Directive 51 d-1

by John Barnes

  Manckiewicz asked about several subjects; the answer from Shaunsen was always a list of where they were spending money, and “Be sure to vote STRAIGHT DEMOCRAT!” After the third such conclusion, Lenny muttered, “Wonder how many gay Democrat votes he’s losing?”

  “About like everyone else, straight, gay, male, female, black, white. Everyone with a brain who hears him,” Heather said.

  “And same question, Mr. Norcross?”

  Norcross said, “Well, it just seems to me that we can be balanced about this. No, the experts really don’t agree yet on whether we were attacked by what they call a ‘system artifact,’ meaning sort of a mind-virus that just kind of grew in the Internet like termites in the baseboards, or whether it was an actual act of war by some nation or terrorist outfit. But common sense says a reconstructed nation can fight better, and a secure nation can reconstruct better.”

  “Isn’t it amazing what having a big, important job does to some people?” Lenny said. “Norcross went from Jesus nut to almost-statesman; Shaunsen went from third-rate to tenth-rate.”

  “Yeah, I almost feel good about voting for Norcross. Where did he get all that system artifact stuff?”

  “Oh, Cam told both of them about it at a briefing; Norcross listened, I guess. Or maybe Shaunsen listened but didn’t care; probably he just figured that whether we’re being attacked by self-aware malware, or an international terror network, or for that matter Satan or freakin’ Monaco, why worry which? Shaunsen’s solution will always be to spend money.”

  THE NEXT DAY. WASHINGTON. DC. JUST BEFORE 7:00 A.M. EST. MONDAY. NOVEMBER 4.

  That morning, the price for a copy of the Advertiser-Gazette had gone up to “thirty-two ounces of canned food or forty-eight of dry,” according to the masthead, but Heather had still had to struggle through the crowd around the newsboy for a copy; the kid looked like he was standing in a food-drive donation bin. Back at St. Elizabeth’s, where the power was on temporarily, she paged through it quickly under an ultraviolet spotlight, and then rolled it up, ran it through a degausser, and finally let them put it under a salvaged dental X-ray machine for about ten times the dose a human being should take in a year. That was the new procedure for documents that had been exposed outside, since yesterday they’d lost a satellite uplink to biotes that had probably come in on some paper maps from USGS.

  It was worth it all, though, for the experience of being able to have powdered eggs, instant mashed potatoes, and freeze-dried coffee in their little makeshift bedroom, especially since, with the power on again in this wing for the moment, they had light enough to read to each other. Heather took a turn reading the rightmost column on the front page, which carried the basic information about the Vote Where You Are program.

  While Heather ate, Lenny read the roundup story on the post-Daybreak disasters around the country: the big fires in St. Paul and Boston, the rioting and looting in DC, the weather disasters unfolding across the northern states.

  They switched again for Lenny to have his toast while it was warm. Heather read Chris Manckiewicz’s editorial about the already-appearing corruption of many reconstruction projects, Shaunsen’s non-answers and attempted demagoguing during the debate on KP-1, the creation of the unneeded and threatening National Unity Guard without Congressional authorization, and finally the symbolism of the limo issue: that Washington’s scarce and vital supply of tires and gasoline had been depleted “so that the Acting President may wander around glad-handing and trying to persuade people that he is fit for office. We call on the voters to elect Norcross, and because the country cannot afford more of Shaunsen, we believe that we cannot wait for Norcross to take office in January. We urge the House to impeach Acting President Shaunsen and the Senate to remove him.’ You know, I am getting to like Chris Manckiewicz and Rusty Parlotta more than—”

  There was a knock at the door. “Heather O’Grainne, please report immediately to Mr. Nguyen-Peters in his office, and he requests that you bring a day bag and a firearm.”

  “On my way.” She bolted the last of her eggs and potatoes, gulped the last of her coffee, and kissed Lenny tenderly; nowadays she kept a packed day bag, including a weapon, by the door.

