by John Barnes
Colonel Streen said, “I thought that would have been obvious after Daybreak started bombing us from the moon.”
Arnie balanced a hand. “The analysis certainly leaned that way before, but to my mind this new material about The Play of Daybreak clinches it. The tribes are talking with the moon, which is referencing their quasireligious rituals. I don’t want to reopen anything—three months ago, we almost had a civil war because the Provis thought Daybreak had been purely a system artifact, a great big self-generated meme on the Internet, and therefore it was useless to try to find and destroy Daybreak, because it had no single physical location, it was gone with the Internet; and the Tempers thought there must be a malicious, intentional command structure someplace, marshaling resources and planning to attack us, and therefore finding and destroying Daybreak had to be our top priority. Well, it turns out, folks, we’ve got the worst of both worlds: we have a malicious, intentional enemy that has no single physical location. It can and will think of new ways to destroy us, but as for either negotiating with it or fighting it—we might as well try to propose a treaty with, or declare war on, a fashion trend or a pop song.”
SEVEN:
UPON MY BELLY SAT THE SOW OF FEAR
2 DAYS LATER. PALE BLUFF, NEW STATE OF WABASH (PCG) OR ILLINOIS (TNG). 5 PM CST. MONDAY, AUGUST 4, 2025.
Steve Ecco felt reluctant to put his pack together before going for his last meal at Carol May Kloster’s. He’d come to like Pale Bluff. The neat frame houses and little brick shops, surrounded by dense, wet apple orchards were easy on the eye. Kids here didn’t have that haunted, lost expression so many did back home. If you didn’t notice the lack of electricity and powered vehicles, you could almost imagine you were back in normal America.
This part of the mission was supposed to be a milk run, anyway. Now all he’d have to do was the part he’d been dreaming about all his life.
Shit, I’m scared.
One more time, he inventoried his pack, shuffled through the folder of coded transmissions for Carol May, and made sure he’d left nothing important in the big duffle that he would pick up here when he returned.
On his way to early dinner at Carol May’s, he had to stop twice to take info from people who had finally decided to subscribe to the Pueblo Post-Gazette, and some other people waved as he walked up Chapman Avenue.
Technically, he thought, Heather was right, that this is lousy tradecraft; you shouldn’t have a guy who has operated more or less openly under his own name do a covert op in the same area. But now that I know them, I kind of like the feeling that these are the people I’m really working for, and that what I’m doing is for all of them. And I’ll be careful. Jesus God, I’ll be careful. He wished he didn’t feel quite so concerned about losing bowel control.
Carol May had baked fresh apple sourdough bread, and stuffed and roasted a good big rabbit. “The neighbor kid knocked Mister Bunny off with a rock,” she said. “And saved at least one deserving cabbage in the process. Pegged him on the first throw, straight to the head and dead as dead, as the kids like to say. The skills the kids pick up now that there aren’t video games!”
Toward the end of that wonderful meal, Carol May said, “I know you’ll be up early, so I’ll let you get away quick to get as much sleep as you can. But I wanted to ask a favor of you. My niece Pauline went off with a tribal boy when one of the tribes came over here for about a month early in the spring.”
“With a tribal?”
“He had two good qualities: he looked good with his shirt hanging open, and he wasn’t local.”
“She wanted to leave?”
“Like water wants to run downhill. She was only back here on Daybreak day because she’d been expelled from IU and she’d come back here to lick her wounds. Her mom died a few years back, and my brother wasn’t the kind of guy you go to when you’ve really taken a fall. I’m as much family as she’s got, but she was about due to have another run at the world, and then she got trapped here, and that bunch of bush hippies was her first ticket out of town. Anyway, it was a damn stupid choice, and I told her so. I thought she’d come back after the tribals burned and looted Wynoose on their way back across the Wabash, but maybe by the time she knew the score, they wouldn’t let her go. Or I suppose maybe she always wanted to smash up a small town. Live in one all your life and the thought occurs to you now and then.
