Bayclock looked at Lance as if he were an interesting but minor specimen in an insect collection. “You’re missing the point, Dr. Nedermyer. Missing it entirely. The supplies are an irrelevant detail in all of this.”

He folded his hands over his hard stomach and stood beside the command tent, watching the preparation of the campfires. “This expedition isn’t merely to go to White Sands and occupy the solar-power farm. It’s also a unifying tactic, a demonstration of how we must hold together. Without our lines of communication, the United States is unraveling. People must not be allowed to think they can just laugh at the law.”

Bayclock narrowed his eyes as he stared into the deepening dusk. “I’m one of the men charged with that responsibility. Often I don’t like it, and it’s a great burden to protect humanity from its own tendencies toward anarchy.” He turned to Lance. “But just because I don’t like the job, doesn’t mean I can shrug my shoulders and ignore it. I have a responsibility to this nation, to the people.

“I am like a great hammer and these people are the anvil. Between us, we can forge the nation again—but it won’t happen spontaneously. Only through effort, strenuous effort.” Bayclock said softly, “Now do you understand, Dr. Nedermyer? Is that clear enough for you?”

Lance swallowed. “Yes, sir.” He was afraid he understood the general . . . all too well.

#

Lance awoke to the sound of gunshots breaking through the darkness.

As the troops scrambled out of their blankets, he sat up on the hard ground, wincing in pain from his stiff back and looking around. He grabbed his glasses and tried to make out details in the blurred shadows. He heard horses, but they sounded scattered, growing more distant.

Climbing to his feet, Lance stepped on a sharp rock and hobbled backward. More small popping sounds came from off to his left. Other men scrambled in that direction. They shot their weapons into the darkness, but those shots sounded different—clearer and more contained.

They were being attacked by people from the pueblo! But how could the Indians have working rifles? Lance took a deep breath. The attackers could still use shells and gunpowder to make small explosives, tiny bombs that would shatter the night.

The horses ran the other direction, on the opposite side of the camp from the explosions. A diversion? He heard the general bellowing, but the men were panicked, and even Bayclock could not keep the situation under control.

One of the airmen finally shot a flare into the sky; it burst into an incandescent white spotlight surrounded by glowing smoke streamers. Under the sudden glare splashing across the landscape, they spotted horses running off in all directions.

Two young men rode a pair of stolen horses, galloping off into the night. Bayclock yelled for the riflemen to shoot, but they missed. The young riders vanished into the dark distance. Waving his arms, Bayclock sent his troops out to round up the horses and to search for the attackers.

Lance hurriedly pulled on his hiking boots and went to help, but he knew it was a lost cause.

Chapter 66

With somber tears burning his eyes, Spencer stood at the electromagnetic launcher. Although he knew in his heart it was necessary, the beautiful dream he had chased for so long was being torn apart piece by piece to build a defense against “barbarians.” He felt sick at what they were doing to the launcher, possibly destroying his hope for the solar-power satellites—it wasn’t fair, especially now that an expedition from JPL was on its way!

Rita Fellenstein supervised connecting the power-transmission line from the microwave farm to the launcher’s battery facility. He was thankful they didn’t need a transformer to boost the voltage, like the one that had failed at the water pump. Spencer’s other techs were still working on that problem.

Gilbert Hertoya grunted as he helped Arnie, his refugee scientist friend from Sandia, pry open an aluminum side wall of the launcher housing. Spencer glimpsed the two gleaming parallel rails lined with capacitor banks and batteries.

Gilbert’s workers had unbolted and lifted a ten-meter-long section of the launcher, mounting it on a swivel so the railings could turn through a 45-degree arc, horizontal as well as vertical. The launcher looked like a giant tuning fork jutting from the dismantled building, anchored by black cables running to the capacitors. He called to Spencer. “What do you think?”

“This thing is going to save us from Bayclock, huh?” Spencer stepped over the cables, careful not to trip. He sighed, trying not to show his brooding despair.

Gilbert proudly swept an arm along the length of the device. “The hardest part was mounting the rails on the swivel.” He motioned. “Get behind the base.”

Stepping around blue capacitor boxes, Spencer could see the equipment he himself had worked on just a few days ago. Now, timing cables, rail-gap switches, induction lines, and wire from the battery array littered the floor. Gilbert had cleared the area by the base to where they could lift five-pound metal-coated sabots onto the railgun.

Gilbert pointed out the switching mechanism. “The homopolar generator is over here. The rail is short, but we should still be able to launch the projectiles at a couple of kilometers a second. That’ll pack a real punch.”

“I hope so,” sighed Spencer. “But is it worth it?”

“If it works it will be.”

“Does it work?”

Gilbert shrugged. “Let’s see.”

They left Arnie to continue his work and met Rita outside by the transmission line. She pushed back the bush hat she had reclaimed from Lieutenant Carron. “This should do it. I need to get back and help Bobby extract the citrus oil for the explosives.” She nodded toward the electrical wiring. “Gilbert only needs a ninety-second cycle time to recharge his capacitors. With the current we can draw from batteries, he can probably get nine, maybe ten shots before we’re depleted.”

Spencer looked worried. “I’d hate to dismantle our precious satellite launcher for something that might not be decisive against Bayclock.”

Gilbert rolled his dark eyes. “That’s the physicist in you. Listen to an engineer for once. These projectiles are four to five times faster than a bullet—”

“So the energy is 16 to 25 times greater,” finished Spencer. “But still, what if you miss the target?”

“Wide-area munitions,” Rita said. “Gil’s got us filling sabots with shrapnel, so when we launch it’ll be like a super shotgun.” She turned to the short engineer. “Bobby wants to push the trigger himself when you go after Bayclock. If he’s not flying his balloon, that is.”

Spencer scowled at her eager smile. “Rita, this is going to be messy. We busted our butts to cobble this antenna farm together, but I never thought I’d have to kill anybody for it.”

Rita whirled. “Spence, a lot of people have died since the petroplague. This is a war here! Civilization against the cannibals. The golden age against the dark ages.”

Her voice became quieter. “When I was a kid, I took a lot of shit from gorillas who wanted to pick on a beanpole, egg-headed girl—but now I am not going to let a bully come down here and take our dreams. Not when I can still fight.”

#

“Incoming!”

Bobby Carron looked up just in time to be hit on the side of the head with a soft orange. Already leaning forward, he lost his balance and tripped into the tank half-filled with ripe citrus rinds. He sputtered and gasped at the bright, acidic stink. He climbed back out of the knee-deep vat, picking clots of spoiled lemons and oranges from his hair.

Rita grinned as she tossed another orange into the air and caught it. “Gotta keep those reflexes tuned up, flyboy. Hate to have a killer orange take out your balloon.”

Bobby brushed himself off in disgust. “What did you do that for? I was checking the acidity.”

“Awww, the big sensitive football player got his feelings hurt? You were too good a target to miss. You’re lucky it wasn’t the batch of saltpeter!”

He held his hands in mock apology as he stepped toward Rita.

“Hold it right there, you uncouth, smelly excuse for a pilot,” said Rita. She cocked back her arm. “One more step and you’re dead, zoombag.”

Bobby sprang forward and grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her to the edge of the vat. “Okay beanpole!” He picked her up and heaved her headfirst into the fruity mixture. “Now who’s calling a Navy aviator a ‘pilot’?”

#

Spencer’s body ached from riding back and forth: railgun launcher, microwave farm, and the encampment for the crowd of Alamogordo ranchers and townspeople. Too many things still needed to be done, and General Bayclock could arrive within a week—if he was coming at all.

The Alamogordo city council had assigned nearly fifty people to prepare a site where the coalition of ranchers, businessmen, and city workers would establish their defenses. Spencer had insisted that the encampment be far enough away from the circular expanse of whiplike microwave antennas to avoid danger from the smallsat power beaming every day at noon.

Now he sat beside a small cookfire outside the command trailers. Rita joined Bobby and Gilbert as they formulated plans for the next day; she made an extra effort to sit by Bobby, Spencer noticed, who seemed too accommodating when she motioned for him to scoot over to give her more room.

Rita turned to the side and spat some of her last tobacco. “If Bayclock has a couple hundred soldiers, there’s only one direction he can come—north. I rode out west today, and the Organ Mountains are too damned rough for an army to negotiate.”

“Could he approach on the other side of the mountains and circle up from the south?” said Gilbert.

Bobby shook his head. “Bayclock isn’t going to be interested in surprise. I’ll bet he doesn’t expect much resistance from a few wimpy scientists. He plans to strut in here, puff out his chest, and ask us to hand over the keys.”

Spencer grunted. “Then he’s in for a shock.” The others gave a nervous chuckle. “How are the other defenses coming?”

“Railgun test in three days,” said Gilbert. “We’ll try to calibrate the range. And the big catapults are almost complete. They can throw a hundred pounds of rocks half a mile. That’ll add to Bayclock’s misery.”

“Good,” said Spencer. “Any luck with the citrus explosives?”

Bobby rocked back on his heels and tossed a small stick into the fire. “Last week we located a couple hundred crates of oranges and lemons decaying at the depot in Holloman Air Force Base. One of the local businessmen remembered delivering a batch right before the base closed down; a wagonload more is due in from the surrounding groves. Rita’s, uh, coordinating the extraction and it looks like we can start mixing the stuff by day after tomorrow. If Romero can get the catapults ready, we can try the first test after Gilbert’s calibrated the railgun.”

“Good. What about the gunpowder?”

Bobby shook his head. “The piss detail—er, I mean the ‘saltpeter resource group’—has already done their part, and we’ve made plenty of charcoal. But we’re having trouble finding enough sulfur to make it worthwhile. It would take a month to ride over to Silver City and back, where they’ve mined gobs of the stuff. We’re lucky to have any gunpowder at all for the rifles.”

“Everybody keep thinking,” said Spencer. “I hate these one-point solutions. We’re just begging for something to go wrong at a bottleneck.” He felt a cramp in his leg as he stood. “Let’s get back to work. Sleep in shifts. We’re running out of time.”

As he bent to massage his calf, he watched Rita and Bobby head out side by side. He didn’t know why, but he felt a pang of loneliness. He remembered Sandy, the dark-haired girl who had rescued him from a life of nerd-dom back in high school; as he turned back to work, he wasn’t sure she had entirely succeeded.

#

Juan Romero surveyed the crowd of old farts by the catapult and suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t much of a fighting force, but all the men and women who could shoot or ride were training with Bobby Carron, learning details of guerrilla warfare. The few aviation-trained volunteers took turns in the lookout balloon; others had evacuated to Cloudcroft in the mountains.

That left Romero’s catapult group. Forty-two members of the “gang that couldn’t shoot straight,” he thought. Why do I feel like this isn’t such a good idea?

Seventeen of the group must be eighty years old, and the rest looked like they would be more at home in a library, squinting through coke-bottle glasses. Well, Romero thought, running his palms over his face to slick down his long mustache, if life gives you limes, it’s time to make margaritas. He chuckled at that. He really enjoyed playing Pancho to Spencer’s Cisco Kid, overdoing the stereotyped Mexican much the same way a cartoon Frenchman wore a beret and slapped his forehead with a ‘Sacre Bleu!’ Romero hoped Spencer knew it was a joke.

He stepped up to the ten-meter-long bar cannibalized from the scraps of the railgun launcher. Ropes dangled from the bottom of an oversized bucket bolted to one end; a set of heavy-duty springs from disassembled truck shock absorbers hung on a rotating base anchored to the other end, weighted down with concrete blocks. Buckets of rusting scrap iron made indentations in the white sand.

Romero clapped his hands to get their attention. “All right, listen up!” He pointed to three old men standing in front. “Grab onto the rope and cock back the lever. The rest of you, stand back. Remember, there’s only one of these catapults, so if you get in the way and splatter yourself all over the workings, we’ll lose our heavy defense.”

No one laughed at the joke. If he didn’t explain, the safety lesson would be lost. “You three—be careful no one’s in your line of fire. The rest of you got that?”

The three old men strained against the ropes as they dug their heels into the loose sand. The metal arm of the catapult came back, groaning at the limit of its flexibility, until it lay quivering, parallel with the ground.

He held up a hand. “Do not let go of that rope!” Romero scrambled beneath the catapult arm. Reaching up to the base, he connected a hook around the lower part of the arm to secure it. “Okay, keep the rope taut, just in case, while I load the bucket.”

Romero and three helpers struggled with scraps of iron, dumping them into the oversized bucket. Satisfied, he stepped back and nodded to the boys. “Okay, release the lines—slowly!”

Shooing them away from the coiled weapon, Romero gathered the gang around him. Perspiration ran down his face. “That’s all it takes, ladies and gentlemen. Remember, don’t let go of the ropes until the safety hook is on.”

A feisty-looking woman with white hair sticking from under ten-gallon hat held up her hand. “Son, how do we shoot this thing?”

“Rotate the base to aim the throw. Unfortunately, the distance varies with the weight of the projectile, so our range is always going to be a rough guess. When the catapult is in position, the trigger is that line that runs from the hook.”

“Can I try it?”

Romero said, “Satisfy your curiosity now, rather than waste time in battle.” Ducking under the catapult arm, he picked up the trigger line, then walked back to the elderly woman.

“Now, if you’re frightened, I can help you. All it takes is a quick pull—” He hadn’t finished his sentence before the woman viscously yanked back the line.

The catapult slammed forward and banged against the restraining bar in front. Seventy pounds of rusty bolts, twisted nails, sharp cutting pieces of metal flew in a low arc like a cloud of bees. The team watched the metal disperse until they lost sight of it; seconds later, it rained down in a cloud of dust a football field wide, kicking up debris as though an invisible warplane had strafed the desert floor.

The old woman cackled. She clenched both fists above her head in triumph. “Ha! Just let those bastards try and get through that!”

#

“Bank’s going hot,” Gilbert Hertoya said at the railgun controls. “Charging capacitors!”

“Notify Bobby—we’re ready for ranging.”

Spencer put a finger in his ears to muffle the sound in case one of the capacitors pre-fired and caused a catastrophic failure. It was another weak point in the defense—they were using research apparatus for weapons, and no one seemed concerned but him. Even though this was a full dress rehearsal, things still hadn’t come together. His stomach was sour with worry.

Gilbert jerked a thumb at Rita by the control blockhouse twenty yards away. She knelt next to Romero, who was relieved to be back from his hours with the catapult team. The two busily worked a makeshift telegraph connected to a severed telephone line. Wires, a small speaker, a battery, and a couple of resistors with a switch completed the apparatus.

Two days ago, the dead telephone line had run along Route 57, as useless as a magic wand in a science lab. Rita had supervised tearing the wires down from the utility poles, and now one end was connected to Romero’s telegraph machine; the other ran to Bobby Carron’s observation balloon a thousand feet in the air.

The short scientist dug an elbow in Spencer’s side. “Think she’s worried about Bobby up there?”

“The way they’ve been acting, you’d think the petroplague removed their libido inhibitors. No wonder the other ranch hands are sulking around and not getting their work done.”

Gilbert threw Spencer an exaggerated glance. “You aren’t jealous are you?”

Spencer dropped his hands, totally shocked. “What, jealous about Rita?” He had never even looked at Rita that way. After years of working together, she was just “one of the crew” to him.

“Whatever,” Gilbert said, “but personally, I think you ‘doth protest too much.’”

Spencer snorted and looked away. “I’m not even remotely jealous.”

“Right.”

“I’m not!”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow.

Spencer started to speak, but stood quiet for a long minute. “It’s just that Rita is the last person I’d expect to see getting dopey over someone. I guess I was starting to feel lonely myself.” He smiled wearily. “Looking for that girl with the sunburned nose, I guess. Too many Beach Boys songs.”

Gilbert smiled. “No problem, old man. I miss my own family, and they’re just in Alamogordo.”

Arnie yelled from the blockhouse. “Charging complete. Five seconds!” They put fingers in their ears, anticipating the sound.

A loud crack sizzled through the confined chamber. Spencer tried to follow the five-pound sabot as the railgun accelerated it down the tracks in a blurred streak. He smelled metallic ozone from where the plasma armature ionized the air.