  IMMEDIATELY AFTER. WASHINGTON. DC. 8:15 A.M. EST. MONDAY. NOVEMBER 4.

  Cam looked up from his desk as she came in; he looked stressed-out, overworked, and relieved to see her.

  “What would you say,” he said, “if I reminded you that you have taken an oath—several times—to ‘support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign or domestic’?”

  “I’d say ‘well, duh, Cam,’ and ask if I was being accused of treason.”

  “Good. Would you say that a President—or an Acting President—who deputizes members of his staff, arms them, and sends them out to arrest someone is acting Constitutionally?”

  “I think that would be a job for the Supreme Court to decide. What’s that idiot done?”

  “Doing. We have about three hours. He’s sending his National Unity Guard to go arrest the whole staff of the Advertiser-Gazette at their morning meeting. We’ve got it straight from a Secret Service informant, confirmed by another inside source.”

  “Christ. How can he arrest them? On what charge?”

  “He just plans to hold them through the election. Supposedly he’s preventing unfair private interference in a Federal election.”

  “Well, at that point he’s raped the shit out of the First Amendment, and he’s violated that oath he insisted on taking, Cam. You want me to go stop him?”

  “I want you to arrest all the National Unity Guard he sends. There’s an excellent argument that he can’t appoint law enforcement officers on his own hook and all by himself, which we’ll find some good lawyer to argue for the Supreme Court. But what I really want is to catch people acting upon his orders, subverting the Constitution, arresting without warrant or charge, and several other good phrases that come right from Madison and the Federalist Papers as grounds for impeachment. Per Speaker Kowalski’s request I’m assembling a file to use in impeaching our Acting-Out President. Incidentally, how do you feel about the theory that the NCCC is responsible for making sure we have a qualified Acting President during an emergency, and that when an Acting President disqualifies himself during an emergency, the NCCC can take it back and give it to the next choice in line? ”

  “Wow. Ask me again if you ever have to do that. I figured you’d just impeach Shaunsen.”

  “I’d rather do it by impeachment, but if Kowalski can’t find the votes to impeach, or the Senate won’t remove, we still have to have a functioning president, ASAP. So this latest little escapade looks like one more length of rope to hang him with, and I want someone I trust to handle it. If you make it to Rusty Parlotta’s place, before the Acting Presidential Bozo Brigade shows up at eleven, and bust their asses—ideally if you can swear that you saw them try to make the arrest—I will appreciate the hell out of it, Speaker Kowalski will make great use of it, and the country will be a lot better off.”

  “Not to mention we’ll both have kept our oaths.”

  “I like that part too.”

  “So why did you send for me?”

  “Because in all of DRET, you’re the only person with Federal power to arrest who I’m willing to have improvise.”

  ABOUT TWO HOURS LATER. WASHINGTON. DC. ABOUT 11:00 A.M. EST. MONDAY. NOVEMBER 4.

  “All right, that’s got to be them,” Heather said, watching from the window. Two young women and two young men in the black uniforms with red berets, walking like they were auditioning (unsuccessfully) for the role of the determined sheriff in a community theatre. God, it looks like “when Guardian Angels go bad.” “Rusty, Chris, are you sure you want to do this? Let me remind you, once again, I could just meet them at the door.”

  “You’re asking us to throw away the best story we’ve had yet, Ms. O’Grainne,” Rusty said. “Not to mention that Mr. Nguyen-Peters is absolutely right. If they actually say the
y’re arresting us on the Acting President’s orders—with Betsi inside here taking notes, so we’ll have their exact words—then we can get that asshole out and a real president in. So what the hell.”

  “Uh, what the boss said,” Chris said, grinning.

  “All right, then, go on out, and move away from the door quick in case I need to come through fast.”

  Rusty went through first, then Chris, and they moved down the front porch to the left, clearing a path for Heather immediately. She rested the door on her hand, ready to fling it open.

  “Can we help you?” Rusty asked.

