“If there were reason to try to stop that process,” Liu asked, “could it be done?”
Fang gazed into his teacup. “Possibly. It would be very difficult. If you wish, I would be happy to draw up a tentative plan.”
“Please do,” said Liu. Then, after another silence: “I pity them.”
“The Americans?”
“Yes. To have to come to terms so suddenly with the fact that they aren't the masters of the planet—it cannot be easy.”
“The Motherland will face the same experience someday, you know,” Fang said. “No nation remains a superpower forever.”
“True.” Liu drained his teacup. “When that time comes, I hope our people are able to meet the decline with some measure of grace.”
2 February 2031: Alexandria Detention Center, Alexandria, Virginia
“I believe you wanted to see me,” said the warden.
They could as well have gotten someone from Hollywood central casting to play a Southern prison warden, Ellen Harbin thought sourly: big belly, big jowls, little black eyes that would resemble a pig's if they weren't so cold, and the Virginia accent with too much mountain twang to even try to pass for tidewater. “Yes, I did,” she said.
He motioned her to a chair, waited until she sat before settling behind his desk and motioning her to speak.
“I want to know,” she said, “on what legal basis I'm still being held.”
The warden blinked. “Excuse me, ma'am?”
“The arrest warrant cited a federal crime. The federal government no longer exists, and its laws no longer have any force. I want to know why I'm still being held here.”
The warden looked at her for a long moment. “That, ma'am, is a very interesting point of law. Ain't you the one that was arguing that unitary-government theory?”
That startled her; he didn't look like the kind of person who would know about that. “That's correct.”
“Under that theory, the president's the law. So if there's no more president, there's no more law, and I ought to just let you go. Right?”
“That's correct,” she repeated.
He got up and went to the bookcase on one side of the office, looked at the law books there. “That's a very interesting point of law,” he repeated. “I can see only one problem with it, really, where you're concerned. If there ain't no law for you—” He walked over to the room's one door and turned his back to it. “—then there ain't no law for me, either. And that means that I can do whatever I happen to want to do to you, right here and now.”
He smiled, then, and it wasn't a pig's smile; it was a shark's. Harbin blanched, and pulled herself out of the chair, looking around for an escape, a weapon—
“Sit down,” the warden said. “Fortunately for you, your theory ain't worth two buckets of warm piss. The state of Virginia had its own laws more'n 100 years before there was any such thing as the United States, and it's still got its own laws now that the United States is gone. You follow me? You're a legal resident of Virginia, you're subject to the laws of this commonwealth, and that's the basis on which you're going to stay right in this here jail.”
“And what Virginia law,” Harbin said coldly, “am I supposed to have broken?”
“Now that's a reasonable question,” said the warden. He walked over to his desk, pulled some papers off it and handed them to her, then went back to his seat. “This came in from the grand jury last week. You've been charged, ma'am, with arranging the murder of William Stedman.”
The indictment had all the usual paperwork attached; she flipped from page to page, stopped cold on the one that listed the witnesses the grand jury had called. The one name that mattered was at the head of the list: Emil Pohjola.
“That's absurd,” she made herself say.
“That's up to the jury to decide,” said the warden. “Now if you'll excuse me, ma'am, I have work to do.”
3 February 2031: Silver Spring, Maryland
He had his suitcase packed when Melanie got back to her apartment: Not a surprise, but it still hit hard. She tried not to let the hurt show. “When's the flight?”
“Just before midnight.” McGaffney was sprawled on the couch, his tablet on his lap; he finished typing something, shut it down. “Only bloody seat I could get.”
She could see past the casual smile to the wariness in his eyes, guessed at the reason. “You're wondering if I'm about to—what's that phrase you used yesterday? Spit the dummy.”
That got a laugh. “Too right.” A moment later: “Are you?”
“No.” She put her purse on the end table, went to the couch; he made room for her, and she sat. “No, I figured that you'd be on your way as soon as things quieted down here. Do you ever think of settling down?”
“Tried it a couple of times. It never worked out for long. If I was minded to try it again, you know, we'd talk.”
He was lying, she knew that much at once, but it was some consolation that he cared enough about her feelings to say it. “So where next?”
“Back to Africa. Things are heating up in the Congo again, with the Coalition gearing up to settle things, and my bosses want stories about that.”
She thought of the latest headlines and felt cold. “Be careful.”
“Oh, I will,” McGaffney said. “And you? Any plans yet?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.” She half-turned on the couch, facing him. “I don't think anybody knows what's going to happen next. Once the states decide what they're going to do, there'll be armies and air forces, and—” A little helpless shrug. “I'll have to decide then where I belong. That's not a decision I ever thought I'd have to make, but—”
“You could move in with your dad, if it comes to that.”
She laughed. “For the time being. Nobody's even talking about what's going to happen to the White House.” After a moment: “One way or another, I hope I see you again someday.”