“There it hits!” Gilbert pointed downrange. Spencer had to squint to see the dust kicked up where the wide-area munition pummelled the desert.

Rita waved from where she and Romero squatted by the telegraph. She slapped the radio man on the back and straightened, then pointed up in the air to Bobby’s balloon. “From Bobby’s guesstimate the projectile hit five miles away and spread out in an elliptical area fifty by twenty yards. If the metal bearings separated like we think, everything in that area should be shredded like mozzarella cheese on a pizza.”

Spencer brightened. “Get the results analyzed by tonight’s tech meeting.” He shook his head as Rita threw him a snappy salute. She’s totally lost it, he thought.

But Gilbert looked dismayed when Spencer returned to the railgun. The small engineer had a foot up on the base of the gun, reaching up to run a hand along the railing. Scorch marks marred the surface of the once-gleaming metal.

Spencer frowned. “What’s the matter?”

Gilbert shook his head. “We shorted out some capacitors. Unless we get this whole rail replaced, we’ll be up a creek.”

“But you’ve got miles of railing to work with.”

“That’s not the problem,” said Gilbert. “Yeah, we can replace the railing, but we have to take the whole friggin’ railgun apart to do it—and that will take nearly five days.”

Spencer tried to sound upbeat. “You can do it—”

Gilbert interrupted irritably, “Don’t you understand? Even if we get the railgun fixed, that doesn’t mean it’ll work again. What’s to prevent the same thing from happening?” Gilbert turned to the blockhouse. “I can’t believe I wasted the last three weeks and damaged our satellite launcher for one shot!”

Spencer started after the man, but stopped. It had been three weeks, and what did they have to show for it? The railgun worked, but it might have fired its last projectile. The citrus explosives were still not finished; and their only defense besides the Alamogordo townspeople was a medieval catapult!

It chilled him. Maybe Bayclock would laugh at them after all.

Chapter 67

The pregnant girl from Oakland gave birth to a baby boy in the middle of the afternoon. The young father hovered beside her in a panic throughout the ordeal, in deeper shock than the mother herself. He chewed the ends of his fingers and kept asking, “How long is this going to take? How long is it going to be?” The commune’s three self-proclaimed midwives tended the girl.

When they finally brought forth the baby, everyone began cheering and singing in a way that embarrassed Iris Shikozu. One woman ran out and hammered on the iron triangle that served as their dinner bell, raising such a celebratory alarm that several men came running in from the wind turbines.

While this baby was certainly not the first to be born in the Altamont settlement, it was the first since the petroplague. The midwives—all of whom had proclaimed the wonders of natural childbirth—used cool, dampened rags to wipe clean the mother and baby. The fifteen-year-old girl lay trembling and exhausted, holding the baby against her as the father stroked her forehead.

Iris sat down outside the small house and was glad no one had even asked her to boil water. She knew nothing about the birthing process.

Daphne Harris came up and extended a hand to pull Iris to her feet. “Come on, get off your butt! There’s work to do!”

“Gee, thanks for cheering me up,” Iris said and brushed dry grass from her pants.

Daphne looked so healthy and full of restless energy that she practically glowed. Upon first arriving at the commune, Iris had liked Jackson Harris’s wife immediately. Daphne appeared driven, consumed by an ongoing battle inside her; now that she had settled down, she seemed more at peace . . . but she still required some way to burn her restless energy.

“We need to clear some spots down by that cluster of live oak, then you can help me set up a few new tents. We got some more people showing up for the concert, even though it’s still a month away.”

Iris raised her eyebrows. “Musicians this time, or just spectators?”

Daphne shrugged. “I didn’t interview them, girl! Some of both, I guess.”

Once the announcement had gone out about their windmill-powered Labor Day rock ‘n roll concert, people started trickling into the Altamont settlement. Jackson Harris let them stay, as long as they were willing to feed themselves and do work.

And Todd had been gone only a week.

Harris and Doog and a large group of the commune dwellers worked out at the Altamont Speedway, repairing bleachers, rigging wires, fixing the metal loudspeakers. Another group set about laying cloth-wrapped cable from the windmill substations to the sound system at the racetrack.

Daphne handed Iris a shovel, then took a long rake for herself. “The new folks will think it’s romantic for about two nights to sleep out under the stars, then they’ll want a tent. We’ll need to dig a few more privies, too, but I’m not doing that. We got plenty of hands around here to help out.”

Under the live oaks at the far end of the trailers, huts, and reinforced tents, Daphne began attacking the underbrush. She yanked twigs and tore loose grass to clear a firepit and to make flat foundations for new tents. Iris set to work with her shovel, chopping out heavy roots and removing stones.

“So, do you miss him?” Daphne said after a few moments.

Iris’s instinctive reaction was to say “Who?”—but she knew that would be ridiculous. “A little,” she admitted, trying to keep her voice flat and guarded.

“You gonna wait for him? Do you think he’ll come back?”

Iris shrugged. She gripped her shovel and looked the other direction. She didn’t want to meet Daphne’s eyes.

Daphne said, “If you ever think that cowboy of yours ain’t coming back, just let me know. We’ll set you up with somebody. You notice all the other guys staring at you?”

Iris nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed—and I don’t think I’ll need your help setting me up. Thanks, anyway.”

Daphne was silent for a moment, then giggled. “Oh, I almost forgot! I got a message for you. Todd radioed from down in Pasadena. He got on the emergency short-wave network and talked to the Lab in Livermore.”

Iris turned quickly, trying to hide her reaction, but she was too late. “What did he say?”

Daphne spoke with agonizing slowness. “Well, he sent a special message to inform you that he made it to LA just fine. They had some trouble with the train, but they’re at the JPL now, making plans to head out with the satellites. He’s gone that far—and personally, I’m surprised.”

“Was there more?” Iris asked. “Did he say anything else?”

Daphne shrugged. “Probably, but it was an unspoken hint. He was talking to that Moira Tibbett, you know. That woman wouldn’t know an emotion if it slapped her in the face!”

Feeling dizzy, her thoughts in turmoil, Iris plunged back into her work with the shovel.

#

The musicians making their way to the Altamont commune were a mish-mash of drummers, singers, guitarists. Each one had cobbled together musical instruments from pieces that survived the ravages of the petroplague. Many carried wooden flutes, harmonicas, metal autoharps, and expensive classical guitars with ivory instead of plastic tuning pegs and expensive gut strings instead of nylon.

Several engineers in Livermore had taken the challenge to build functional amplifiers and pickups. Two of them even hoped to build a working electric guitar to really shatter the silence.

After dark, the musicians sat around the evening fire and jammed. The crowds grew bigger and bigger as the days went by, and people rode in from the surrounding towns just to hear the evening practice sessions.

Ironically, before the petroplague, most of these people would never have gone to the same bars or the same concerts. Divided into their own little cultural subgroups, cliques had used fine divisions of music to separate themselves: classic rock, folk music, heavy metal, technopop, easy listening, country. Now though, with everything else falling apart, the music itself—regardless of brand or flavor—brought them together and they listened without the scorn or snobbery they would have shown before.

Satisfied, Iris sat on her lumpy cushion under the stars, sipping strong herb tea from a metal cup. They had stuffed themselves with a delicious stew made in a big pot: vegetables from Tracy, herbs from the gardens planted around the commune, and beef from the local ranchers.

Iris lounged back and looked at the people, thinking how strange a mix they seemed—Jackson Harris’s inner-city refugees, throwback hippies, herself a Stanford microbiologist, and redneck ranchers, cowboys, and migrant workers.

Doog started off the singing himself, accompanied by a quiet unobtrusive harmonica. He had a rich, mellow voice, and he closed his eyes as the words came from his lips. The firelight reflected from the circles of his John Lennon glasses. He seemed to be pulling the music out of his soul as he sang.

It didn’t really matter that Doog’s own taste in music was radically different from what hers had been. Now, as she listened to his voice and thought of her own driving obsession to make the Altamont concert a reality, her need to bring not just music, but Rock ‘n Roll, back to the world.

Then she thought of Todd’s need to help start the world on the long journey back to civilization—even if it meant a fool’s errand of carrying solar-power satellites across the country.

What right did she have to step on his dreams?

Long before the music ended for the night, Iris went off to bed, alone.

Chapter 68

Todd Severyn rode high on the buckboard of their commandeered wagon and stared across the landscape of the American southwest.

Beside him, holding the reins of the three horses pulling the wagon, burly Casey Jones sat hypnotized by the desert terrain. He fixed his big dark eyes on the horizon as if willing it to come closer. Casey pushed at the old shirt wrapped like a turban around his bald head to protect him from sunstroke.

He and Todd rode together in the comfortable silence of two men who had already spent too much time together and had used up their conversation. In the wagon bed behind them, Henrietta Soo snoozed in the afternoon heat. Lying against the ten smallsats they had hauled from Pasadena, she sweated under the reflective blankets that tried to keep the heat away.

Todd slouched his cowboy hat over his eyes as the horses plodded along. His arms still ached from days of pumping the railroad handcar across southern California and part of Arizona—but overall he was amazed at how uneventful the journey had been.

Todd kept tattered old maps in a sack under the buckboard, marking his best guess of where they were on their trek. Once they had abandoned the handcar and took to the roads, Casey’s railroad chart hadn’t been much help. By Todd’s reckoning, they had crossed Arizona into New Mexico, then veered south toward Alamogordo and White Sands. Pushing hard, they might reach Spencer Lockwood’s solar-power farm within the next two days.

Early that morning, the last settlement they encountered was a Native American village and old trading post. They had refilled their water containers and traded gossip and news for a delicious breakfast of fresh eggs and tortillas. The desert road stretched arrow-straight ahead of them. The three horses trotted along the easy path with a distance-eating gait.

“People up ahead,” Casey Jones said. His deep voice was gruff and startling in the sleepy afternoon stillness.

Todd cocked his hat back and squinted at two people walking down the road out in the middle of nowhere. Both were tall, a man and a woman; the woman carried a brilliant neon pink backpack.

As the wagon approached, the two hikers stepped off to the side of the road and stood, hands on hips, and waited. The man, tall and broad-shouldered with a mane of straw-colored hair and a devil-may-care grin, stuck out his hand in a classic hitchhiker’s pose. He carried a shotgun over one shoulder and a broad hunting knife at his belt.

Beside him, the woman looked tired, but well-proportioned. She stood like an amazon. She had auburn hair and a strikingly pretty, strong face—nothing dainty about it. She probably hadn’t been much to look at competing in a world of fashion models and heavily applied makeup; but now she was quite memorable.

Casey reined in the horses, and the wagon came to a stop. In the back, Henrietta Soo sat up blinking; she crinkled the reflective blanket away from her.

“Hey, can you give us a lift?” the big blond man said.

The woman smiled at Casey, then flashed a broader grin at Todd, as if she had just seen saviors coming to rescue her. “We’d really appreciate it,” she said. “I’m Heather Dixon.”

She stretched out her hand, and Todd didn’t know if she meant for him to shake it or just give her a hand up into the wagon. She turned to her companion. “And this is—”

He cut her off with an almost savage grin. “Clyde,” he said, “you can just call me Clyde.”

#

By now, Miles Uma had grown accustomed to the assumed name “Casey Jones.” After months by himself, hiding from anyone who might recognize him, Uma had successfully walled himself off from his former existence as the captain of an oil supertanker. He had never told his real name to Rex O’Keefe and the Gambotti brothers, now lost somewhere in LA, alive or dead. He had never told Todd.

The parched scenery around him with its palette of tan, mauve, and rust seemed a million miles from the ocean and the knotted gray clouds he had seen every day on the bridge of the Zoroaster. Uma drove the team of horses, trying not to recall the times he had captained the enormous steel ship.

He had spent his life on the sea: working on tugs up in Alaska, spending six months on a barge, then working his way up to the supertankers owned by Oilstar. He had served in the merchant marines, spent a few years in the Navy when he was younger, and learned everything he needed to know about ocean-going vessels. The sea was his family, his lover. Ever-changing, the sea was always there.

But now the air around him smelled of sage and yucca. He couldn’t recall how the ocean smelled—though he could never forget the stench of spilled crude oil.

Uma extinguished most of those stray thoughts from his mind. He found it easier to forget by latching unto a task, pouring his entire being into accomplishing it. Whether it was fixing up the locomotive Steam Roller, gathering food to bring to the starving masses in Los Angeles, or carrying satellites off to New Mexico.

He still had nightmares about seeing the towering Golden Gate Bridge in the darkness, breaking through the control room door locked by Connor Brooks. He still felt the millions of barrels of oil gushing out from his fragile tanker, saw the TV footage of the spill crawling across the San Francisco Bay.

Uma remembered the brutal finality of the swift board of inquiry that had stripped him of his captain’s rank. Oilstar had fired him, of course, and Uma couldn’t argue with their decision. He was the captain of the Zoroaster, he was responsible for the actions of his crew. Anything else was just an excuse . . . and Miles Uma did not believe in excuses.

It didn’t matter that Connor Brooks had actually caused the crash of the oil tanker. It didn’t matter that one of Oilstar’s microbiologists had actually spread the Prometheus organism that devoured gasoline and petroleum plastics. It didn’t matter that everyone else had found some way to pass the buck.

Uma vowed to spend the rest of his days atoning, to make amends in any way possible, one task after another, from now until the end of his life.

When he and Todd Severyn and Henrietta Soo had left the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, they worked the handcar to propel them along the tracks away from the city, through the San Gabriel Mountains, and into the great southern basin that was one of the least-populated areas in the entire United States. He took twice as many shifts as Todd or Henrietta, refusing to rest, enjoying the pain in his arms because that seared away distractions. Rolling along the rails, they got up an even greater speed than he had estimated, moving along near 25 miles per hour on the long straight stretches across the desert.

The distance from Barstow to Needles was murder, some of the bleakest, hottest wasteland he had ever imagined. Even though they worked through the night, it took them three days to cross the distance and to ascend the near-impossible slopes of the mountain range that stood like battlements across their path. But they made up for the time descending the east side of the slopes, across the California border, into the more hospitable terrain beyond the Colorado River.

In eastern Arizona they passed an abandoned ranch with horses running loose in a large pen out back; wagons rested in a supply yard by the barn. The ranch house stood silent, and as they rolled the handcar into the dawn light, ready to stop for the day, Todd kept staring at the horses. Uma knew what was on his mind.

With a wagon and team of horses, they could make better time without killing themselves from the effort. By now, Uma himself felt ready to drop from aching muscles, and Todd and Henrietta were worse off. Their pace had decreased over the last two days.

They stopped and went to the ranchhouse, hoping to replenish their supplies and at least have a good rest inside a real house on real mattresses, possibly even wash. Todd called out as they walked around the ranch yard. He saw no one moving, only the horses in the back meadows. Uma went to the ranch house, finding it unlocked. No one answered their shouts, and all three entered the darkened home.

The air smelled heavy and musty, as if no one had moved there for months. Everything was reasonably neat, unmolested by scavengers. Underlying it all hung a sour, rancid stench that was oppressive in the thick heat of the house.

They went into the kitchen, where morning light spilled through a broad window onto ceramic tiles and countertops. Uma opened the sealed refrigerator, and a strong gust of rotten meat drifted out. He did find some cans of soda and beer, which they took with them.

“Look at this,” Henrietta said. She reached to one of the door shelves and pulled out a cardboard box that contained five glass bottles. Prescription labels marked it as insulin. In another package, glistening needles lay surrounded by globs of translucent mucus—the remains of plastic hypodermic syringes.

In the big reading room and study, they found the corpse.

The man had been there for probably two months. The dry desert heat had preserved him somewhat, but not enough. He lay blackened and swollen in a big, overstuffed leather chair. His eyes were closed. His hair and fingernails had continued to grow.

Todd stumbled and sat down heavily in a chair, hanging his head in his hands. “Just like I found Alex,” he said. Uma didn’t know what he was talking about.

The study had tall French windows, covered with sheer curtains. Books lined the oak shelves along two walls, and a large fireplace sat black and cold, mounded with white ashes . . .

That afternoon, they buried the man out back.

