker except, you know, I’m carrying a laptop computer, and they’re supposed to be all anti-tech.”
“That’s a start. What were you traveling for?”
“Following a bunch of coustajam concerts.” It was lame but the only thing he could think of offhand. “I had this idea that I’d pick up enough advertising money by covering them on the net.”
“How’d it work out?”
“Complete flop. I’m living on money my dad sends, and I was planning to go home to Connecticut after the last three big concerts, work for him to pay off all the money he sent, and then go back to college and finish it.”
The man was smiling slightly. “So you’re actually just a classic spoiled rich kid and not a crazy hippie asshole who tried to destroy our country?”
“That’s about it.”
“Well, come on aboard. You and me are gonna wipe down all my tires with hospital disinfectant, which is what the truck is loaded with, and we’ll do that once an hour till you get to—where you going?”
“Tres Piedras. It’s not far.”
“Well, you can help me wipe here, and then just before I let you off, and keep me awake in between.”
Sloshing and scrubbing with the foul-smelling disinfectant, on the dark road, trying to keep up with the speed the driver was working, it occurred to Jason that he’d had worse times. When they climbed into the cab, there was even coffee from the autocafé and the pleasure of sun coming up behind them with the high mountains all around.
I’m really not a bad spy. Jason and the driver traded the little stories that strangers do to stay awake; his cover story gave him a chance to talk about his family. He was surprised that he worried about them and missed them, and hardly had to do any acting at all.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. DUBUQUE, IOWA. 6:44 A.M. CST. TUESDAY. OCTOBER 29.
On the first ring, Chris Manckiewicz rolled out of bed, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, saw it was Norcross’s campaign, and achieved enough coherence to accept the call. Press conference in ten minutes, meeting room downstairs, blah blah blah, could he be there?
Also, probably in less than an hour they’d be clearing for a flight to DC—total change of plans—if Chris could come to the press conference with his bags packed, would he like to do an exclusive in the air?
“I’m packed.” He never went to bed without having packed his whole grip and laid out clothes for the next day. “And I’ll be in the press room before your candidate is.”
He even had time to comb his hair, brush his teeth, and message 247NN to open a channel.
ABOUT HALF AN HOUR LATER. PALO ALTO. CALIFORNIA. 5:15 A.M. PST. TUESDAY. OCTOBER 29.
“Okay, the Internet connection cannot possibly be down here at SRI,” Cicolina said into the phone. “We created the Internet right here back in 1969. We had Internet when it had two terminals w
orldwide. And we built it to never go down, ever.”
“I know that, sir, I’m sorry, I’m just reporting—” There was a squawk and a hiss, and when Cicolina tried to call back, there was no dial tone.
He turned to face the room of engineers and scientists, many of them in sweatpants, raggy T-shirts, and other night clothing; it looked like none of them had combed their hair, ever, but then they always looked that way. Not a pretty sight, but it was probably the best collection of brains on the planet, and considering Weisbrod had only called him an hour and a half ago, this was pretty damned good. The things we do for our old teachers.
Cicolina said, “All right, this is going to be tougher than we thought. Let’s see what we can do; we always knew we might have to save the world.”
They applauded. He thought, Hey, as a motivational speaker, I guess I’m better than I thought I was. Then the lights went out.
By the time they made it up the staircase to ground level, by the emergency light, the mood was shot; everyone wanted to go home to family and friends.
He thought he’d lost them till they discovered all the flat tires in the parking lot, and that a good third of their cars wouldn’t start, with great wads of nasty white stuff under the hood. For some reason, that pissed them all off, and they started dividing into teams to work on the problem of how to do a “cold start” on advanced civilization.
As he looked at the swarm of men and women bent in little knots around whiteboards and notepads, hastily relocated to the sunny second floor on the south side of the building, Cicolina said, “Reminds me of what the old-timers, back when I was just starting project management, said the Manhattan Project had been like.”
“Yeah,” Roseann, his assistant, said. “Except, you know, they had electricity and phones for the Manhattan Project.”
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. WASHINGTON. DC. 8:25 A.M. EST. TUESDAY. OCTOBER 29.
Heather was so much bigger than Lenny that it had been easy for her to position an arm and a thigh to support his different, asymmetric body, and to sleep with his slight weight resting partly on her. When she woke to the soft chime of her phone, she moved Lenny to a more convenient position, careful not to bend anything that didn’t seem like it should bend. He mumbled, and she squeezed his shoulder affectionately.
She made sure the phone was definitely not on video, and whispered, “Yeah, Arnie?”
“Norcross is going on the air any second. Considering the impact he had last night, and the way the media have been running excerpts from that speech all night long, I thought you’d want to tune in.”
Lenny, beside her, was stretching and using his good hand to rub some of his back muscles. “I’m awake,” he said.
She said “Voice identify and open,” and an image of her computer desktop appeared on the room’s ceiling. “Find Norcross press conference today not yesterday soon not past,” she said.
“On forty-six channels.” Icons appeared on her ceiling.
“Select Spanfeed.”
“Hey, we’re both Spanfeed people. We’re even more compatible.” Lenny turned to put his head on her shoulder; she reached over him, her hands exploring his back, working muscles that were tight, and he sighed like Fuss did when she found the right places.
The image on the ceiling was almost life-size, as if they were looking through a glass wall into the meeting room at the Dubuque Radisson; Norcross appeared to emerge prone from a door about forty feet above Heather’s ceiling and walk down the wall to the podium. “At least he’s not walking in over the swimming pool.”
Heather snorted. “Laugh while you can. One more speech like the one last night, and Mr. Jesus is probably the President of the United States.”