  One of the young women stepped forward, nervously brushed her hair away from her face, and began to read from a card. “By order of the Acting President of the United States, this company is to cease publication immediately and all staff present on the premises are to come with us. You are also to turn over all materials, supplies, and equipment to us; you may petition to have them returned when the present emergency—”

  “On what charges?” Rusty asked. “And do you have a warrant?”

  “We don’t need a warrant, we’re not cops, we’re here from the President,” the taller and more muscular of the two young men said. “And it’s a National Security Emergency. And you’re under arrest.”

  “Read your Constitution. You don’t come onto this porch without a warrant, and if you’re going to arrest me, you have to tell me what the charges against me are—”

  “Fucking Republican, it’s not your fucking Constitution,” the man said, and drew his gun.

  Heather burst through the door, crouching into firing position and shouting, “Freeze, Federal police!” in one swift motion.

  The young man may have just started and accidentally pulled the trigger; he may have intended to shoot Rusty Parlotta all along; for whatever reason, his gun barked, and Heather shot his head—practically textbook combat handgun, she thought, as she bellowed, “Throw down your weapons! I am a Federal agent, and you are all under arrest now. Throw down your weapons!”

  Stunned, bewildered, the two young women and the surviving young man dropped their guns; Heather ran forward, bellowing, “Lie down, lie down on your faces, hands behind your backs,” and was putting the ties on the second one as she recited, “You have the right to remain silent…”

  It was only as she tied the third one that she realized someone else had been shouting, and she turned to see Chris bending over Rusty, cradling her in his arms in a sort of Pieta as he tried to hold her so that she could breathe. Beside Chris, ineffectually, a man tried to stop the still-flowing, bubbling chest wound. Heather rushed to join them, but even as she did, the blood flow from the gushing wound diminished, and the dim recognition left Rusty Parlotta’s eyes; they kept trying to revive her while a runner fetched a doctor, but they all knew she was dead long before it was official.

  THE NEXT DAY. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. BEGINNING AT 7:00 A.M. EST. TUESDAY. NOVEMBER 5.

  Election day wasn’t anything anyone had expected: It was surprisingly smooth and dull.

  In the burned-out areas of Boston, soldiers walked down the street with notebooks and megaphones, asking people to come out and vote. Many of the people who came out were disappointed to find out that it wasn’t about food, or about rides out of the area, or heated shelters. But once they understood what it was about, they almost all wanted to vote. Since the printed ballots had been mostly destroyed, the soldiers hand-copied the correct spellings of the names and parties from the blackboard at headquarters, then each carried a clipboard with that sheet on it, so that voters would have something to copy correct spellings from.

  ABOUT THE SAME TIME. PALE BLUFF. ILLINOIS. 6:00 A.M. CST. TUESDAY. NOVEMBER 5.

  An hour behind Boston, in Pale Bluff, they all voted right on the dot of six in the morning, in the interest of giving Freddie Pranger the maximum daylight for the trip to Springfield. An old mimeograph had been found, along with a still-sealed package of mimeo sheets. A long-retired schoolteacher had figured out how to make it all work, using a turpentine/ethanol mix for fluid. They had printed up a set of ballots, and everyone promised not to peek; in the same community hall where they had all listened to a radio pulled from a sealed box and switched on just before the debate, 681 adult inhabitants and 104 adult refugees cast their ballots, sitting next to each other, filling them out all at once, careful to keep their eyes on their own ballots.

  The township clerk shuffled them in a big cardboard box and started counting. An hour later, a landslide for Will Norcross was announced, and the results for local elections were written up on a whiteboard and recopied onto a sheet of lined notebook paper. While they waited, they’d all had a pancake breakfast.

  Then Freddie Pranger, who had been in the Special Forces and was still a good shot, packed the results total in a small bag. He figured he’d make Springfield in three days, and depending on what he found, might be back in a week. He also carried a letter from the mayor of Pale Bluff offering to secure the roads and operate a postal service within ten miles of the town; that offer had been ratified by unanimous voice vote just before Freddie left.