They spent the rest of the evening gathering supplies. The isolated ranch apparently held many months of stores. All the meat in the freezer had turned rotten, but a large cache of canned goods, as well as dried and smoked meats, remained.

Todd seemed to enjoy rounding up three of the horses and hitching the wagon. Together, they strained to load the ten solar satellites into the bed of the wagon. Uma, Todd, and Henrietta washed with tepid water from the emergency tank by the barn; Uma took the time to shave his entire head with the straight razor. They stayed the night, getting a good rest on comfortable beds, then set out the following morning.

Uma drove the horses as they turned away from the railroad tracks and headed toward New Mexico. They made good time, and Uma began to feel a numbed contentment at seeing the landscape roll by beneath them. Doing something. He did not think about his past.

While he doubted he would ever be happy again, for the first time in many months Uma did not feel miserable. He thought of himself as Casey Jones. . . .

And now, in an incredible, vengeful coincidence, they encountered Connor Brooks, like a great kick in the crotch.

Uma hunched down and kept silent under his rag turban while guiding the horses. Perhaps Brooks just wasn’t bright enough to recognize him, but Uma could never forget the face of the maniac that had caused the wreck of the Oilstar Zoroaster.

Throughout the day, Brooks rode in the back of the wagon, acting charming and talking with Henrietta Soo. She extolled the importance of the solar satellites, talked about where they were going, and how their mission could bring about a renaissance of civilization.

The young woman, Heather Dixon, latched onto Todd. She sat beside him in front asking questions about himself, appearing demure but not sure if she was going about it the right way. Todd was overwhelmed by the attention. He avoided Heather’s eyes but glanced at her whenever he thought she wasn’t looking.

On the other hand, Heather and Connor Brooks seemed to resent each other a great deal. Uma saw it all.

As the miles passed, he just sat on the buckboard guiding the horses. A storm raged within him, and he didn’t know what to do.

#

Todd looked up from his conversation with Heather when Casey Jones stopped the wagon. By sunset, they had reached the wooded foothills of a low line of mountains. It amazed him how fast the afternoon had gone by.

Heather chuckled. High thin shreds of cloud started to turn amber in the slanting light. Just a short walk away, he could see a slash of green through the hills that marked a small stream. Casey Jones jumped down from the buckboard and unhitched the horses, hobbling them so they could graze on the thick scrub.

The big dark man had been unusually reticent since noon, but Todd was preoccupied talking with Heather. Her companion Clyde climbed out of the back of the wagon and helped Henrietta down, smiling graciously at her.

“I noticed you had decent supplies in there,” Clyde said. “It would be great to have an nice dinner for a change.”

Todd kept looking at the green line of the stream. At the abandoned ranch in Arizona he had taken a couple of bamboo fishing poles and lures, hoping to find a chance to use them. “I think I’d rather try for some fresh food,” he said, pointing toward the stream. “Why don’t you fix up what meal you want. I’m going to try my hand at catching some trout over there.”

“If you’ve got two poles, I’ll come along and help,” Heather said, startling Todd. As soon as she spoke, he realized that was exactly what he hoped she would say.

In his former life, working around oil fields and dirty rigs, he never considered himself an expert in the social graces. Heather seemed a bit too eager to go off alone with him, and he felt a stab of guilt thinking about Iris—who was now about fifteen hundred miles away.

Todd remembered his awkward courtship of Iris, a few telephone calls, the long horseback ride from Alex Kramer’s home down to Stanford to pick her up, and the enjoyable times they’d had in the Altamont commune. But he never understood why a woman like Iris Shikozu would be remotely attracted to an old cowboy like himself. Was it just a relationship of convenience? Someone to team up with during the crisis of the spreading petroplague?

Todd’s head hurt. He wasn’t used to thinking like this. Things happened or they didn’t, and bumbling with psychological explanations, trying to second-guess what had occurred or what might have been—all that kind of garbage was for people who didn’t have anything else to do with their lives . . . people who wanted a ready excuse for anything.

He recalled the last thing Iris had said to him before he left. She had called him stupid and laughed at his personal quest to deliver the satellites. Despite all the time he had spent missing Iris, her callousness rekindled his anger. She could stay there in the Altamont and play her rock music for all he cared.

“Sure,” Todd said to Heather. “I’ve got two fishing poles.”

The tough blond guy looked at them with a barely concealed sneer as Todd and Heather took the fishing gear and headed off.

The stream had cut itself a deep channel through the loose soil. Water ran shallow but fast over boulders covered with streamers of algae. Todd scrambled down to the bank, slipping with his cowboy boots but trying not to look too clumsy. He helped Heather down, but she seemed perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Her jeans were worn and dirty, but her legs were long and slim. He watched the way she moved down the hillside. Squatting on a rock by the water, she flicked her reddish hair over her shoulder and smiled at him before she dipped her hands in the stream and splashed water on her face.

In the colorful light of sunset, the glittering droplets of water on her skin as she rubbed her cheeks made her look more beautiful than any amount of makeup ever could. Todd caught himself looking at her and turned away.

He tied a small spinner on one of the fish lines. He had spent plenty of times out in Wyoming, catching trout and fixing his own dinner before sleeping under the stars, with only a blanket and his horse for company. Todd handed Heather the first pole, then tied another lure for himself.

“Watch you don’t get it snagged in the rocks,” he said. “If there’s trout in here, they’ll be hiding down under the shadows.”

Heather sat on a rock beside him, dangling her lure in the water and flicking it back and forth. Todd showed her how to improve her technique, but Heather seemed distracted, as if she needed to talk about something but was afraid to broach the subject. Todd felt his stomach knotting. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what was on her mind.

“We need to get away,” she finally said. Her voice was husky, but frightened. “I’ve been with Connor for over a month. We’ve been wandering eastward, going nowhere—but he’s getting more and more unstable.”

“Connor?”

“That’s his real name. He said ‘Clyde’ because he thinks the two of us are Bonnie and Clyde. He’s sick, and he’s dangerous. I watched him shoot somebody’s dog just so he could frighten them.”

“So . . . what do you want to do?”

“I want to leave. We can keep walking now. Follow this stream up into the mountains. Keep moving! I’ve been living off the land for a month now. It’s not so difficult.”

“But—” Todd said, then his mind blanked on him. “I came all this way with the solar satellites. I can’t just stop now. Casey Jones and Dr. Soo are counting on me to go with them. Do you think they’re in danger just being with this guy? Maybe we should tell him to be on his way.”

“Of course they’re in danger!” Heather said, “but not unless we go back and spill his story. What’s more important?” Her eyes were big and pleading. “We could make a go of it, couldn’t we?”

“I—” he said, then his fish hook snagged on a rock. Thankful for the distraction, Todd turned back to the stream and began yanking on the pole to dislodge the lure. He could feel himself sweating with anxiety. His head was in a turmoil. He had left Iris in the Altamont because he needed to accomplish this journey. He couldn’t just run off now.

He finally got the fishhook free and yanked it out of the water. Turning to face Heather again, he froze stock still.

She had unbuttoned her plaid flannel shirt and yanked it open, untucking it from the waistband of her pants and exposing her large breasts. Her nipples stood out like strawberries on her pale skin. Todd stared dumbstruck.

#

Silvery reflective blankets and wadded padding covered the solar satellites in the back of the wagon. Connor Brooks poked around, catching a glimpse of the metal-clad smallsats. They didn’t look like much, but the lady doctor had been babbling all day about how fucking valuable they were, how they would bring back high-tech civilization.

When he thought no one else was looking, he snooped around, wondering what he could do with the sats. Maybe he could hold them for ransom or sell them off to somebody. The cowboy and that slut Heather had gone off fishing together, and they were probably banging away in the bushes at this very moment. Connor didn’t give a damn. She had grown boring enough in the last week.

He could smell the food the old lady doctor was heating at a small campfire, and it made his mouth water. The dark Quasimodo guy who drove the horses had been skulking around the campsite, but Connor couldn’t see him now. The man had some real problems, didn’t speak a word to anybody. He looked like a chocolate cue ball when he took off the turban on his head. Weird shit.

Ten satellites lay in the wagon bed. The horses were unhitched, and he figured it would take him maybe five minutes to hook them up again. After everyone bedded down, he could sneak back here and do it quietly, then ride off before anybody woke up fast enough to stop him.

He heard a soft footstep behind him and turned just in time to see the stocky black man lunge toward him, smashing his ribs against the side of the wagon. Connor let out a startled cry and gasped as the breath was halfway knocked out of him. The big creep grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.

“Good to see you again, Brooks! Asshole.” The man’s voice sounded like a nail file dragged over a jagged edge of glass.

“Hey!” Connor gasped, struggling. “What the hell are you doing?” The man tried to twist him around, but Connor squirmed out of his grip. Dancing back and on his guard, Connor whirled. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

The dark bald man glared at him. His skin had a strange mottled coloration, and his face was wide and flattened in some sort of weird halfbreed mixup. “Come on, Brooks!” the man taunted. “You’ve been in my nightmares for months. You don’t recognize your captain?”

Suddenly the pieces snapped into place, and Connor’s eyes widened. Impossible! But the eyes, the slash of a lip, the flat nose and high cheekbones were indeed familiar. The last he remembered of the Butthead had been of Uma running from the bridge of the Oilstar Zoroaster to answer the false fire alarm Connor himself had set. The man had been a regular ape, full of black bristly hair from his knuckles to his eyebrows. But, the same man was somehow here in the middle of the desert, months after the petroplague—and their paths had collided again.

“You . . . you fuck!” Connor shouted.

He ducked his head and launched himself like a bullet to charge into Uma, but the burly captain was prepared. In fact, he seemed eager for the fight.

Uma took the attack in his rock-hard stomach; he pounded down with his fist on the back of Connor’s head. Then he wrapped a huge forearm around Connor’s neck.

Connor hammered upward into Uma’s crotch, making the dark man gasp with pain and release his hold just enough for Connor to struggle free. But Uma didn’t appear weakened. He stood with his fists bunched, ready to come pounding again.

“I am going to beat the living shit out of you, Brooks, and then maybe I’ll stake you out on the desert and let the ants finish you off!”

Connor took a step back toward the wagon. He couldn’t run. No way would he get far enough to escape, not that he really wished to. Right now more than anything Connor wanted to put Captain Butthead’s head up on a stake for the vultures to eat.

“What are you two doing?” Henrietta Soo came up from the campfire holding a big wooden spoon in her hand like a mother about to chastise two brawling children.

“This man caused the Zoroaster spill,” Uma said in his low, broken-glass voice.

Connor used the distraction to scramble around the back of the wagon, where he snatched up the shotgun he had carried across two states, the gun he had used to shoot the Mormon lady’s dog.

He took one more step toward Uma and raised the barrel. He had shells in both chambers; he cocked back the hammer. “You were the captain of the tanker, Butthead. You were responsible. Don’t go dumping that crap on me!”

Henrietta Soo looked from one to the other as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Uma didn’t seem the least bit afraid of Connor’s shotgun, and he stepped toward him.

“We’re not in front of an inquiry board here, Brooks. You can’t get away on technicalities. I may be responsible, since I should have had you confined to your quarters, but you caused the wreck. It’s your fault, and you’ll burn in hell for it.”

Connor held the shotgun steady as Uma continued to stride closer. He had no second thoughts about pulling the trigger. He had almost forgotten how much he hated this man. “My fault? None of it’s my fault, Butthead!” He laughed and raised the shotgun.

#

Heather stared back at Todd, trying to be alluring but somehow looking just as frightened as he felt. She unsnapped her jeans and pulled the zipper slowly open. “I don’t need you to come along with me, Todd. I can handle this by myself—but I want you there. I made a major bad choice with Connor, but I think you’re different. Let’s go make our own lives. Let’s get out of here!”

Todd’s heart hammered in his chest, and his throat became drier than the desert hardpan. “Heather, I . . . .”

He kept seeing flashes of Iris. There were plenty of other men at the Altamont commune, and Iris was a person with a short temper and quick passions. She had wanted to move much faster in their relationship than Todd ever would have. He doubted that she would ever wait for him, and he had never promised to wait for her . . . just to come back someday.

But he shook his head, knowing that as difficult as it was, that his true feelings lay with Iris. He averted his eyes and started to speak, but before any words could form themselves, the cracking echo of a gunshot split the dusk.

“What the heck?” Todd said.

“The shotgun!” Heather said. “It’s Connor!” She scrambled to button her shirt again and fasten her jeans. The two of them climbed up the embankment and raced desperately toward the camp.

#

Connor squeezed the shotgun’s triggers, firing both barrels. The bang nearly deafened them.

—but instead of turning Uma’s chest into a pulp, the shotgun itself blew up in a backfire. Shards of the gun barrel and the stock flew in all directions. Black smoke burst out in a cloud. Connor fell backward, screaming as the hot explosion shredded the left side of his face.

With an animal howl Uma was upon him, ripping the twisted remains of the shotgun out of his hand and bringing it down like a club. Connor managed to roll and took the full force of the blow on his shoulder.

Trying to think clearly through the pain in his head and the rage pulsing though him, Connor yanked out his hunting knife. He couldn’t see anything out of his eye, and blood blazed like fire across his cheeks and temple. He slashed blindly, hoping to slice Uma’s jugular or put out his eye. Instead, the tip of the knife ripped across the dark man’s shirt. Uma stumbled back just long enough for Connor to scramble to his knees and grip the knife handle with both hands.

Uma swung again with the ruined shotgun, but Connor ducked low, then came up with all the strength in both of his arms and plunged the knife to the hilt in Uma’s abdomen.

Connor yanked the knife away, and blood came with it. Uma didn’t even seem to notice. The big bald man dropped the shotgun and came in again with his bare hands. He locked his grip around Connor’s throat, and Connor slashed his forearm—but Uma didn’t care. He was a vengeful machine, his only thought to kill Connor.

Connor’s larynx crumpled like an aluminum beer can. He stabbed Uma again, feeling the blade slip between his ribs and into his side. Foamy red blood came out of Uma’s mouth, but the Butthead continued to squeeze.

Connor’s eyes bulged; he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. He stabbed again and again. Uma was drenched with his own blood.

Connor began to pass out, when slowly Uma’s eyes froze ahead. He toppled like a great redwood trunk, falling to the dirt at the side of the wagon.

Connor tore himself free, retching and gasping for air. He stepped back, staring down at the wide-eyed corpse of the tanker captain. “You fuck!” He coughed and slammed his hiking boot viciously into Butthead’s kidneys. He kicked Uma again and again, feeling ribs crack and his side cave in. Connor couldn’t release his grip on the big hunting knife, even though the blood made his hands slick.

Suddenly, he remembered Henrietta Soo. She stood by the campfire still holding her flimsy wooden spoon and staring at him in horror.

A slow grin twisted Connor’s mangled face and he set off after her with the knife.

#

Todd reached the clearing before Heather. He scrambled down the rocks as he spotted Connor sitting on the buckboard of the wagon, cracking the reins. Todd nearly tripped, but kept his balance and yelled, “Hey—Connor! Stop!”

Connor twisted in his seat as if stunned to hear his name. He looked hideous—blood ran down the side of his face, a dark splotch where his eye had been. He was covered in dirt, soot and blood. Connor yelled at the horses. The wagon lurched forward in a cloud of dust and stones.

Todd heard the horses whinny as he smelled an overpowering smell of burning meat. Reaching the bottom of the rocky slope, Todd clunked forward in his cowboy boots. He tried to get up as much speed as he had when he and Casey Jones had leapt across the space between the buildings.

The wagon moved faster as Todd put on a final burst of speed. Reaching out, he grabbed onto the side of the wagon.

Splinters from the rough siding scraped his hands. He stumbled and tried to grab on with his other hand, but the wagon hit a bump and jerked away from him. Todd crashed into the ground, rolling, trying to keep away from the rear wagon wheel.

The wagon clattered past, and Todd heard a mish-mash of horse’s hoofs, snorting, and then the sound of Connor shouting something unintelligible as he charged away. Todd waited for a moment before pushing himself up.

He heard Heather run up beside him as he inspected his splintered hands. “Oh, Todd—” He ignored her, ticked off that he had let Connor get away.

A cloud of fading dust marked the horses’ progress. Todd turned to view the campsite.