He took her hands, then, all at once dead serious. “Don't wish for that,” he said. “Where I go, there's going to be blood in the streets. Don't wish for that here. It could happen too bloody easily, if too many people get stupid.”
Taken aback, she thought about that, then said, “Maybe in a war zone somewhere else, then. That's my trade too, remember.”
He blinked, relented. “True enough.” His hands moved to her face. “That'd be corker.”
“I'm going to take that as a compliment,” Melanie said, and kissed him.
It wasn't much later that the taxi arrived. She gave him another kiss at the door, heard his footfalls fade to silence in the hallway, turned away from the door. The condo was mostly dark, the curtains still open: the lights of Silver Spring sparkled in the winter night.
And now, she thought? What am I going to do now?
The lights had no answer for her. Looking out at them, she wondered how many others were asking themselves the same question that night.
5 February 2031: The Kremlin, Moscow
Glasses clinked together. “I suppose congratulations are a waste of breath,” said Bunin.
“Not at all.” Gennady Kuznetsov allowed a smile, sipped at the vodka. “Not at all, Misha. Besides, it's not as though I can expect to receive them from just anyone.”
“True. Za nashikh uspekh.” The general raised his glass, and everyone else did the same and repeated the toast—“To our success.”
There were fewer than a dozen men in the room, all of them belonging to the innermost circle of the Russian Federation's government and military: the only men in the world who knew the whole story behind the headlines that had shaken the world now for a week, and would keep shaking it for months and years to come. The waiters had brought in vodka and hors d'oeuvres and made themselves scarce; here and here alone certain things could be discussed openly.
“You will have some explaining to do if questions come up in the Duma about all that money,” said Igor Vasiliev, the intelligence chief.
“Lost in foreign exchange markets when the dollar crashed,”
Kuznetsov replied at once. “All the documentation's in place at the Ministry of Finance. Yes, I'll be flayed alive for hiding the losses, but that will blow over after a few months.”
“And if anyone ever traces any of it to America?” Vasiliev persisted.
Kuznetsov's smile went away. He took another sip from the glass, considered it, and drank the rest. “Don't even suggest that. I spent far too many sleepless nights thinking about the consequences.”
It was a rare admission of weakness, and no one pressed the issue. Bunin picked up a bottle of vodka and refilled the president's glass. “And now?” he asked. “The rest of it?”
The question hovered in the air. It would be easy, Kuznetsov knew, so easy, to take that next step—to fan America's old hatreds and new grievances just the little bit further that would be needed, put the state governments at each other's throats, and then set off the acts of violence that would send the no longer United States tumbling downhill into a future as the world's largest and most intractable failed state. Eventually the United Nations—based in Geneva by then, or Hong Kong, or just possibly in St. Petersburg—would have to send in troops; there would be a ceasefire, then partition, with Russia, China, and the European Union all carving out their own spheres of influence from the corpse of the former superpower. The plans were already drafted, the money could be found somewhere: All that would be needed was a nod of the head to Bunin, a few words to Vasiliev, a few orders issued over the next week, and the wheels that would crush what was left of the United States would begin to turn.
He savored the thought, and then sighed. “No,” he said. “No, I think our little project has gone as far as it should go.”
The others regarded him, said nothing. After a moment, Kuznetsov laughed his dry little laugh. “You're too polite to ask why, but I'll tell you anyway. First, the risk of detection. We've been lucky so far, but it's never good to trust too much to luck—and if the Americans ever find out what has been done to them, we could lose everything we've gained.”
“True,” said Vasiliev.
“Second, the money. You're right about the Duma, of course: There will be hard questions. The arrangements I've made will cover what we've spent so far, but to go on—” A quick expressive shrug. “—that would cost many billions more, billions we don't have. It can be done if necessary, but not without serious risk, and I'm not convinced the risk is worth taking.”
“Also true,” said Vasiliev.
“Third…” Kuznetsov stared at the vodka in his glass, watched reflections shimmer in it. “Third is another matter entirely. Tonight, Misha, there are millions of infants sleeping in their cradles in America. If we go ahead now, one of them, or more than one, will grow up as I did, learn what I did, decide—” He drank. “—what I did. Could become Gennady Kuznetsov.”
He glanced up from the vodka to find Bunin looking at him with that flat, unreadable peasant's look. “Also true,” Vasiliev said, “and that would be a danger to Russia.”
“I know,” said Kuznetsov. “But that's not what I was thinking of.”
A moment of silence, and then Bunin slapped the president on the shoulder. “Gennady, you think too much.” Then: “But you are doubtless right.” He raised his glass. “Za vas.”
“Za vas.” Kuznetsov raised his glass as well.