“Anyway I wish I knew what happened to her. So—don’t take one step out of your way or one chance you don’t have to, but if you happen to hear anything about a Pauline Kloster—”
“Of course,” Ecco said. “When I get back, I’ll drop you a short note—even if it’s just to say I didn’t find anything.” Good, one more promise means one more reason I can’t funk the whole damn thing.
Carol May told him everything she could remember about Pauline, the boy, and the band of tribals. “Stenography?”
“Well, it’s what I do and I’m proud of it, but I have to admit, it’s a trade like being a blacksmith—”
“Say no more. I’ve spent all my life trying to be a mountain man or a cowboy or something. And think about all the obsolete occupations people did for a hobby, before Daybreak, that are now the most in-demand skills we have. Steam trains, sailing ships, blacksmiths for that matter. I guess if the tribe keeps any written records over there—I kind of think they don’t—she’s probably useful and conspicuous. Anyway, you’re right, I should go. And thanks for everything.”
He was embarrassed by how good it felt that she hugged him and told him to be careful, so much like the way his mother used to send him off to the first day of school.
5 HOURS LATER. PALE BLUFF, NEW STATE OF WABASH (PCG) OR ILLINOIS (TNG). 11:15 PM CST. MONDAY, AUGUST 4, 2025.
“’Fraid I can’t let you have any more time to sleep than this.” The soft voice was like the touch of a dream departing; Ecco opened his eyes to the shadowy shape of Freddie Pranger.
Having slept fully dressed on top of the covers, he sat up and reached for his pack. “Hope I don’t sleep like that where I’m going.”
“You won’t. The body knows when it’s somewhere safe and when it’s not; you slept deep because you could. Need to use the chamber pot before we go?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be in the hallway.”
Ecco made himself comfortable, rinsed his face in the washbasin, and swallowed the cup of lukewarm strong tea with extra sugar and powdered milk he’d left out for himself. He slung up his pack and slipped into the dark hallway.
They took the northwest road out of town; after a couple of miles they turned onto an abandoned farm road, following it to a creek that flowed into the Little Wabash.
They made no sound. The dirty old moon, rising later, smaller, and dimmer every night, almost gone now, seemed only to deepen the shadows. Ecco’s attention constricted to the dim, shadowy path beside the creek.
At last they stood beside an old highway truss bridge. “Cross this bridge,” Freddie Pranger said, “and follow the river road east.” He stuck his hand out, and they shook. “Stay scared so you come back.”
“No problem staying scared,” Ecco managed. “Thanks for everything.” He looked back after he had crossed the bridge; Pranger, of course, had evaporated. At the turn onto the road, Ecco began a slow jog, one he could easily maintain for the scant few hours until the treacherous dawn came crawling into his face over the eastern horizon.
THE NEXT DAY. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 6:15 PM MST. TUESDAY, AUGUST 5, 2025.
Beth had been waiting since she’d gone to see MaryBeth Abrams at lunchtime, and had told herself that she needed to be patient and nobody should be hit with really surprising news first thing when he came in the door. And I don’t suppose we should call it surprising, either, should we? I mean, it’s actually kind of natural.
In the interim, she tidied things up, and since there was a fresh cabbage, and some nice jerked grouse, she invented a kind of nice little soup and made up some soda bread to serve with it. Hunh, th
at smells good if I do say so myself. I’ll have to remember that.
She hoped this wouldn’t be one of the days when Jason stopped for a beer at Dell’s Brew with his workmates.
He was actually a few minutes early, but by that time their little place was tidier than it had ever been, the soup had been reseasoned to perfection, and she’d thought of four clever ways and two gentle ways to break the news to him. Nonetheless, the moment he closed the door, she blurted, “I’m gonna have a baby.”
8 DAYS LATER. ON THE WABASH, ABOUT A MILE AND A HALF NORTHEAST OF THE FORMER DARWIN, ILLINOIS. 11:42 PM CST. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2025.