Heather brushed back the hair from her eyes. “What now?”

Todd headed for the campsite. “Let’s check it out.”

The campfire still burned, and Henrietta Soo lay sprawled face-first on the ground beside it. Her arm had fallen into the embers of the fire. Her shirt smoldered, and the skin of her forearm blistered a sickly black.

Todd bent down on watery knees and rolled her over. Connor had slit her throat in a long ragged gash. It looked as if she had bled gallons into the dry dirt.

The deepening dusk blurred all the sharp details and the bright colors, but it took Heather only a moment to find the body of Casey Jones. He was much worse. Connor had butchered him.

Before Todd squeezed his eyes shut, he saw at least half a dozen stab wounds in Casey’s chest and abdomen.

Todd staggered away and vomited into the scrub brush, then fell back. He sat on the rough dirt and stared at nothing. He had never experienced anything like this before. Connor Brooks couldn’t be a human being and do this!

Heather squatted next to him and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. She squeezed it, but Todd barely felt the pressure of her fingers.

“I know I warned you,” she said, “but even I didn’t think he was capable of this. I thought he might take our supplies and steal the wagon but . . . all the blood!” She shuddered violently, then gasped to herself in disbelief. “I slept with him! I was alone with him for a month. What if I had said the wrong thing? What if he had done that to me?”

Todd’s voice was bitter. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Now he’s gone and we’re alone together.”

Heather stiffened and drew away from him. “This is not what I wanted!” Then she staggered to be by herself. Any thought of a relationship between them would now be forever stained with murder and violence.

After a few moments apart, Todd made his way to Heather. “We’ll never catch him. He’s got three horses. Where do you think he’ll go?”

Heather took a while to respond. “Anywhere he thinks he can use the satellites to his advantage. But that won’t help us.”

“We’ll bury these two,” Todd said, “and then you and I will make our way to White Sands. I’ve come this far, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to turn back, even if I don’t have the satellites.”

#

Riding high in his tethered hot-air balloon, Lieutenant Bobby Carron stared across the desert, dozing. The first day he had exhilarated in being up in the air, but this was vastly different from flying a fighter jet: standing in an aluminum basket while a blazing fire scorched his back, bobbing at the end of a thousand-foot-long rope coupled with a telegraph wire.

For the past week Bobby had surveyed the surrounding area, staring at every rock and shrub. He checked the horizon with the metal spyglass Dr. Lockwood’s optics workshop had rigged up. He knew the area well enough now to spot anything unusual.

Movement triggered his subconscious. Without thinking, he floated up one level of awareness, letting his mind integrate the area around him. He detected another movement, another . . . and then scores of them like an army of ants making its way across the valley—right where Rita had predicted it would come.

He felt his pulse race as he made out a column of soldiers appearing in the shimmering heat mirage. By rough count, he guessed General Bayclock had brought a hundred troops, plus support personnel. A few rode horses, but the rest marched in ranks.

Then, far in the west, he saw two other figures, two people alone walking across the flat dizzying desert, headed toward the White Sands facility. Bobby turned his spy glass to them and could barely make out a man and a woman striding along.

Bobby grabbed the portable telegraph unit. He tapped the international signal to drop everything!, attempting to get Juan Romero’s attention: “XVW, XVW, XVW . . .”

Chapter 69

In the west wing of the White House, the Situation Room had once been the showpiece of America’s military-industrial investment in high technology. At one time, media pundits forecasted with uncanny accuracy the level of U.S. response to an international incident by counting the number of pizzas delivered to the Situation Room on any particular night. In the most important city in the nation, at the most important residence, this was without a doubt the most important room.

But now there were no pizzas, no media watchdogs, no technological wizardry. High-definition computer workstations gave way to blackboards, messages scrawled on scraps of paper, and flickering electric light powered by steam-engine generators on the Mall.

Staffers hurried about, but their focus had shifted from world events to the demands upon the national government made by several unofficial domestic “city-states,” which were the new centers of power scattered around the crumbling country.

President Jeffrey Mayeaux sat in a highbacked chair, digging his fingernails into the leather. He tried to digest the information being fed to him in contradictory scraps with confusing lack of detail. What the hell was going on out there? The lack of verified information appalled him—it was like trying to make sense out of a TV show on a channel filled with multicolored static.

At his right, along a long wooden table, sat his military advisers, the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The five men looked weary—as they damn well should, since he hadn’t let them leave the White House Complex in over a week! Their uniforms were wrinkled, stained, but they held themselves up with caffeine-fed dignity. Mayeaux scowled at them then looked back to the note papers. Those guys didn’t know what pressure was!

At Mayeaux’s left sat representatives from his cabinet, the National Security Agency, and his private staff. Three Secret Service agents stood quietly in the background; the agents were usually absent from such closed discussions, and their presence now did not go unnoticed. Mayeaux had started taking such precautions when his military advisers began grumbling more and more loudly about Mayeaux’s way of coping with the petroplague situation.

Well, fuck them! No other president had to deal with the whole country falling apart—not even Lincoln! The Civil War had been rational and understandable, a disagreement in politics.

Mayeaux pushed Appendix J 7, the latest list of petroplague-destroyed items, across the desk. He was getting sick of seeing addenda to the original memo. Didn’t the compilers get tired of jotting things down? Toothpaste caps? Disposable diapers and condoms? For God’s sake, who cared?

Mayeaux scowled and closely watched the reactions of the Joint Chiefs. “The list is not getting smaller, gentlemen. I understand the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex has also broken off communication with the central government, and they strung up three of our agents trying to enforce martial law. I’ve got conflicting reports of some severe problems in San Diego. Are we going to be able to get the country back on its feet? What do we have to offer people as far as restoring the old way of life? How about making some progress for a change!”

Mayeaux’s science advisor said, “We still hope to someday use methane and propane, but that’s impossible until we can develop reliable seals for airtight containers. Eventually, we could extract and refine oil in a closed, sterile environment, but of course that would enormously increase the cost of petroleum products. There may even be certain additives to plastics that will discourage decomposition by the microorganism. The scientists at NIST and the CDC are working around the clock—”

“Dammit, I’m not interested in ‘eventually!’ Our house is in flames and you’re talking about inventing a telephone to call the fire department!” Mayeaux slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. “We’ve got to get the situation under control, and then ease back so we can introduce improvements and gradual solutions.”

He studied the Joint Chiefs. “Mais, let me tell you somethin’. Since we can’t tap anything other than firewood or maybe coal for energy, we are in for one hell of a winter. We don’t have any industry left. States and big cities are declaring their independence right and left, and the national government is nothing more than a figurehead.

“We cannot back up our authority or make orders stick—not to mention martial laws, executive decrees, and everything else! What are we going to do about the larger cities defying my emergency orders? Do I just ignore Dallas and Los Angeles and Miami and San Diego? See how they fend for themselves as independent countries? Screw that! Give me an effective strategy I can use right now in this situation.” Mayeaux turned to General Wacom, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a thin, grey-haired Air Force man in an unassuming blue uniform.

Wacom stared back. “You’ve said it all yourself, sir. The military is disjointed and relegated to the status of either observers or local police forces maintaining order under the authority of local governments. It may be our most effective tactic to let the country calm down and keep order on a local level until we get the infrastructure back in place. I don’t think these states really intend to become permanently independent—once the populace starts to see regular news from Washington again, once they hear the President address them directly, they’ll come around. I don’t suggest we do anything drastic.”

Mayeaux worked his jaw, feeling helpless as he watched the authority of the Presidency crumble beneath him.

“That’s just great, General. So what you’re saying is that I should just sit here and let everything take care of itself? History would really love me for that. I’m sure they’d erect a Mayeaux Monument right there on the Mall, with the three monkeys of Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil! What the hell are you trying to pull on me? Because I talk with an accent do you think I’m an idiot?”

His military advisors stared blandly back, not offering any solution. As he simmered, Mayeaux got the distinct feeling that they were waiting for him to slip up, to make a wrong move, and then they would crawfish in to accomplish their own agenda.

Were they going to initiate impeachment hearings? He drew in a breath, suddenly panicked. Or would it be a military coup?

He glanced at the Secret Service agents standing at the corner of the room for reassurance; it was getting hard to trust anyone nowadays, and he couldn’t feel secure in his dealings even with his own staff. Where the hell was Weathersee?

Mayeaux pushed his chair back from the table and strode from the room, accompanied by his Secret Service entourage. Not one person in the Situation Room stood as the Chief Executive exited.

Chapter 70

From his lookout position in the rugged Organ Mountains, General Bayclock searched the sprawling White Sands valley. Behind him on a volcanic outcrop, his two colonels and Sergeant Catilyn Morris waited for him to decide their next move.

At the base of the mountain, he had directed his troops to rest and inspect their weapons for the final march across the valley. Five miles to the north, they had left the group of noncombatants, cooks, water carriers, supply haulers, food handlers, tent carriers. Bayclock had needed the additional personnel to get this far, but now that he was within sight of the enemy, he insisted on having only the front-line troops present.

Sergeant Morris scrambled up the rocky slope. “See anything, sir?” The two colonels huffed after her, pulling at lone clumps of grass for support.

“Let me have the binoculars,” Bayclock said.

Sergeant Morris rummaged in her pack and pulled out a reconditioned olive-green pair of binoculars. She pointed to a thin line running up the tallest peak on the other side of the valley. “That’s the electromagnetic satellite launcher, sir. Five miles south is the microwave antenna farm. Lockwood’s group has holed up in those few support buildings there. No major defenses, no perimeter fortifications.”

Not listening, Bayclock adjusted the binocular sights; the knob squeaked. “I’ll be damned!”

“What is it, sir?” Colonel David inched up on his hands and knees. Colonel Nachimya, commander of the Base Personnel group, joined him. Neither man was a true soldier in Bayclock’s opinion—neither were flyers, and neither had ever held a real command, but had merely worked in labs or administrative offices all their careers. Bayclock didn’t have many choices.

He wished he had paid more attention to the lectures at the National War College. He had blown off theoretical discussions on ground attacks, interested only in the methodology of air superiority. In his blood Bayclock was a fighter pilot. But right now he’d trade almost anything for a copy of von Clausewitz.

“Sir?” said Sergeant Morris. “Is anything the matter?”

Bayclock handed the binoculars to Colonel David. “A balloon—can you believe it? What the hell are they doing with a hot-air balloon?”

The colonel searched the sky. “Dr. Nedermyer insists that Lockwood’s people are completely focused on that solar-power project. At the Phillips Lab I’ve worked around scientists like that for years. My bet is they’re using the balloon to gather information about the weather.”

Bayclock turned to the other colonel. “And what do you think, Tony?”

Colonel Nachimya stared across the valley, but he made no move to take the binoculars. “Observation post maybe? You could see our troops approaching from a long way off, sir.”

“That was my own thought. If that’s so, they already know we’re here.” Bayclock studied the area around the distant, glittering antenna farm, unable to see people from this range.

He struggled to his feet and handed the binoculars back to Sergeant Morris. “Assemble the troops. We’ll get this over with in a hurry, attack under cover of darkness. I don’t trust any of those bastards we’re up against.”

As the sun set behind the broken mountains, shadows extended across the valley like fingers of death toward the rebellious scientists. By this time tomorrow, Bayclock’s troops would have engulfed Lockwood’s group and reestablished order, at last.

#

In the radio trailer, Juan Romero concentrated on a circuit diagram he had sketched himself; he hoped it would improve the microwave satellite switching algorithm. Before the petroplague, intricate new designs had been constructed on workstations optimized for specific configurations. But the overrated software annoyed Romero—why spend so much time studying electrical engineering if you were just going to be a computer jock? He felt a rush of pride to see that he could still do a circuit diagram the old way, with a brain and a pencil.

Static clicks from the telegraph interrupted his thoughts. He grumbled about Bobby Carron picking the worst time to run a test from his observation balloon. Romero listened to the first few lines of code, and then his face tightened. “Hey, Spence!” His own hoarse voice surprised him.

Gilbert Hertoya trotted out of the blockhouse, ducking around an array of cables. “What you got?”

Romero glanced up, but continued relaying Bobby’s message to the microwave facility five miles to the south. “It’s Bayclock. He’s here already! Where’s Spencer?”

The short engineer blinked. “Oh, crackerjacks! He and Rita headed off for the microwave facility before dark. They should get there within an hour.”

“Bobby’s got Bayclock’s troops pegged at ten miles out. No solid count on the number, but there’s at least a hundred.” Romero felt panic clogging his voice. He tugged on his drooping moustache. “What are we going to do?”

“Do you think they’ll attack after dark? Can Bobby estimate how fast they’re moving?”

“Just a minute.” Romero tapped furiously on the switch. The telegraph line from the balloon came back to life. “They’re still coming down from the foothills. He estimates they’re traveling under three miles an hour.”

“Okay.” Gilbert set his mouth. “Keep relaying everything to the farm, and let me know when Spencer gets there. I’ll set the railgun up for a pre-emptive strike.”

Romero looked up at the other man. “You mean, go on the offense? Shouldn’t we give them a warning or something?”

“Ask them to surrender? Ha!” Gilbert’s face was grim and looked very old. “We’re not playing by parlor rules. Bayclock is the aggressor. Time to scare the hell out of him.”

#

The memory of the capacitor banks pre-firing on the first railgun test nearly smothered Gilbert’s optimism. Now that Bayclock’s army was breathing down their necks, he knew it could easily happen again. Or something even worse.

Gilbert refused to wait for Bayclock’s army to start shooting at them. The general was on the move, marching closer. As far as Gilbert was concerned, there was no point in negotiating—they hadn’t asked for the invasion force, had done nothing to incite the attack. But Bayclock had come strutting in, uninvited.

If some tin-pot Napoleon thought he could march down here with an army, Gilbert intended to send him back home with his tail between his legs. If the White Sands group lost their advantage of surprise, Bayclock could move his troops to safety and come at them from a different direction.

A cloud of metal shrapnel flying at five times the velocity of a bullet would surely demoralize Bayclock’s troops—especially coming from a bunch of supposedly defenseless scientists. If nothing else, the railgun would make the army wonder what else Spencer’s hot shots might come up with.

Arnie poked his head out from the launcher command post. “Ready for the bank to go hot, Gilbert.”

“Has the projectile been checked?”

Arnie sighed. “Twice by you and three times by us. We loaded Rita’s special shrapnel mix of chopped up razor blades, nails, and broken glass. If we pop it now, it should spread out to hit their camp. It won’t be pretty.”

“It’s not supposed to be pretty.” Gilbert looked around for Romero. “Heard from Spencer yet?”

The radio man shook his head. “The farm says they’ll contact us when he gets there.”

Gilbert thought fast. He had to go with it. Command decision. Spencer and his crew had been anticipating this moment ever since Bobby Carron had deserted and stayed behind.

Years earlier, Gilbert had been yanked from his work at the Sandia National Lab, sent over to the Middle East as a military consultant during the first Gulf conflict. He had left Cynthia and the kids behind in Albuquerque, unable to tell them what he was doing—much the same way he had left them in Alamogordo during the past few weeks. He hadn’t protested then because he believed in his work. And now, he had never felt stronger about anything in his life. Spencer’s solar power farm must not fall into the hands of a military dictator.

He drew in a deep breath. “Okay, charge the banks. Launch on my count.” He twisted his head. “Romero! Get an updated range from Bobby.”

“Right.”

Gilbert scrambled over a thigh-thick cluster of cables to position himself at the railgun’s crude rangefinder—optics from a high-powered rifle juxtaposed with a protractor and a plumbline. Within seconds Romero relayed elevation and landmark information.

Grunting, Gilbert reached up to rotate the unwieldy device with the hand crank. When the starlit peak across the valley was in sight on the crosshairs, he elevated the long metal railings until the plumbline registered the correct position. “Talk about spit and chewing gum,” he muttered.

“Bank’s hot, Gil. Your call.”

Gilbert eyed the crosshairs one more time, then gently moved away from the device. He slapped Romero on the back. “Get some cover.” He nodded at the tech in the control room. “Light it!”

“Roger!” Arnie yelled into the blockhouse. “Hit it!”