Norcross announced his campaign would be aiming to win the presidency by the “shortest possible route,” because it was now his duty to win the election and put matters right, and so he had calculated a pathway of appearances that would take him through the set of states he judged himself most likely to win—all the traditionally solid Republican states plus Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Missouri, Maryland, and Colorado. He admitted how hard it might be, but he added, “We need a President. I am qualified and ready to be one. The other side is not offering that, and we have to have it.”
Simple as Norcross’s message was as a text, the subtext was even simpler: I am religious, not a nut; I would not have done anything so stupid, and stupidity must be punished; I realize that you don’t care for my policies, but I am your alternative, so I will be moderate domestically if you’ll let a grown-up take over national security.
“Phew. He’s the next president, all right,” Heather said, as the network logo popped up with a picture of the Dubuque Radisson and the caption Decision in Dubuque.
“Yeah. Can the Democrats even replace Pendano on the ticket?”
“The ballot slot technically belongs to the party, not the person, in all the states, ever since that Caroline Kennedy uproar. Theoretically, the DNC could just tell everyone ‘a vote for Pendano is really a vote for this other person.’ But who do they have who could possibly win?”
Lenny Plekhanov said, “President Norcross. We’ll have to get used to—”
Her phone beeped, and an ID appeared on the screen on the ceiling. “Confirm no video.”
“Confirmed.”
“Pick up phone.”
“On line.”
“Hey, Cameron,” she said.
“I’m glad you got a chance to sleep,” he said. “We’re having a meeting of everyone working on the Daybreak problem, with Secretary Ferein and several other bigwigs, at one o’clock this afternoon. The meeting before the meeting will be lunch at eleven, and here’s the address. Can you pass that on to Lenny Plekhanov? He’s invited to both meetings.”
“I’ll be there,” Lenny said.
Heather snorted. “You know, some people would object to your tracking our whereabouts? I mean just hypothetically and all. Thought I’d mention that.”
Cam said, “Sorry about the intrusion—”
“I was yanking your chain, Cam, I really shouldn’t do that.”
“You might as well, everyone else does.”
She grinned and rolled her eyes at Lenny; Cameron Nguyen-Peters had been known to everyone at the FBI Academy as “Eeyore.” “Unofficially, how is the real president this morning?” she asked.
“Sedated. Graham Weisbrod had to talk him into that, too. As for the Acting President, and by god that’s a good term, he’ll be at the one o’clock meeting—along with President-Damn-Near-Certain-To-Be-Elect Norcross.”
“Oh, you saw that speech too,” she said, smiling. “Okay, Cam, see you at eleven.”
“Well,” Lenny said, working through the complicated, awkward process to move from bed to wheelchair, “it sounds like you and Cameron have a history.”
Smiling, she came around and knelt beside him so he could use her as a stabilizing rail. With his fused hand braced on her shoulder, and his good hand on the armrest, he easily slipped back into the chair. She said, “Let me make a guess. Does your history happen to include being dumped a lot?”
“Can’t be dumped a lot if you aren’t picked up much,” he pointed out, sullenly.
“Yeah. True. Okay, well, if my love life was a bridge, it would have holes in the deck, towers leaning every which way, and no one in their right mind would venture onto it. Mixture of poor construction and too much traffic, you know? So . . . I was Cameron Nguyen-Peters’s one and only friend at the FBI Academy because, well, Christ, somebody had to be. A couple weeks before graduation, on the strength of its having been a while, my appreciation for his loyalty, and a few tons of plain old desperation, I went out with him. Once. He made the most gentlemanly and discreet pass I’ve ever seen in my life; the pass was an incomplete, because the receiver was by then not the least bit interested; he did not attempt a punt, end run, or field goal; and the game was called on account of he doesn’t have a damned clue about human beings, and I’ve known warmer snow
men.
“Ever since, whenever we’ve worked together, he has been cordial, friendly, and a good old friend, and he sometimes asks my opinion about things because for reasons not totally clear to me he values my judgment just as if I had any. Oh, and now and then, when he’s doing something really buttheaded, I tell him so.” Still kneeling, she was below Lenny’s eye level, and she leaned forward. “Now kiss me, dammit.”
He did, and seemed to relax. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to drive the point home. “Since that date, which I point out was around thirteen years ago, when he was merely a knee-jerk conservative, Cameron Nguyen-Peters has become a complete right-wing nut of the type that thinks this country is about the flag, God, and the Army, and so I wouldn’t be able to listen to him talk politics for three minutes without strangling him. He is a cold fish emotionally and admits, himself, that he needs massive coaching in order to express the feelings he probably doesn’t have. He is so irritating that every time he swims in the ocean, he causes pearls to grow in oysters a thousand miles away. He has several good qualities, such as being a pretty good sport about being teased, being an Angels fan, regular flossing, and the way he keeps his shoes shined. I’ve honestly dated worse, though not twice.”
Lenny was laughing by that time, and said, “Is it really so terribly obvious how insecure I am?”
“They’re detecting it with obsolete barometers in Maine, dude.”
He kissed her again. Well, at least he kisses like the question is settled.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. MARANA. ARIZONA. 6:45 A.M. MST. TUESDAY. OCTOBER 29.
Kai-Anne hadn’t slept very much that night; the back yard was warm enough with her sweatsuit and blankets, but she’d kept waking up to find Greg still gazing up at the sky. Then she’d rub his neck and shoulders, he’d say he loved her, she’d kiss his forehead like she was tucking Bryan in, and then he’d tell her to go back to sleep. She wasn’t sure how many times she did that before dawn; three or four maybe.
