40 MINUTES LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 2:30 PM EST. THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2025.
“Cam, can we do five
very private minutes?” Grayson said, leaning into his
office.
“Always.” The Natcon
got up and closed the door, and they sat in the chairs in the
corner that faced into the soundproofing. “I take it you have a
decision?”
“I’m in. Even as far
as letting Shorty Phat out to run loose, though we sure can’t have
that known to anyone in the Post Raptural Church, and I really
can’t have it known to Reverend Whilmire.”
“Understood. Drive
the frontier to the Miami/Maumee. Whatever you say you need, I’ll
find it for you. Wreck the tribes for good. Take all the credit.
Run for president, and may the best man win—or rather, may the
people have the vision to see the best man, and the will to support
him. And I won’t be sad if it’s you.”
Grayson rose, they
shook hands, and the deal was done.
Ten minutes later, as
Cam went out for a stroll and a stretch to clear his head, Colonel
Billy Ray Salazar happened to be crossing the quadrangle in front
of the First Church of the United Christian States. Cam asked him
politely how the fishing had been lately, Salazar stopped to tell
him, and in the middle of a long story about a monster catfish that
had broken the line at the last minute, Cam was able to say, very
quickly and softly, “We’re blown, and we’re going to have to go
ahead anyway. Usual protocol for emergency conference. Let our
absent friends know.”
Salazar went right on
talking about fish; only the slightest twitch, once, of his cheek
indicated to Cam that he had heard.