Fifty feet away from the railgun, Gilbert turned to watch. He saw a weirdly ionized ball shoot the length of the rails, sparking across the gaps as the heavy shrapnel projectile accelerated upward. He had never seen a nighttime launch, and it looked beautiful.

Then a blinding flash erupted from the capacitor building. The sounds of the railgun and the capacitor exploding hit him at the same time.

Gilbert felt the pop of the shock wave as the dynamic overpressure hit. He started running toward the railgun, not knowing what had happened. A secondary explosion came from the capacitor building. “No, dammit!”

He barely saw the fragment of metal spinning toward him as it hit him in the knees. He fell, trying to pummel the ground with his fists as he passed out.

#

General Bayclock rode at the front of the army advancing toward the microwave farm, accompanied by Sergeant Morris and Dr. Nedermyer. Five security policemen on horseback surrounded him. Behind him and spreading out like a wedge, rode his two colonels and their respective groups of soldiers.

The troops marched on foot, weary but excited to be finally reaching their destination. They had lost five horses early in the trek during the raid from the pueblo dwellers, but the general had commandeered other mounts from ranches on the way.

Bayclock still thought of himself as a Wing Commander, and his two groups made up the remainder of his military command. The lines of communication were short, and he had no doubt they would easily take the solar-power facility.

But Bayclock remembered from National War College that overconfident troops were easiest to overcome; he did not want his troops to fail because Lockwood’s people put up an unexpected fight. Yet it was hard to take the group of scientists seriously. He had not yet decided how lenient he would be with them when it was all over.

Bayclock turned to Sergeant Catilyn Morris, intending to call the troops to a halt when he first heard the sound—like a million angry insects suddenly buzzing, filling his head.

Sharp, startled screams broke the air. His people dropped, horses bellowed then whinnied in pain. All around him, the peaceful desert seemed suddenly to spew forth a plague of locusts, hard projectiles pattering the ground and whizzing through the air. The screaming buzz seemed to go on and on.

Bayclock pulled his horse around—two security policemen behind him fell on the ground; one writhed, the other lay motionless. Beside them, a horse struggled, trying to get back to its feet and leaving splashes of blood on the white gypsum sands.

Just as suddenly as it started, the deadly rain stopped. The night sky continued to fill with yells of terror.

Bayclock yanked his rifle from its holster. “Sergeant, get my staff up here!”

“Yes, sir!” Sergeant Morris pulled her horse around and galloped back into the starlit night. Bayclock turned in his saddle and yelled at the security policemen. “You, man—help your buddy! You others post a guard in a semicircle. Speed out!”

Chaos overwhelmed the night as the sounds of panicked troops scrambling to follow orders mixed with moans of pain. Bayclock held his rifle on his knee, trying to drive a wedge through the darkness with the sheer force of his anger. What in the living hell just happened?

He heard horses come up behind him, and he made out the forms of Sergeant Morris and Colonel David. The colonel held his injured left arm against his side.

“Report!” snapped Bayclock. “What have you got?”

Colonel David shook his head, coughing. “Nothing definite, sir. I don’t know how many people I’ve lost. We’ve got a shitload of injuries, everything from impact wounds to shatter fractures. I haven’t seen anything like this since the fragmentation weapons used in the Gulf.”

“Those daisy-cutters were dropped by B 52s, Colonel—have you heard any planes around here lately?”

The colonel shook his head; Sergeant Morris suggested tentatively, “Maybe the scientists have mortars, sir.”

Bayclock glared. “Daisy-cutters are five-hundred-pound bombs, Sergeant! I’ve brought them on my own missions. Now shut the hell up while I speak with my staff.”

Sergeant Morris grew tight-lipped. “Yes, sir.”

Bayclock turned back to the colonel. “Where’s Nachimya?”

“He bought it, general. He was twenty yards away from me when he died. Large wound through the trachea.”

“Who’s his second in command?”

Colonel David shook his head. “Major Zencon took off after some of the troops, sir. It was clear they were deserting.”

“Why didn’t he shoot the bastards? He has standing orders to shoot deserters!” Colonel David remained silent and closed his eyes. “Answer me, Colonel!”

Sergeant Morris answered quietly, “Major Zencon apparently deserted as well, sir. Colonel David couldn’t shoot them because of his own injury. We’ve probably lost a quarter of our troops already.”

The general yanked the bridle on his black gelding. The horse reared up, but Bayclock wrested control back. “Sergeant Morris, round up my security guard. Anyone who isn’t injured is to bring the highest-ranking officers to me, ASAP! Their orders remain unchanged—deserters will be shot. We will fall back and regroup until we learn more about the surprise defenses the scientists have set up for us.”

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Morris turned her horse and stopped. “General, look!”

Bayclock muttered an oath. In the distance a fire blazed at the base of the electromagnetic launcher. It looked as though a bomb had devoured the entire facility, and fingers of flame licked the sky.

#

“Halt, who goes there!”

After the long, relaxing ride to the microwave facility, Spencer’s first thought was that someone must be playing a joke. Upon seeing the glint of two rifle barrels, his second thought was to answer as quickly as he could. “It’s Spencer—don’t shoot!”

“Rita Fellenstein,” said Rita beside him, just as quickly.

The gun barrel wavered, then dropped as a twangy voice said, “Yeah, it’s Spence. Darn—I thought we’d get to shoot our first live ones.”

Spencer kept his hands up, still unsure of what was going on. “Uh, can you tell me—” And then it hit him. “My God, Bayclock is here already!”

The voice in the darkness turned grim. “Things are going crazy back at the EM launch site. You’d better hurry into the microwave trailer for a report, pronto.”

Spencer didn’t reply. He kicked his mount with his heels, urging the horse to a gallop. Rita charged along beside him, her Australian hat flopping back against her neck.

When they reached the blockhouses, Spencer listened without a word as he was brought up to date. The technician at the telegraph unit spread her hands. “Romero managed to keep us updated in real time, up until the railgun fired.”

“Are you sure the railgun blew up?”

The tech shrugged. “Who knows? That’s what it looked like.”

Rita leaned forward. “What about Bobby?”

“I don’t know. We can’t see the balloon, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could be down to refuel.”

Spencer clenched his jaw, furious with himself. If only he had waited another hour at the launcher before returning! He tried to calm down; he needed to think clearly. Except for Rita, his closest advisors had been at the ill-fated railgun site.

“So what do we do?” said Rita. “Have we lost our long-range strike capability?”

“That pretty much goes without saying,” said the technician.

“Then we’re up a creek,” said Rita. “Bayclock’s boys can be here in three hours if they want!”

“If that’s the case,” said Spencer, “there’s nothing more we can do.” Come on, he thought. What happened to the whiz kid? The going got tough, and now he’s supposed to deliver.

Rita turned toward the blockhouse door with a determined look on her face. “I’ll take a couple of ranchhands and scout out Bayclock’s position. We can take along some of those citrus-oil explosives and lob the army a couple of nasty presents. Psych warfare. If we leave now, we can get there and back before dawn. We’ll stop by the launch site to check things out on the way, and send somebody back if the telegraph isn’t up when we get there.”

Spencer felt as if he had been hit over the head with a bagful of Higg’s bosons. He shook his head. “I don’t know—”

“I wasn’t asking permission, Spence,” said Rita. “Why don’t you just go do something you do best—like double the output power from those microwave satellites? Keep yourself busy and out of the way.”

#

Half an hour later, Spencer stood grim-faced as Rita swung a long leg over her horse. Her saddlebags were packed with explosives, pyrotechnics, and ammunition. Two ranchhands accompanied her, both grinning nervously as she leaned over to spit a tiny wad of chewing tobacco before setting out.

“See you in a couple of hours.” She leaned over and pecked Spencer on the cheek. “If you get a hold of Bobby, tell him I’m on my way.”

“He’ll be happy to know that.” Spencer slapped her horse on the flank. “Get going—you’ve got a job to do.”

“Make sure the catapult operators are ready for the morning light,” Rita called. “They might look like they’re over the hill, but they know what they’re doing. Just ask Romero.”

Spencer watched as Rita and her two companions rode off into the darkness. He stared until they faded from sight. He sighed, then turned back to the microwave trailer when he heard a voice calling him.

“Quick! We captured two people coming in from the west.”

A chill ran down Spencer’s back. Oh great, he thought. Nobody around here has any military savvy, and we’ve just captured our first prisoners of war?

He jogged down the dusty path, nearly stumbling over ruts in the darkness. On the old road to the microwave farm, Spencer met a guard walking behind two people—both quite tall, a man and a woman, their hands behind their backs. Even in the starlight Spencer could see the man wore a cowboy hat, and the woman tied her long hair in a pony tail. They didn’t look like what he expected of Bayclock’s troops.

The guard said, “Hey, Spencer, come see what we’ve got here.”

The prisoner’s voice had a strong cowboy twang. “Are you Dr. Lockwood? Am I glad to see you!”

“I bet you are. Who are you?”

The cowboy pushed himself forward, ahead of the guard. “I talked to you on the shortwave. I’m Todd Severyn. From the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena.”

Chapter 71

Rita Fellenstein stood in the stirrups, craning her neck to spot the glow of Bayclock’s campfires. For once she was thankful for the petroplague, since the general had no access to infrared goggles or other high-tech nighttime defenses. At least she didn’t think so.

Even better, his troops were not familiar with the landscape.

Rita intended to use her advantage to the max.

The two ranch hands started to whisper, but Rita put out a hand for silence. So far, she had spotted no roving patrols, but she didn’t put it past Bayclock to send out random point squads.

Still without word from the damaged railgun site, Rita rode with the ranch hands and looped south, coming in from behind the camp. Bobby Carron had told her about the “check six” nomenclature of fighter pilots to guard their rear at all times, but he thought the general might not apply that on the ground.

She really liked Bobby. It was good to finally have a guy stand up and spar with her instead of awkwardly shuffling his feet like the ranch hands did. But Bobby had nothing to do with her raid now. She pushed thoughts of him out of her mind.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rita caught a glimpse of a man on horseback in the encampment; beyond, she saw the glow of several fires masked by low dirt berms dug by the weary soldiers.

Rita patted her saddle and withdrew three cans of Bobby’s citrus-based explosive. She secured her rifle at the back of the saddle and whispered back at the other ranch hands. “Don’t get too close or stay too long. We just want to goose ‘em. Ka-boom!” Rita flicked the reins and clucked. “Let’s go!”

Their mounts stormed toward Bayclock’s encampment. Rita bent low on her horse. With the heels of her boots, she urged her horse to a gallop.

Bayclock’s troops had bivouacked in a circular cluster a hundred yards across. Rita and the others split off, riding around the camp. Her breath quickened as horse hooves made a thumping sound in the desert night.

The troops lay on the ground, using their packs as pillows; three men tended the fires. Someone in the camp struggled to his feet. His silhouette looked wildly around as he started shouting.

Rita released the spring-wound timing mechanism on her first grenade and hurled it, rapidly followed by two other canisters. By the time the first explosion erupted, gunfire peppered the air. Bayclock’s troops shot their weapons blindly into the night. Rita could hear the zing of bullets ricocheting off the ground. Another boom rolled over them with a flash of light as they turned and galloped back toward the microwave farm.

Only four of the canned explosives went off. Although the small bombs probably caused little damage, Rita could tell by the shouting and gunfire behind them that they had thoroughly stirred up Bayclock’s troops.

#

“Until we spotted your complex from Las Cruces pass, we didn’t know if we’d ever find you,” Todd Severyn said, squatting on the ground from sheer exhaustion. “It was pretty touch-and-go there for a while.”

Beside him, Heather Dixon agreed. She looked ready to drop. Spencer felt sorry for them, and yelled for someone to bring a full canteen of water.

Heather sat next to the fire, hugging her knees. Her face smudged with dirt, she stared mesmerized into the flames as Todd continued his tale. She looked lost, as though life had let her down once too often. It took an effort for Spencer not to stare at her. He wondered if she and Todd were somehow . . . involved. They sat apart, but after such a difficult journey, that wasn’t surprising.

Lately Spencer found himself thinking about being alone, wondering if he might ever find that girl with the sunburned nose.

He nodded at Todd’s description of the journey after Connor Brooks had killed their companions and stolen the satellites. The Wyoming man unballed his fist and rubbed his dusty jeans, as if to crush the memory of the disastrous trip.

Spencer felt sick to hear the loss of the smallsats. They had come so close! He tried to find some hope that the lost satellites might somehow find their way to the microwave farm. With the Seven Dwarfs still working overhead, it was a shame they couldn’t use the low-orbiting satellites as part of their high-tech defense against Bayclock.

But with the new set of satellites gone and the railgun apparently destroyed, not to mention the general’s troops massed in the foothills, he found it difficult to be optimistic. What did it matter anymore? Why were they fighting at all? Why the hell had Bayclock bothered to come here?

Spencer wondered if his group should just abandon the microwave farm before the army slaughtered them all. They could hide out in the mountains, send out guerrilla teams to harass the occupied area, until one day they managed to drive away the military barbarians. Fat chance! His one small consolation was that another ten smallsats remained safe at JPL.

Todd said, “So what’s the next step, Dr. Lockwood? You might as well put us to work helping you. No use moping around—not with the general here. Time to fight!”

“We already fired the first shot,” Spencer said, “but that seems to have put our railgun out of business and damaged the whole launcher facility. That was really our best chance.”

“Is there anything else you can fight with?” Todd asked.

“We had an extensive war council before the troops got here,” said Spencer. “Gilbert Hertoya had experience fielding high-risk weapons in the Persian Gulf, and we did just about everything he suggested. We’ve still got the ranchers and people from the town lying in ambush, and of course there’s always the catapult squad. Right now we’ve got a team tossing some home-made grenades into the general’s camp. But every one of these is a last-ditch effort, nothing that can cause any sustained damage. I don’t have any more rabbits to pull out of my hat.”

He hesitated, then dropped his voice. “I hope to God that everyone’s all right up at the launcher site.”

Heather continued to stare at the flames, but she spoke in a low, deep voice. “What about your microwave antennas? If they provide so much electricity, why can’t you fry people?”

Spencer had to pull himself out of Heather’s wide eyes before he answered. He glanced at Todd, but the oil man gave a tired smile, as if amused at Spencer’s preoccupation. “Uh, it takes too much power to harm anyone with microwaves—the atmosphere would break down long before the power levels got high enough to harm human beings.” He continued to think it through. “Relatively low powers can do nasty things to metals or electronics, but after the petroplague there’s not much of that stuff in use anymore.”

Heather said, “The general’s rifles are made of metal.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but stopped as her words sank in. “You’ve got a point. I’ve been thinking about using microwaves to attack the wrong target!

“We’re beaming energy from space at relatively low power levels, about a hundred times less than the sunlight that strikes the Earth—that won’t hurt anyone if they stand in it all day long. Remember the cellular telephone scare? Cellular phones were monsters compared to this.”

He spoke faster as he started to get excited. “But Bayclock’s troops are carrying all kinds of metal. Guns, knives, bayonets—and that stuff heats up like crazy when exposed even to the microwave power levels we’re beaming down right now!”

Todd grinned. “It would give them one hell of a hot foot!”

Spencer chewed on his lip. “If we can boost the energy by a factor of four and irradiate his troops for twenty minutes, things might get hot enough even to set off explosives. At the very least the troops might drop their weapons and head for the hills!”

Todd looked down at his big hands and flexed them. “So what do we do?”

Spencer thought for a moment. As far as he could tell, it was sometime after midnight by now. He hadn’t heard the sentry warn of Bayclock’s approach, and that would give them at least an hour warning. Perhaps Gilbert’s pre-emptive railgun strike had set Bayclock back, or maybe the general had sent his vengeful troops up to take over the launcher facility instead.

Spencer said, “The Seven Dwarfs come overhead every day at noon, over eleven hours from now. If we can hold Bayclock off until then, I might be able to reprogram the solar satellites to irradiate his troops. It won’t be as destructive as the railgun, but it might be enough to keep them at bay.”

“Seven Dwarfs?” said Todd. “What are you talking about?” He looked to Heather. “What Dwarfs?”

“You’ve got computers here?” Heather sounded incredulous.