Ecco constantly told himself that the five days he’d spent so far on the Illinois side of the Wabash wasn’t cowardice or procrastination. Arnie Yang had worked out pathways around the known areas where others had died or been lost, away from the farms and little towns that had been attacked, which Ecco had memorized; the map was as clear in his head now as it had been back in Pueblo.
He’d made it to the Wabash in two days, and started by observing the big bridge at Mount Carmel from a safe vantage point in the ruins. Three hours of steady, patient watching had revealed at least four watchers on the other side, all focused on the bridge. They’d all been relieved at regular intervals. Whatever was over there, it was organized.
Between sunset and moonrise he’d departed the charred wreckage of Mount Carmel and headed north. The next morning, from the east-facing upper window of an apartment over an old carriage house in Patton, his binoculars had revealed two different five-person patrols, one in the early morning and one in the afternoon, on the far side of the river. They were dressed like thrift store barbarians or Conan the Hippie, with spears, hatchets, and clubs. He’d slept through most of the day and departed, again, in the dark.
He’d moved farther north and east, staying close to the river except for a long trip around the burned-out area opposite Vincennes. Moving only when it seemed safe, watching the east bank constantly, he’d found every standing bridge watched, every dock and landing burned and blocked, and patrols no more than a few miles apart. He had to hope Heather was right that this was a tight barrier but not a thick one, so that a few miles on the other side of the river the land would be mostly empty, because if it was like this for any distance inland, he didn’t think he had a prayer.
Under the trees in a wooded bend of the river, just upstream from the ruins of Darwin, Illinois, he’d spent the day establishing the key facts with binoculars. The landing directly opposite him, a little cut-out docking pool, had been blocked with logs and the dock itself burned, but seemed unguarded. No bridges spanned the swift current for several miles downstream, so if need be he could float for miles while he looked for a safe, inconspicuous place to come inshore. Cover was abundant, with at least a few hundred feet of trees on each side of the river. About a half mile downstream a narrow, slow side channel, well-wooded on both sides, sliced the other side. If he missed that side channel in the dark, he had miles more distance and hours more time to land among trees.
Tonight the moon would rise almost two hours after the end of twilight, more than time enough to float to the other side, with extra time to try to move far enough east to be beyond the Daybreaker patrols. He’d crept down in the dusk and verified that there was a hole maybe twenty feet across by a dozen feet deep where he’d be able to slip in quietly.
Faint stars glowed above the trees on the opposite bank. Time. He descended to the hole. Too bad there’s no way to take a boat over; I hope the jars keep my powder dry and I don’t need the gun too quick. He made sure that his gear was roped to his waist, and then swiftly whipped five old pillowcases, one at a time, through the air, over his head, and into the water, and tied them off. He pushed off, floating on his back, head held up by his pillowcase float, and his bag of supplies resting on his belly.
I look just like floating debris, he thought. Please, God, I look like old junk that washed into the river. Anyone who sees me will see I’m just a pile of floating crap. He’d lined up three stars and two trees with distinctive shapes downstream; if he could manage to kick his way into the current between them, he’d be in the side channel he was aiming for.
The warmth of the water was pleasant; he’d grown up in the Rockies where running water is freezing cold all year. In the humid night, low fogs, some only a foot deep, drifted along the surface, cloaking him.
He kicked hard but kept his legs well under the water. Fogs rolled across him, darkening the river to a void except for the stars directly overhead; then a clear patch would roll by and he’d catch sight of his stars and his target trees.
When trees were on both sides of him, he turned over. His feet found the muck at the bottom of the shallow channel. His foot caught in something and pulled his head under for an instant, but he shook loose, waded a few more steps, and found a pebbly, rapidly rising surface. Trying not to splash, he waded with his pack held above his head until he was waist deep. At last he stepped from a patch of sloppy muck between the tangled roots of a cottonwood, and put both feet on a muddy bank. Checking the stars, he walked due east.
Something slammed the back of his head. As he stumbled, his head was pushed down and a rope wrapped in three quick turns around his neck.