  They stood in the street, waving good-bye to Freddie; then people returned to their homes and jobs, with plenty to do, and nothing more about elections for the next two years.

  ABOUT AN HOUR LATER. ANTONITO. COLORADO. ABOUT 10:00 A.M. MST. TUESDAY. NOVEMBER 5.

  An hour behind Pale Bluff, election day in Antonito was sort of a half-holiday by common consent, with everyone taking either the morning or the afternoon off to vote, and incidentally just to enjoy having time to themselves, or to chat with the neighbors.

  Voting was by secret ballot at the town council secretary’s office. She had a big sign out front:

  COME ON IN AND VOTE,

  REGULAR TOWNIE OR REFUGEE,

  WE’LL MAKE SOMETHING WORK FOR YOU!

  PUBLIC SERVICE IS WHAT I DO!

  The older lady behind the desk, whose nameplate said she was SUZEE B., wore a gray beehive and glasses that made her look like she had escaped from The Far Side. She looked gray and sick, and the empty ashtray beside her probably explained it. The tobacco supply had run out, and many of the local folks were going through withdrawal.

  “Here to vote?”

  “Uh, yes, and we had a question—”

  “Just ask when it comes up. Let’s start with your names.”

  When it got down to address, Beth and Jason couldn’t very well use the commune’s old address, not knowing whether any of their old neighbors might someday come this way. Jason said, “Um, we’re refugees and the last we saw of our home—it’s not going to be there if we ever go back.”

  Suzee B. looked up, nodding in sympathy, her mouth skewed a little to one side. “That sucks, don’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Beth said, and her voice was choking with tears. Jason never knew when that would happen to her; most of the time she insisted on pretending nothing much had happened, but every now and then, some little kindness or attention from anyone—Jason or a stranger, it didn’t seem to matter—would completely undo her.

  The lady looked at Beth, glanced at Jason, and said, “Bad getting here?”

  “Bad starting out.” That was as honest as seemed safe. “Uh, what we wanted to ask was, we just rented a garage from Dave Wilson, over on Third Street? And could that be our address? So our votes count here where we’re going to make our home, instead of back where we—”

  “We don’t never want to see it no more,” Beth said, wiping her eyes.

  “Honey, you’re making sense to me, and I’m as much authority as there is. Dave’s at 442 Third Street, there ain’t no 444 or 446, and you’re closer to Dave than you are to the laundrymat at 448. So your garage is now officially 444. Are you a Mister and Missus yet?”

  “Not yet,” Jason said, “though the thought has crossed my mind, and we’ve talked about it.”

  “We been kinda busy,” Beth volunteered.

  “I know how that goes. But look, just now,
the whole government record system is me, so while you’re here, want to get married? I’ve got the registry right here.”

  It seemed like a good time to do it, so they voted, married, and were put on the list for jury duty. “You could be caught in the draft, too, Jason,” Suzee warned. “There’s some idiots around here talking about the town needing a militia.”

  “And there probably won’t be enough paper to make a card for me to burn,” Jason said.

  She laughed. “Glad to have two more liberals in town,” she said. “That makes three of us.”

  THREE HOURS LATER. CASTLE CASTRO. (SAN DIEGO. CALIFORNIA.) 12:00 P.M. PST. TUESDAY. NOVEMBER 5.

  Harrison Castro looked over the assembled population of his Castle, everyone except the sentries who had voted earlier. He drew a deep breath, reminded himself that he had no mike and had to project, and began. “We have formed a bond, you and I. I am feeding and housing you; you live by my protection; you have brought your families in here to live, and I am the freeholder of our Castle here. In the last forty-eight hours you have all helped me turn away mobs who would have destroyed everything. By now we all understand—we are in this together. We are engaged in a titanic struggle to make a new civilization. I hope that a fully Constitutional, free, and sovereign America will be part of it, but I know for certain that a strong and free Castle Castro will be, because together, you and I will make it be.”