Spencer shrugged, looking at her and ignoring Todd’s question. “Mostly what we’ve scavenged from the workstations, a few big analog circuit boards that run on the batteries recharged every day at noon when the satellites fly over.”

Todd frowned. “I don’t know squat about satellites or computers . . . or dwarfs for that matter.”

Heather looked suddenly awake. “I’d like to stay here and help, if that’s what you need.”

“Sounds better than rolling over and playing dead,” said Todd. “If the soldiers are so riled up they can’t get here by noon, a blast of your microwaves might just push them over the edge to retreat.” He stood up, ready for action. “Count me in.”

Spencer squinted in the direction of the EM launcher. They would have to send Bobby Carron up in the balloon again early in the morning to get a birds-eye view of the battlefield before they planned their detailed strategy—if Bobby was all right.

Todd repeated himself. “Is there anything I could do? I can ride and I can shoot.”

“Help keep a lookout for a sneak attack. When Rita returns, we’ll decide how best to keep tabs on Bayclock’s troops.”

Heather brushed dirt from her jeans. “Just point me to the bathroom and some wash water, then I’ll be ready to work.” She wrinkled her nose and scratched. “I don’t suppose you have anything to treat a sunburn?”

Spencer stopped, stunned. Sun-burned nose? He managed to shake his head. No matter how bad things looked, he had a feeling that the sun was going to shine extra bright tomorrow morning.

#

“Halt! Who the hell are you?” a woman’s voice growled.

Todd Severyn stood his ground, but he could see little in the dark. “Yeah, who the hell are you?”

He heard the sound of a rifle brought to bear. “You’ve got five seconds, cowboy, or you’ll be dancing without any toes. Identify yourself!”

His arms waved in the air. “I’m Todd Severyn—I’m waiting for Rita to show up. Spencer Lockwood sent me.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? Bayclock could have sent a point squad.”

Why do I always meet women who’d rather wrestle rattlesnakes than bake cookies? “Are you going to ask me who won the World Series in 1964, for Chis’sakes!” He tried to remember the right words even if he didn’t understand them. “I’m supposed to say something about a plan to zap Bayclock with the Seven Dwarfs.”

He saw the rifle being lowered, then heard a chuckle. The woman spat tobacco to one side. “Okay, Tex, you can tell Spencer that Rita’s back. Let’s get moving.”

Todd sourly brought down his hands, wishing that someone would recognize his Wyoming accent and not call him Tex.

#

Spencer sat next to Heather in the enclosed trailer as dawn broke, working on three crude workstations at once. Even with the nonvolatile memory and low-energy cathode-ray tubes, the battery drain was substantial, and they could only refine their simulations for another hour or so without running down the batteries.

Soft battery light reflected off of Heather’s face. She had tied her damp hair back after scrubbing up, and Spencer could see a pinkish cast of sunburn on her nose and cheeks.

Juan Romero’s circuit board took up most of the table, and naked wires lay in labyrinthine paths. Heather pushed knife-switch buttons down laboriously, inputting code from Spencer—one letter at a time. She stared at the phosphors on the glass screen of the canted cathode-ray tube. “Okay, I’ve keyed in the equation you gave me. You’ll have to take over from here.”

“Thanks.” He slid into the seat next to her as he waited for the code to compile. Inside the trailer, the heat pouring from the primitive circuit board felt stifling, and he prayed he could stave off a meltdown for a little while longer.

Just having Heather present to type in the long-winded perturbations to the orbital equations freed him to calculate the necessary solid-viewing angles by hand with pencil and paper. If everything worked, they might be able to nudge the Seven Dwarfs to redirect their microwave transmissions away from the antenna farm and onto Bayclock’s encampment. Temporarily increasing the power output by a factor of four was trivial compared to this, requiring much less code.

“Spencer?” Rita’s voice came from the trailer entrance. She sounded weary. He turned and saw Todd standing with her just outside the door.

“Rita! How did the raid go?”

“The grenades worked well enough. Got some dozing soldiers to wet their beds, but once they realize we didn’t cause much damage, they’ll just be pissed off instead. The cowboy here tells me you need another scouting party.” She looked at Heather. “Oh, hello.”

Heather brushed back a strand of hair. “Hi.”

Todd worked his way into the trailer. Rita pulled out a chair by the workstation and ran a hand through her hair. Her long legs pushed up against the table. “The telegraph’s up. Romero made his way back from the launcher—he apparently ran all the way here, while the others tried to put out the fire and barricade themselves in the facility.”

Spencer sat up, ignoring the satellite calculations. “Romero’s back! What’s the report?”

“Gilbert is badly injured—both his legs, I think. One tech is dead, and the railgun ist kaput. Arnie stayed behind to watch everything, but if Bayclock sent some point men up, he doesn’t have much chance to hold them off by himself.”

“Great,” Spencer said. He wanted to pound on something. “Now what do we do?”

Rita wiped her forehead. “Bobby’s going up in the balloon again at first light to get a good look. He thinks Bayclock will probably hold off attacking for another day. So far we’ve zapped him with one salvo from the railgun and tossed a bunch of grenades into his camp—he thought we were a bunch of unarmed wimps, but now he’s not going to take any chances. I say we keep giving the general a healthy respect for our abilities.” She glanced at Heather, then at Spencer, and raised an eyebrow. A grin slowly grew on her face.

Spencer stood, more to dismiss any comment from Rita than anything else. “Okay, let’s hit them with the catapult first thing in the morning. After that, we call in the townspeople.”

#

Exhausted, sore, and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Juan Romero stood next to his gang-that-couldn’t-shoot-straight catapult operators. Morning light spilled over the gypsum plains in a whiter shade of pale; the shadows of the mountains retreated across the white sands.

Below, Bayclock’s army began forming up and making ready to relocate. Romero’s people took longer than expected to move to the highlands where the hidden catapult waited to hurl projectiles. From what they could tell, the single shot with Gilbert Hertoya’s railgun had dealt a shocking and devastating psychological blow—but Romero had little hope that his shorter-range medieval weapon would do the same.

Lieutenant Bobby Carron had built a fire in the metal gondola of his bright survey balloon and rose aloft on the tether cable, sending telegraphed messages back to another listener in the blockhouse at the antenna farm. Romero wished he could be down there instead of up here, watching his team make all the mistakes he expected of them.

The old retirees argued with each other about who would turn the crank, who would aim the shot, who would release the hook. Then they started arguing about which of the barrels of scrap metal would make the best first load.

Bayclock’s army began to spread out, breaking camp and marching in several prongs—one headed toward the burned-out railgun facility, another toward the microwave farm. A small group of riders mounted up, ready for a charge. A large part of the troops remained in camp, preparing a second-wave assault.

“Come on, people!” Romero shouted. “If we don’t use the catapult soon, we’ll lose the most concentrated target.”

“We’re just about ready!” one of the old men snapped.

“We won’t hit anything, so it doesn’t really matter,” someone else grumbled.

“Now there’s optimism!” an old woman scolded. “One more word like that and you’ll be in the bucket for the first shot! Now give me that range finder!”

Finally, they cranked down the arm and cocked the weapon. It took three people to work the pulley and hoist the barrel of rusty scrap iron into the cradle. Fully loaded, the catapult seemed to vibrate with tension, ready to spring.

Romero took the trigger cord himself. In his mind flashed a ridiculous scene from a Road Runner cartoon, when Wile E. Coyote had used a similar catapult against the brainless bird—no matter where he stood, the seige machine somehow managed to dump its boulder on top of him.

Romero held his breath and yanked the wire.

The catapult smashed forward with the sound of an explosion, slamming against the front barricade and hurling its payload in an arc toward the encampment.

Oblivious below, Bayclock’s assault team followed some sort of signal and trotted out on horseback, bringing rifles to bear. They rode toward the base installation where Bobby’s balloon was tethered. The bastards were going to shoot down the balloon!

On the far side of the camp, the great mass of loose metal crashed into the ground, splattering outward. Through a spyglass, Romero could see that the catapult shot had taken out two small tents and a supply wagon, belching a cloud of dust and sand into the air. People scrambled around like stirred-up hornets.

“Good shot!” Romero cried. “Let’s try to step up the ranging just a bit and hit them in the center of camp. We’ve got only a couple more shots. Once they figure out where we are, they’ll come after us, and we’ll have to abandon ship.”

As the gang that couldn’t shoot straight worked at cranking down the catapult again—this time with much more enthusiasm and cooperation—Romero heard a volley of sharp, distant rifle shots. The group of riders approached the observation balloon and fired repeatedly at the gondola, the balloon itself, and the tether cable. The tiny form of Bobby Carron ducked down to the protection of the flat aluminum gondola.

“Ready!” one of the old men shouted. “Look out, Mr. Romero!”

The catapult slammed forward again, sending another payload of iron pieces toward the scrambling expedition force, but this time the debris pummeled the desert a hundred feet short of camp.

Below, General Bayclock’s soldiers began to figure out where the catapult shots were originating.

Bobby’s balloon had obviously been hit by dozens of direct shots and began to drift wildly on its tether rope. The hand-sewn seams of the parachute material, never meant to take such stress, began to split apart. The colorful sack sagged as it deflated. After another round of rifle shots, one of the marksmen was either extremely skilled or extremely lucky. The tether rope snapped, and the balloon began to move.

The third catapult shot also missed. A group of Bayclock’s soldiers pointed toward Romero’s position and spread out into the foothills toward the location of the medieval weapon.

“Here they come. We’ve got to get to safety!” Romero shouted. “Time to retreat!”

As they fled into the tangled foothills, he looked down at the great basin to see Bobby Carron’s balloon drifting free and falling toward the ground as the general’s men each dropped to one knee and fired their rifles.

#

Spencer hunched over the tangled circuit board, breathing on it, fanning it with a sheaf of papers, and trying to use his own panic to speed the calculations. Some of the soldered connections had begun smoking, and the batteries were nearly drained. “Come on!” he muttered.

Heather stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders, but she said nothing. It had taken several hours longer than he had expected, and now morning light shone into the blockhouse. Bayclock’s troops were already on the move.

He and Heather had needed to recompile half an hour’s worth of work when Spencer discovered a sign error he had made with his pencil-and-paper calculations. The bandaged circuit board seemed to be struggling to hold on just long enough to complete the binary instructions before it overheated and dumped everything.

“It’ll work,” Heather whispered. “It will.”

As if to spite her, the home-made circuit board showered sparks in a massive breakdown. Smoke billowed from a dozen different connections.

Spencer tried to think of a way to douse the fire, but it made no difference. All the calculations were already lost into the ether. The cathode-ray tube displaying the trudging progress of the calculations went dark.

Spencer slumped in his chair and refused to scream. They had already uplinked the instructions to increase the transmitted microwave power by a factor of four; but without the targeting information, the extra radiation would fall uselessly on the microwave antenna farm again, not on Bayclock’s new position. Spencer could never get the circuit board up and running again in less than two days.

Bayclock would have taken over the entire facility long before then.

His hopes for the satellites, the solar-power farm, and the future itself had just gone up in smoke.

Chapter 72

The hot-air balloon plummeted toward the rugged ground. Bobby Carron gripped the sides of the aluminum gondola and held on for his life.

Air gushed from rips in the colorful parachute sacks, holes torn open by rifle shots and split seams. One of the bullets had made a crater-like dent in the basket, and Bobby was lucky he hadn’t been shot. That relief was only temporary, though, because he was going to crash any second.

The severed anchor rope dangled on the ground as the balloon drifted across the landscape, heading straight toward Bayclock’s troops running to intercept him. A few more gunshots broke the air, and Bobby ducked. He saw another bullet punch into the deflating sack of the balloon, but he heard other shouts, people yelling at the riflemen to hold their fire.

The loose metal gondola lurched as the balloon tipped and continued falling. The hibachi full of glowing coals spilled over, dumping hot charcoal along the floor that skittered and smoked. One ember burned Bobby’s leg; he swatted at it, almost losing his grip. The smoking coals spilled over the side.

He ducked as the bottom of the gondola smashed into an outcropping of rock, knocking him hard into the side of the aluminum basket. He hit his head. Blood streamed down his cheek. He blinked to bring vision back into focus, ready to get up and sprint for safety.

The gondola struck the ground again, dragged along as the last remnants of hot air tugged the deflated balloon sack. The gondola tipped over, scooping up loose sand and dirt, until the balloon snagged on a thicket of scrub brush.

Bobby scrambled to keep his balance, but the gondola spilled him into a tangle of guide ropes, parachute fabric, and hot embers. The metal basket tumbled to a halt next to him.

Bobby coughed and tried to get to his knees. He sensed no spears of pain from broken bones, but his entire body throbbed. He clawed at the gondola ropes, trying to pull the parachute fabric away from his face.

As soon as he stood up and pulled himself free, blinking in the bright light, he saw two of Bayclock’s horsemen pull up on either side of him. Three riflemen on foot came running after. Bobby looked around for a place to hide, to make a stand—but he had no weapons. He had no choice but to hold up his hands.

Puffing with exertion, Sergeant Catilyn Morris ran up to him with a rifle in hand; she smiled smugly when she saw him. Two other soldiers pointed their rifles at Bobby. The horsemen stood on either side to make sure he couldn’t escape.

Sergeant Morris’s face was flushed and streaked with dust. Her short blond hair was tangled with sweat. “Welcome home, Lieutenant. General Bayclock will be very pleased to see you.”

#

Under the morning sun, Connor Brooks drove the three horses and the wagon full of solar-power satellites toward the military settlement. He had watched Bayclock’s troops from his small camp for the past two days, until at last he figured out why they were there. He decided that Bayclock must want the stolen smallsats very badly right around now, and he should be willing to pay.

Connor had not built a fire for fear that his camp would be spotted, but he slept comfortably, wrapped in Henrietta Soo’s thermal blankets. He had washed the blood from his hands and changed clothes. He ate well from the stolen supplies in the wagon bed.

But his injured face ached like a son of a bitch.

He could see only blurry red fuzz out of his left eye, and his torn cheek and forehead throbbed like a disco rhythm made with ice picks. He had managed to wash his injuries from the shotgun backfire in a stream, but he knew they might get infected, and he didn’t relish the thought of the pain increasing. God, what he wouldn’t do right now for a handful of aspirin! Extra strength.

As he drove the horses toward the camp, a handful of armed guards came out to meet him. “Freeze, toadface!” one said, leveling his rifle. “Who are you?”

Connor raised a hand in a wave or a salute, or perhaps just a gesture to show that he was unarmed. He pulled the horses to a stop near the tents, sleeping bags, and supply stations.

“I need to see whoever’s in charge,” he said hoarsely. His words clawed through a larynx bruised when Butthead Uma tried to strangle him. He gestured back toward the wagon. “Tell him I’ve got something those solar-power people want very badly.”

“Wait here,” said the guard.

Connor stood with his hands above his head. The three horses nickered, sniffing other horses with Bayclock’s troops. Connor wanted a cold drink, but the two guards watched his every move in sour silence. Even though he had come with a nice offer, they seemed to regard him as some kind of vermin caught in a rat trap. Typical, he thought.

Finally, flanked on either side by an armed escort, a burly tough-looking man stumped across the camp toward Connor. He had bristly dark hair and a gimme-no-shit expression.

“I’m General Bayclock,” he said, “commander of these troops. What have you brought for me?” Unspoken but visible on his expression was a threat. If you’re wasting my time, I’ll strip you naked and make you run through a cactus field.

Connor tried to turn on the charm that had always served him so well, though he didn’t know how much charm he had left with a mangled face and a bruised voicebox. “Good to meet you, General,” he said. “My name is Connor Brooks—”

“I don’t give a damn who you are and I’m sure the hell not happy to meet you. Now cut the bullshit—what do you want?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Connor wet his lips with a thick tongue and spoke fast. “I got my hands on a bunch of technical equipment on its way to the solar-power farm you have under siege. I thought it might be worth something to you.” He raised his eyebrows, knowing he must look hideous with his scabbed and gashed face.

“What kind of high-tech equipment?” Bayclock said, suddenly interested but still challenging him. “Where did it come from?”