There were so many of them.
He tried to lie down and make them kill him, but they just shoved a spar between his elbows and back, and pulled him to his feet.
“Stephen Ecco,” a voice said, behind him. “We were wondering if you’d ever find the courage to come over the river.”
Four big men lifted him by the spar on his back; the pain was bad enough if he went the way they pushed him, and agonizing when he didn’t cooperate. They ran him that way, hour after hour, as more tribals joined the group and took turns holding up the spar. At dawn, his feet felt like a bloody mess, but thrown onto his face in the dirt, he couldn’t really inspect them.
As his cheek pressed the damp dirt and he lay where he had been thrown, one thought drove him to keep testing his bonds, looking for any direction in which they might loosen: Someone had betrayed the mission. He had to escape and tell Heather.
THE NEXT DAY. IN AND AROUND THE FORMER TERRE HAUTE, INDIANA. 5:30 AM EST. THURSDAY, AUGUST 14, 2025.
They were trying to confuse him, but they couldn’t hide the Wabash or the sun; Steve Ecco knew he was going upstream near the river. Either they didn’t realize how many clues they’d let slip, or they didn’t care that much.
Now it was a party of at least twenty people; three of them, he’d pegged as “officers,” though he heard no titles used—a woman and two men who took turns deciding things and giving orders. Another seven he’d designated as “guards,” who followed the orders of the officers and gave orders to all of the rest. The numerous remainder must be slaves; they only received orders and spoke only when told to.
Well, if I do escape, I can report that much, anyway.
At dawn of the first day of his captivity, as gray light began to leak in around his blindfold, he was in a stretch where the road or trail was jammed with obstacles. He tried running headlong, hoping to hit something and get a concussion or a broken neck, or perhaps fall into water and drown. After he’d lost count of his collisions with trees and was staggering, hoping that the next tree or the one after might put him out, they unblindfolded him, braced him up, and forced the bar between his elbows and back again. For the next hour or more they left the blindfold off but again used the spar to push him onward, until the road was clear of felled trees and broken automobiles.
During that brief period of vision, in the brightening gray light, he saw a WELCOME TO PRAIRIETON sign, and another sign for Indiana 63. So he was just south of Terre Haute, close to the east side of the river; they were running him across the bend where the Illinois-Indiana state line begins to follow the Wabash.
Later, when the sun was full up, but still to his right, the road was mostly clear again, and shamefully, he agreed not to make them use the spa
r, so they re-blindfolded him. A while after that, they ran him down to the river and gave him a cup of water.
Lukewarm river water was wonderful. The next cup of water had been thoroughly dosed with whiskey; they followed that up with some lukewarm soup, probably beef vegetable out of a can, mixed with more whiskey, and then another draft of unspiked water.
When they shoved him into the bottom of the boat, lying on his back in the puddled water was only uncomfortable for a moment before exhaustion, whiskey, and the relief of the food and water sent him off to sleep. Twice he half-awakened when guards screamed at the slaves.
They dragged him out of the boat at about noon, to judge by the feel of the sun. As they pushed him to run again, he noted they were still going upstream, still on their side of the Wabash.
At that mountain man convention I went to they said a keelboat was lucky to make fifteen miles a day upstream, so since that was maybe a third of a day, they probably just hauled me through Terre Haute. Does that mean there are good guys in the wreckage, for me to look for if I escape? Or was it just too hard to run a blindfolded guy through a smashed ruin that size?
He ran for much of the afternoon, still north along the Wabash, very close to the border. This forced run had shredded his feet and ankles, and burned up his reserves; he’d need a long head start to get away from them, now.
With the sun still high in the sky, they stopped so a fresh party of officers, guards, and slaves could take over. It was a longer stop; the replacement party, while waiting for them, had built a fire, and heated food from cans. They gave him a big bowl of oatmeal laced with rum, more water, and some soup/whiskey mix as well. He fell asleep again, dimly aware that they were carrying him down to another boat.