18 February 2031: The White House, Washington DC
Pete Bridgeport came down the stairs, stopped when he heard voices. “—is off limits,” someone was saying. “Remember, this is still a residence. Now this way is the East Room…” The voice faded into a rustle of footfalls on carpet. It was Nora playing tour guide, of course, leading a gaggle of tourists through the building. Tours on the hour, pricey lunches served in the State Dining Room five days a week: it had taken only a few days for the remaining White House staff to come to terms with the obvious ways to keep lights on and paychecks covered, now that the government they used to serve wasn't there any more.
A half-remembered article in a magazine nagged at Bridgeport's memory: didn't European aristocrats fallen on hard times do the same thing, cooping themselves up in a corner of their mansions and letting tourists roam through the grand halls and salons of an older and more lavish day? Doubtless the White House could do well for itself that way; the staff had already fielded the first handful of inquiries about weddings in the Rose Garden once spring came.
Once the last whisper of the tour group faded to silence, Bridgeport went down the stairs, ducked through the entrance hall and left the building. The day was cold and clear, and snow crunched under his shoes as he crossed the lawn to Pennsylvania Avenue—the barriers had all been taken down, and the security guards were looking for other jobs—and started walking toward the Capitol. Passersby stopped and stared if they weren't locals, or greeted him with a wave and a friendly word or two if they were; he smiled and nodded, finished the walk.
These days the Capitol was wide open, without even someone to take tickets at the door. He walked inside, ducked past a family of Japanese tourists who were snapping pictures of everything in sight, went to the elevator and punched the floor for the Senate lunchroom. That had redefined itself after the first few days into a restaurant open to the public, serving the famous Congressional bean soup and sandwiches named after dead presidents. Tourists liked to eat there, but so did those politicians from the old government that hadn't hurried back home to try to find places in one of the new ones.
He knew the regulars at lunch, but this time Bridgeport found most of them gathered around three tables that had been pushed together.
“Pete!” Senator Liebkuhn from Indiana—former senator, Bridgeport reminded himself—waved him over. “Your timing's good,” she said. “We're inventing a country.”
“No kidding.” He went to join them, ordered a bowl of soup and half a Harry Truman when the waiter came by. The senator's words were no surprise. New England and Texas had just declared themselves republics, and eleven southern states had delegates in Montgomery hammering out what wags were already calling Dixie 2.0.
Liebkuhn filled him in. “We've been at the Senate Office Building on the phones with the states all morning. The seven eastern states that voted against ratification are in. So are Ohio and Delaware—they called off their conventions once Nebraska made it moot. New Jersey only ratified because of Trenton, they want in, and the Kentucky legislators talked it over and decided they'd rather be with us than with the South. So what we're saying is, okay, the rest of you don't want the Union, that's fine. We still do.”
“Thinking of using the old name?” Bridgeport asked.
“It's got a nice sound to it, doesn't it? Here, take a look at the map.” She handed him a printout of the old United States, with a new border drawn in yellow highlighter. Inside the line were twelve states forming the eastern core of the continent, from New York and the mid-Atlantic westward through Ohio, West Virginia, and Kentucky to Illinois, Michigan and Wisconsin, reaching from the Atlantic to the Great Lakes and the upper Mississippi. Highways and rail lines, harbors and waterways, farmlands and urban centers: it was, Bridgeport realized, a viable country.
He glanced up to see another familiar face, also a lunchtime regular. “Hi, Leona. You might want to pull up a chair.”
“What's up?” Price fielded a chair, and the others made room for her.
The senator filled her in, and asked, “How about the District of Columbia?”
“How about the state of Columbia?” Price replied.
That stopped conversations at the table for a moment, but only a moment. “Rhode Island's gone,” said a New York congressman down the table, “so, yeah, we've got an opening for a little bitty state. You want the position?”
Price grinned. “Have to put it to the citizens, but I'm guessing yes.”
“Just a moment,” said Bridgeport. He left the table, found another lunchtime regular, a former Senate staffer, and talked to him in a low voice. The staffer left the lunchroom and was back five minutes later with a
bundle of cloth. Bridgeport stood up, and said, “Can we clear some space in the middle here? This might be useful.” He and the staffer unrolled the bundle. Thirteen stars in a circle, thirteen red and white stripes: a tourist-shop copy of the original US flag lay spread in front of them.
No one said anything for a moment. Around the lunchroom, conversations fell silent and necks craned as the other diners began to notice what was happening.
“It was a good country,” said Bridgeport, “back when there were just thirteen states, and we didn't think we were supposed to run the rest of the world. Thirteen states could make a good country again.”
“It'll take a lot of hard work, Mr. President,” said Liebkuhn. She emphasized the last two words. “A lot of hard work.”
They were all looking at him, Bridgeport realized: not just the senators and representatives, but people all over the lunchroom. He drew in a long uneven breath. “I know,” he said. “Let's get on it.”
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