“Well, I have ten satellites back here in the wagon. They were made at the Jet Propulsion Lab and they were being brought cross-country to White Sands.”

The general’s dark eyes lit up. “Are you part of this Pasadena expedition?” He seemed ready to pounce.

“I, uh . . . acquired it from them,” Connor said. “The expedition was trying to slip these satellites in past your troops. So I brought them here.”

“Satellites? The JPL expedition just carried a bunch of satellites out here?” Bayclock look at him, incredulous.

“That’s all.”

An officer standing next to Bayclock asked, “How many were there in the party?”

Connor shrugged. “Two, three maybe.”

A murmur ran through his staff. Bayclock looked unconvinced—and pissed off. “Show me.”

A minute later, Bayclock ran his hands over the nearest sealed canister. His officers poked around the devices, rapping on the metal cases. They all seemed astonished by the discovery.

Connor positioned himself next to the general. “I thought you might be willing to make a decent trade, sir. These are exceedingly valuable satellites, as I’m sure you know. Priceless, in fact. I’d like a few of your revamped weapons—say, six rifles—and some supplies.” He touched the stinging injuries on his face. “And some minor medical attention. As you can see, getting these satellites wasn’t all that easy.”

Bayclock’s expression was hard. He spoke in a low tone, but it looked like it took an effort to keep his voice under control. “I represent the United States of America, and we do not barter while under a declaration of hostilities. Under direct presidential order, I am authorized to simply take what I need. By delivering these satellites to me, you’ve done service to your country. You should feel proud about that.”

Outrage boiled in Connor at the attitude of this butthead general. “That isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” His stomach knotted. “If that’s your attitude, General, then I’ll just take my satellites and go, thank you.”

He stomped off to the wagon, hauling himself up on the buckboard. Fucking asshole! He yanked the reins to turn the three horses around. Connor was amazed at the speed with which five rifles were suddenly pointed at him. “What the hell is this?” he sputtered.

“This is martial law, Mr. Brooks,” Bayclock said. “We’ll see that you get medical attention, as you requested, and a position in the supply corps. We need every person we can get in our fight against the solar-power station.”

Connor felt betrayed and appalled. Worse yet, he felt like an idiot.

A tall thin man came up to Bayclock, obviously a civilian, with wire-rimmed glasses, a weak chin, and a large Adam’s apple.

Bayclock spoke bitterly, as if unhappy about the satellites. “Dr. Nedermyer, this man has brought us ten solar-power satellites from JPL. They are now in our possession, and we don’t need to worry about Dr. Lockwood getting his hands on them.”

Nedermyer came forward to peer over the side of the wagon. “I thought there was some kind of large expedition carrying them.”

“This is it,” said Bayclock. “And that’s all they carried. I want you to draft up a notice to be sent by courier to Lockwood and his little rebels. Tell them that unless they surrender immediately, starting tomorrow morning we will take one of these satellites and smash it to pieces in their full view. We’ll destroy one every two hours until they surrender. If this technology means so much to them, let’s just see how much of it they’ll let go to waste.”

Connor couldn’t believe his ears; the bespectacled civilian looked incredulous. “But General, you can’t do that! These satellites can’t be replaced. We don’t have the facilities to fabricate any more. These are precious items—and if you destroy them, you defeat the entire purpose of our expedition!”

Bayclock’s face turned the color of clotted blood, and he turned slowly toward Nedermyer. “The purpose of this expedition, Doctor, is to quash an insurrection. These satellites are toys, conveniences. We can survive without them. We cannot survive without order and a rule by law. If a few metal tanks must be dented to accomplish that, then so be it.”

The butthead general turned back to Connor and pointed for him to get back down off the wagon, Two of the guards took hold of the horses. “Sergeant, take the wagon and animals to the logistics group. You, Brooks, will help the supply personnel for tomorrow’s assault. You’ve just joined the army.”

#

His hands tied behind him with rough rope, Bobby Carron stumbled across the uneven desert. Two horsemen rode on either side of him, two walking guards behind him and one in front. He had to push himself to keep the pace set by Sergeant Morris.

He tried to remember the time he had spent in survival training, escaping from a mock prisoner-of-war camp. The training had been held in a jungle, and it wasn’t meant to be used against his own military. Before they had come within a half of a mile of Bayclock’s camp, Bobby realized he was completely out of ideas to escape. He had nothing up his sleeve, no tricks to pull. He saw no way out.

And Bayclock considered him a traitor. Under combat conditions the general might put a service pistol to Bobby’s head and pull the trigger himself, without the drawn-out niceties of a court martial.

Bobby was satisfied with how much he had helped Dr. Lockwood and the others at the solar-power farm. He recalled his days as a Navy fighter pilot stationed at China Lake. He remembered that last cross-country flight with Barfman Petronfi. Just trying to reach a nice, long R&R in Corpus Cristi where they would sit on the beach, eating shrimp and looking at bikinis. . . . .

The outskirts of the military camp were a bustling confusion of campfires, tents staked out against the day’s heat and the night’s chill, supply wagons next to unloaded crates. Refurbished rifles stood racked and stacked where soldiers could grab them in a moment’s notice.

The troops watched the prisoner arrive. Bobby looked around, trying to make eye contact, trying to recognize anyone from Kirtland Air Force Base—but that wouldn’t help. He really only knew Sergeant Catilyn Morris, but she gave him nothing but scorn.

Sergeant Morris led them directly to the general’s command tent. Someone must have warned Bayclock, because the general stepped outside to watch them approach. He recognized Bobby immediately.

Bayclock’s face was frigid, and his eyes held a firestorm of anger. “Well, if it isn’t our turncoat lieutenant.” He nodded to Morris. “Good work, Sergeant.”

“He was manning their balloon, sir,” she said. “We shot it down and took him prisoner.”

“The balloon?” Bayclock said, raising his eyebrows. “Of course, that’s a good job for a fighter pilot, isn’t it?”

Bobby said nothing.

“You’re still on active duty, Lieutenant—or have you forgotten the code of military conduct?”

Bobby maintained his silence, watching the general play the waiting game. No one spoke, but Bobby could feel the tension rising, the general becoming impatient.

Bayclock said, “But then you’re no longer a real fighter pilot. A traitor and a deserter is not the type of man any flyer would want on his wing. No wonder your aircraft crashed, Lieutenant. Is that why your wingman died—did he crash while you were trying to save your own butt?”

Bobby clenched his jaw, aching to retort, but he kept quiet.

Bayclock startled Bobby by stepping forward and slapping him across the face. “You’re not fit to be a pilot, much less an officer.”

Bobby’s eyes blazed. He remembered Bayclock’s office, all the diplomas and lithographs of aircraft. He knew he had found exactly the right button to push.

“You’re still fighting the last war, General. The system has changed,” he said in a low voice. “Before the plague hit I was flying fighters for my country—while you were flying a desk.”

Bayclock looked ready to explode, but somehow he contained himself. His hands clenched, as if trying to grasp a cutting reply, but he turned and glared at the other soldiers. “Bind the prisoner and send a general notice to all troops. This traitor and deserter will be executed at dawn. We’ll hang him from a utility pole.”

#

Connor sulked. The camp medic had dabbed stinging antiseptic on his facial wounds and bandaged them up, but the medic couldn’t say whether Connor would lose his eye. His sight would be permanently damaged for certain.

They fed him a meager meal of crappy food. He would have been better off eating his own supplies, but that butthead Bayclock had callously commandeered Connor’s stuff for his own people. “That’s my food,” Connor thought. “I came into camp with open hands offering a deal—and they ripped me off!”

But then, why was he surprised? Connor had gotten the short end of the stick all his life. Sometimes he wondered if he had a sign painted on his back that said Screw me—I don’t mind.

He sat cross-legged on the hard ground, looking at the Air Force robots wandering around doing busy work. His face burned, his new clothes were uncomfortable. And he had lost everything!

Oilstar had jerked him around. On the supertanker, Captain Uma had done the same. Connor remembered the the crummy old station wagon he had borrowed at the gas station in southern California; even that Stanford preppy moron who had paid him to drive a broken-down AMC Gremlin to Atlanta; or the two Mormon bitches with their year’s worth of supplies refusing to give Connor and Heather a few measly scraps.

He seethed, digging his fingers into the dirt. The whole world was out to get him, and none of it was his fault. How about Heather herself souring on him, refusing to put out anymore after only a few weeks? Some relationship that had turned out to be.

Even the damn shotgun had blown up in his face!

Now, after all that bullshit, when he finally deserved some kind of reward, when he finally took the solar-power satellites and delivered them to the army, did he get any thanks? No. Did he get any reward? No! That butthead general wouldn’t even give Connor a rifle.

To make things worse, Bayclock had taken all of his supplies, the wagon, the horses—and held him prisoner in camp. Connor found a rock, gripped it, and threw it as hard as he could. A short distance away, it struck the shoulder of an airman digging a new latrine. The airman turned and shouted in anger, but he couldn’t see who had thrown the rock.

Any other time Connor would have snickered at the joke, but now he hauled himself to his feet. He wasn’t going to take this crap anymore!

He strode across the camp, fixing the gaze of his good eye on the command tent. Inside the open flaps Connor could see the bearlike general sitting across a small folding table from Sergeant Morris and two colonels, debriefing her. An airman stood in front of the tent, but Connor brushed the guard aside.

“General, I’m leaving,” Connor announced.

“What did you say?” Bayclock rose to his feet.

“You can’t hold me, General. I came here of my own free will to offer you a deal—which you refused. I’m a United States citizen, and you can’t hold me prisoner. I’m going to take my horses and my wagon and my satellites and I’ll be on my way.”

Connor turned before the general could say anything, glancing quickly at where his wagon had been impounded. He took one step before Bayclock said in a loud growling tone, “Sergeant Morris, I’ve had enough of this. Take Mr. Brooks into custody. If he resists, shoot him as a deserter.”

Connor whirled. His face burned with livid anger; he felt the scab from his slashed cheek break open. “Deserter! I’m not part of your damned army! You’re not my commanding officer.”

Bayclock gripped the tent flap as if he wanted to rip it to shreds. “You have been conscripted, Brooks. This is martial law, and we don’t have time to quibble in a war zone. That is all. Sergeant Morris!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Guard him. Don’t let him out of your sight. This insubordination makes me want to puke. And if it doesn’t stop, there’s going to be a bloodbath.” He fixed his gaze on Connor. “And we’ll start with him.”

#

Late that night, after feigning sleep for forty-five minutes, Connor Brooks opened his one good eye.

The camp was dark and still, with outlying campfires glowing behind dirt berms; extra guards stood on alert because of the previous night’s attack by Lockwood’s people. Connor didn’t move, but kept staring, taking in details. He could feel the ropes against his arms, his legs.

Near him, beside the fire, Sergeant Morris lay curled on top of her blanket. She even slept in an uncomfortable position that gave the impression of readiness, as if she would snap awake and leap into action at a moment’s notice. She still wore her uniform—not that he expected the thick-lipped blonde to slip into a sexy nightie!

The sergeant had stuck to him like a leech the whole afternoon. She even stood outside the latrine door when he had to take a crap! She seemed to be on full-time PMS, and Connor was amazed at how fast he began to hate her.

But finally the sergeant slept, as did most of the people around the camp. She had led him away from the main troops, as if afraid Connor might contaminate them. The following morning they planned to take over the EM launcher facility, and they needed their rest.

Connor flexed his arms, minutely loosening the rope that bound his arms and legs. He relaxed his body as much as he could, and was surprised at the play in the rope.

Lucky the bitch tied me up, he thought. She could have gotten one of the security police to help, someone who knew what he was doing. Connor had drawn in a full chestful of air and tried to keep his muscles as tight as he could when she used the rope. Now he had plenty of slack, and time to escape.

It took longer than he expected, and impatience made him wrestle unproductively until he scraped his wrists raw. Finally, the rope popped off the ball of his thumb.

Connor slowly sat up, an inch at a time to keep from making noise. The campfire crackled and popped. Sergeant Morris stirred but remained asleep. The guards watching the perimeter of the camp moved out of sight.

Connor untied his feet and rose up. His knees cracked. He froze, but nobody moved. The orange campfire flickered, but the light was too dim to illuminate him.

He took a step toward the fire. His boot crunched on the ground. Sergeant Morris stirred again, but did not wake up. If he couldn’t slip away before she sounded the alarm, then the general would have Connor’s balls on a grappling hook for sure!

He took another step, focusing on the metal tire iron lying in the ashes to stir the logs. He took a third step toward it. Bending down, he wrapped his fingers around the heavy metal rod.

When he lifted the iron up, the smoldering wood in the fire shifted, sending sparks into the air. Connor froze, but he had gotten this far. Maybe something would go his way—for once!

He tiptoed toward the sleeping form of Sergeant Morris, one step at a time, approaching her as cautiously as he could. The tire iron felt warm in his hand with the opposite end glowing a dull red. He stood over her and smiled.

Connor raised the metal rod over his head. God, she looked ugly with her fat lips, chubby face, and mussed blond hair!

Her eyes flickered open—and she saw him.

Connor brought the hot tire iron down with all his strength.

The iron smashed into her skull with a muffled thump; the sound seemed incredibly loud in the night. The red-hot metal sizzled in her face.

A log in the campfire slumped over again. He heard a few people talking quietly in another part of the camp.

She bled into the ground. Her body twitched, but he had smashed down on her eye—dead center—and she wasn’t going to be spying on anybody else. Stupid bitch!

If she had just left him alone—if Bayclock hadn’t assigned her as his bodyguard—Connor could have just taken his own possessions and gone quietly on his way. But, no, they couldn’t make it that simple. So Bayclock and the sergeant had to deal with the consequences of what they had done. Connor felt no remorse whatsoever. How he could feel anything but scorn for military robots following the orders of a butthead?

He crept over to the wagon. The horses had been unhitched, though they stood nearby. The satellites were still there, but Connor didn’t think he could take the wagon and still escape with his skin. After all, he had just killed one of Bayclock’s sergeants. If he didn’t get away—and get away quick—he wouldn’t live to see another morning.

He reached into the wagon bed and quietly rummaged around. He found Heather’s aluminum-framed backpack with the stupid neon-pink fabric—real camouflage! Still, it was large enough to carry what supplies he needed. He stuffed the pack with food, a canteen, and one of Henrietta Soo’s blankets that had worked so well keeping the blistering desert heat away.

Mounting the backpack on his shoulders, he ducked low and made his way out of the camp. He crept quietly around the sleeping forms and out into the desert.

He intended to be far away by morning.

#

Well past midnight, Lieutenant Bobby Carron awoke with a start to the gentle touch of a knife.

Tense, Bobby lay absolutely still as the blade moved down to the ropes binding his wrists, then started to saw through them.

From the deep darkness and the constellations overhead, Bobby could tell that it was probably only an hour or two before dawn. The moon had already set, and the bone-biting chill of the desert night had settled into his joints.

“I know you’re awake,” a man whispered behind him. “I’ve got to get you out of here. The general’s crazy, and you’re the only one with nothing to lose right now.”

Bobby opened his eyes. The general’s crazy? Thanks for telling me something new! He felt a burning curiosity to know who the stranger was, but couldn’t see. The ropes at his wrist finally fall away, and he brought his arms around, flexing them to get the blood circulating again.

His rescuer began to work on the bonds at his ankles, and Bobby looked down, astonished to see the gangly form of Lance Nedermyer. Nedermyer looked up at him, his mouth set. His gaunt face seemed swelled with fear, and his eyeglasses glinted in the starlight.

“Take the wagon, get the satellites away from here. Bayclock is going to destroy them tomorrow to call Lockwood’s bluff.”

Satellites? Bobby thought. Could these be the ones that were coming from the Jet Propulsion Lab? How did they get into the general’s camp? “What do you want me to do with them?” Bobby said in a low whisper.

“Hide them. Keep them safe. Even take them to Lockwood if you have to. But I’d rather have you steal them than let the general smash the only ones left.”

Bobby rubbed his ankles, trying to massage the soreness out. “I tried to tell you about the general when you left White Sands. Now do you know why I chose to stay down here?”

