Daybreak Zero d-2

by John Barnes

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

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

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

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

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

  “That’s me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Thanks.”

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

  “Yeah, right. Are those Feds okay?”

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

  Another arrow sailed over the wall.

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

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

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

  “You’re hot tonight,” Jimmy said.

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

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

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

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

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

  Come on out in the park,

  don’t wait for the dark,

  I’m hot, I’m hot,

  and it’s time to get shot,

  come on out in the park!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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