“Yes,” Nedermyer said in a harsh bitter voice. “But I suppose it isn’t the first mistake I’ve made in my life.” He helped Bobby get to his feet.

“I’ve secured the horses to the wagon. There’s no way you can sneak past the perimeter. What you’ll need to do is just drive the horses like a bat out of hell and keep going into the night. The guards will shoot at you. Bayclock will send out search parties, but you have to get away.”

“You’re telling me!” Bobby said.

When they reached the wagon, Bobby saw that the campfires had burned low. All three horses had been hitched to the wagon; they stood stamping and restless, as if they could feel the excitement.

“Your best bet is to charge south for about a mile, then veer due east. The terrain is flat and hard, and you won’t really need to watch where you’re going in the darkness. You just need to gain distance. When you veer east, you’ll head into the mountains. You can hide there. It’ll be daylight in another hour, and then it’ll be up to you.”

Bobby gripped the thin man’s shoulder. “Thanks, Dr. Nedermyer. I’ve got to admit you surprised me.”

Nedermyer took two steps backward, as if uncomfortable with the compliment. “I’m doing it to keep the satellites safe. Our civilization has fallen far enough. I can’t let Bayclock intentionally destroy what hope we have left.”

“I’ll hide the satellites . . . or die trying.”

“I hope you don’t have to,” Nedermyer said, then waved him off.

Bobby smacked the reins and shouted. The three horses burst into motion, lurching forward in a full gallop. Rearing against the harness, the three mounts gained speed rapidly; the wagon and its cargo rolled across the flat hardpan of the desert. Within moments they flew beyond the perimeter of the military encampment.

Behind him Bobby heard sudden shouting and alarms being raised. He heard other horses, but none of them came toward him.

Within minutes gunshots sounded in the night. He ducked low on the buckboard. Only once did he hear a bullet whiz past him; all the other shots went completely wild. He drove the horse team by cracking the reins again and again, and they ran in blind, hot panic through the flat darkness. Bobby prayed they wouldn’t stumble across a sudden ravine or arroyo.

After about ten minutes of hard riding, Bobby assumed he had gone more than a mile, and so he pulled the reins to turn the horses eastward. Against the blotted backdrop of stars, he could see the craggy silhouettes of the mountains. The terrain would get more rugged, and he would have to slow down.

He knew the wagon wheels left a painfully clear trail across the gypsum sands, but Bayclock’s trackers wouldn’t be able to see them before the morning light. If Bobby could ride into the hills by then, he could perhaps find a place to hide.

Across the clear silence of the night, he still heard gunshots, the turmoil back at the encampment. He had gotten away for now, but remaining free would require all his wits.

#

By morning Bobby had driven the wagon into the foothills. He made slow progress at first, forced to get down from the wagon and lead the horses along the winding, hilly path. More than anything, he wanted to get back to Spencer’s enclave by the solar-power farm, but he knew he couldn’t get past Bayclock’s siege. Certainly, he could not take the bulky wagon with three horses up to Spencer’s command center. He would have to hide the satellites in a safe place, hoping to retrieve them when, or if, the scientists ever managed to defeat the general.

By the time full sunlight penetrated the hills, Bobby found a steep arroyo. Its jagged corners were clogged with piñon, scrub-oak, and mesquite. The dense branches and sparse gray-green leaves provided good cover, and Bobby tied the horses while he tried to camouflage the wagon.

He covered it with branches, masking the wagon from sight unless someone stumbled directly on it. As he worked, he thought that this was something Rita Fellenstein would enjoy, playing some sort of mind-game with the general. He smiled as he thought of her—she certainly wasn’t the prettiest woman he’d known, but she was the most interesting; and the only one he knew who wouldn’t take any baloney from him.

As he finished, Bobby knew he had to get back in touch with Spencer. If he got killed before he reached the microwave farm, then no one would ever know where the satellites were—and Bayclock might as well have destroyed them. The smallsats might become a sought-after treasure like the Lost Dutchman Mine.

But Bobby would do his best to keep that from happening.

Knowing he would be much more versatile with only one horse, Bobby packed some supplies and ate a quick breakfast. He picked the strongest-looking horse and mounted up, turning the other two loose to run wild.

Bobby rode down out of the hills in hopes of finding a good route to the solar-power installation. He would try to make his way there after dark.

The time passed quickly as he tried not to follow the way he had come. The White Sands valley stretched out below him as his horse picked its way down. Who would have ever thought that only months before he had been a carefree Naval aviator—

A gunshot rang out, a loud crack that echoed around the hills. The horse was startled and trotted ahead, rolling its head from side to side. Bobby looked around to try and find the source of the gunfire. Another shot rang out, closer this time, and he spotted four riders emerging from the hills, all of them wearing Air Force uniforms.

Bayclock’s men. Another rider charged out in front of him.

Bobby shouted and urged the horse into a full gallop. He hurtled out of the hills, desperately seeking a place to hide, as the other riders launched into pursuit.

Bobby hunched low over the horse’s neck, the mane whipping in the wind, stinging his face. Hooves thundered as Bobby’s horse leaped over a cluster of rocks and kept charging downhill.

Behind him, the riders split up to intercept him. They shot again, and Bobby knew they had no interest in capturing him alive this time. At least he had fled far enough that the satellites were safe—but these riders must have tracked the wagon trail. How many men had Bayclock sent out after him?

The gunshots came in faster succession now. The riders tightened the distance. Another volley of shots—the loudest so far—rang out in a sudden echo like firecrackers.

The horse whinnied and reared as Bobby saw a sudden scarlet blotch appear on it’s ribcage four inches in front of his own thigh. The horse stumbled, falling over and throwing Bobby.

He tried to hold on, but then rolled free as the horse thrashed on the ground to get to its feet again. The horse was bleeding heavily from the large gunshot wound close to its heart. It stamped up and down, then staggered back, limping.

Bobby stood gingerly. His leg was sore, but nothing was broken, nothing sprained. He looked around for some rocks to hide in, anything for shelter.

Then the hoofbeats of other horses pounded down on him from all sides. Four riders came up, each with rifle drawn.

Bobby stood slowly with his back against a wall of sandstone, and raised his hands in surrender.

#

By late morning, Bobby Carron found himself Bayclock’s prisoner once more. They tied him helplessly on the back of a horse, then rode off toward the foothills on the opposite side of the valley. The encampment had already moved, and from his rocking position on horseback, Bobby was dismayed to see that the general’s army had succeeded in taking over the damaged railgun facility in only a few hours.

The troops had marched up to the control buildings at the bottom of the miles-long electromagnetic launcher. From what he could tell, the scientists had not put up much of a fight.

Bobby stumbled when his captors hauled him off the horse and dragged him to his feet. Smears of soot blackened the launcher control building. He tried to see other people he recognized. He hoped the scientists had gotten away.

General Bayclock strode out of the burned-out control building. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked at Bobby with disgust. “This time I’m taking no chances. Lead the prisoner to the telephone pole. Right now.”

One of the guards shoved him down a path toward an old creosote-covered utility pole that had once carried electricity to the launcher facility. Spencer’s people had already removed the wires from the pole—but Bayclock had another purpose in mind.

“I knew you were a traitor, Lieutenant, but I didn’t believe you would team up with a slimeball like Connor Brooks to steal the satellites. We’ll find him, soon. Which one of you murdered Sergeant Morris, or did you take turns bashing her head in?”

Bobby stared at him. Sergeant Morris, dead? He said numbly, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t insult me,” said Bayclock. “I think we’ll go the high route with you.” The general looked up to the wooden crossbars on the electrical pole. “We’ll hoist you up so we don’t have to cut down Dr. Nedermyer.”

Bobby wavered as the guards pushed him forward. He saw the blue-black clenched face of Lance Nedermyer. Bayclock had thrown a loop of rope around his neck like a garrote, inserted a short stick, and then twisted it to draw the rope tighter and tighter until it crushed Lance’s larynx and severed his trachea. Bobby saw scuff marks in the sand and fresh gouges from the bottom of the utility pole where Lance had kicked and struggled. His body had already begun to bloat in the bright morning heat.

“I have no patience left for traitors,” Bayclock said. “It’s about time my people realized that.”

Chapter 73

Standing on the south balcony of the White House, President Jeffrey Mayeaux watched his military troops patrol the Mall. The National Guard had forcibly removed angry crowds from the Ellipse and the south lawn. Even the cherry trees along the Tidal Basin had been cut down and stored as firewood for the winter.

He crumpled the handwritten communique in his hand and let it fall to the floor.

The commander of the San Diego naval base had been assassinated while trying to stop a rally against the military crackdowns. The crowds had gone wild, killing the admiral and at least fifty Naval officers around the city. A self-appointed ruling council had seized control of the shipyards and the base facilities. According to the report, the other Navy personnel on duty had surrendered willingly.

What the hell was he supposed to do about that?

“I want a meeting with my Joint Chiefs in five minutes!” he said without turning. He heard one of the Secret Service men leave the room. He wished Franklin Weathersee would get back from his stupid grocery shopping expedition.

Everybody blamed Mayeaux for their problems, and nobody listened when he issued orders to take care of anything. For God’s sake, he hadn’t caused the petroplague!

He hadn’t heard a word from the old bitch Emma Branson at Oilstar for more than a month, and he was glad—she could fend for herself out in California. He had heard one report that mobs had burned down the Oilstar refinery, but he didn’t know if he could believe it. Probably.

Around the country the citizens had begun to throw up their own defenses and forget the big picture. Mayeaux was in charge of what he had started to think of as the “Humpty Dumpty Squad”—no matter how many long hours he put in or nights he spent without sleep, he still could not put the pieces together again. But if the population thought their President was just going to pick his nose while the world went down the toilet, they were in for a hell of a surprise. He hated not knowing what to do, what would work, what would snap the mobs out of their pigs-fighting-over-a-corncob anarchy. People just didn’t make sense.

Mayeaux had the chance to pull off the biggest change in history and set the tone of the country—hell, the world!—for the next century. How much room remained on Mount Rushmore, after all? Could they squeeze Mayeaux’s face in somewhere between Roosevelt and Lincoln?

The U.S. could get back on its feet, according to the advances projected by NIST scientists—petroplague-resistant plastics, the change to a hydrogen-based energy economy . . . if people could resist turning into post-holocaust barbarians.

But they wouldn’t listen to reason United we stand, divided we fall—dammit, every kid in the country had that slogan hammered into him from grade school on.

Mayeaux followed the Secret Service men down to the Situation Room. No one stood for him when he entered, a sign of disrespect like a slap in the face. No one greeted him, no optimistic “Good morning, sir!” from the staffers. Where the hell was the rest of his Cabinet? He hadn’t even seen the Vice President in a month. The guy could at least bicycle down from the Naval Observatory once in a while.

Only two military officers had come to the table—General Wacom, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the CNO, the admiral Chief of Naval Operations. Both men looked grim. Mayeaux didn’t recognize any of the White House staffers wearing blue WHS pins as substitutes for laminated badges.

“Have you forgotten how to stand when your Commander-in-Chief enters the room, gentlemen?” he said. This was worse than he had thought.

Grudgingly, the two officers struggled to their feet. Mayeaux pulled up his chair and dispensed with niceties. “I called a meeting in five minutes! Where is everybody else?”

“They won’t be joining us,” General Wacom said.

“Why the hell not? This isn’t a RSVP party invitation.”

The general did not answer the question. “How can we help you this morning, Mr. President?”

Mayeaux scowled and got right to the point. “I trust you’ve been briefed about the San Diego incident?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the CNO said, clearing his throat. “To make things worse, we’ve also just learned that the San Diego ruling council has commandeered the installation’s radio network. They are broadcasting their ‘victory’ over the entire Atlantis network, actively trying to incite other similar uprisings.”

“As if we didn’t have enough trouble already! How you intend to deal with it, gentlemen?”

Wacom drummed his fingers on the table. He spoke smoothly, using years of experience honed by testifying before congressional committees. “We’ve made the decision that it is prudent not to antagonize the public, not to take unnecessary risks. There may be some options that the military can use, but our primary mission is to defend our national security.”

Mayeaux pressed his fingers together. “So, you made that decision yourselves? Thank you very much, General. It’s nice to know I don’t need to bother running the country anymore. You thought it ‘prudent’ just to let cities overthrow their military bases, assassinate commanders, and secede from the United States at will?”

The general stiffened. “There are certain degrees of response we may consider, Mr. President. The Army still has access to point weapons—grenades, bullets, bazookas, all of which work effectively only if coordinated by the chain of command. Since our communication is sporadic, and the troops do not have the necessary logistical or transportation support, such weapons cannot be utilized effectively to suppress large mob-type disturbances. The military might prevail initially, but they would quickly be overrun, as in San Diego.”

Mayeaux tapped on the table. The general had told no lies, but he had not told the whole story, either. “I find that hard to believe, General. Are you insisting that this plague has eliminated the military’s ability to respond decisively if a target city openly defies a direct presidential order?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly, sir—”

Mayeaux broke in. “I’ve been informed that we still have ten Trident-class nuclear submarines on underwater quarantine and as yet unaffected by the plague. Wouldn’t you say that sub-launched missiles are a bit more substantial than a few ‘point weapons?’”

The Chiefs exchanged glances. The temperature in the Situation Room seemed to plunge.

A Secret Service man barged into the room. His arrival startled the other guards enough that one placed himself in front of the intruder.

“Mr. President!” the newcomer said. He panted, then stopped, letting his eyes fall closed as he drew several deep breaths to calm himself. Mayeaux recognized him as one of the agents who had hauled him out of bed in his Ocean City condo to tell him of President Holback’s death.

“Yes, what is it?” Mayeaux snapped.

The Secret Service man drew in another lungful. “Sir, it’s Mr. Weathersee. Your . . . your chief of staff has been killed, sir. We were ambushed on our food requisitioning run. A large group of civilians swarmed over our wagons. Someone threw a grenade at the convoy. I believe they simply intended to appropriate the food, but they killed everyone they captured.”

A roar of pounding blood filled Mayeaux’s head. Weathersee! “Are you certain it was him?”

“I was with him. Mr. Weathersee was assassinated, sir.” He squirmed. “Uh, there is no doubt in my mind that he is dead.”

Mayeaux gripped the table. Franklin Weathersee had been his legislative assistant since Mayeaux had taken his first political office, accompanying him for years as a silent companion as his career climbed. What was he going to do without the man’s dispassionate competence, especially in such a terrible crisis?

“How?” Mayeaux said, sounding like a croaking toad. “How was he killed.”

“Uh, he was . . .” The Secret Service man swallowed and stood stiffly, staring at the far wall. “He was decapitated, sir.”

Mayeaux’s vision seemed to grow warm and black, fuzzed at the edges. What was he going to do without Weathersee? He took a long, shuddering breath and forced himself to focus on the people gathered in the Situation Room.

“You have my sympathy, Mr. President,” General Wacom said.

“I don’t give a damn about your sympathy,” Mayeaux said. He tok a long slow breath and spoke each word like a heavy footfall down a long staircase. “I believe you were about to answer my question about the availability of nuclear-tipped missiles on Trident submarines.”

The Chairman’s face fell slack. “Mr. President, you can’t consider launching a nuclear missile against American targets. Even at the height of the Cold War, using these against the Soviet Union was considered only a last resort for survival—”

“Just what the living hell do you think this is?” Mayeaux shouted. He struck his palm on the table, scattering two pencils beside his coffee cup. “By your own admission, the military cannot function. The greatest nation on Earth is decaying into pockets of barbarism, even here in our capital city! Just when do you draw the line and say that things have gone far enough!”

Mayeaux breathed hard as he looked around the room. He was surprised to feel tears on the verge of spilling from his eyes. No one spoke. The Joint Chiefs returned his icy stare; two of his cabinet members looked down, shaking their heads.

Mayeaux took another deep breath, but his pulse kept pounding like a drumbeat in his head. “The United States must be willing to cauterize a wound to keep this nation from bleeding to death. We cannot tolerate this situation any longer. Look what’s happening in our own neighborhood.”

The general tried to calm him. “Mr. President, maybe you should reconsider the options, wait until you have calmed down from this shocking news. Within a few days we can prepare an extensive list ranging from a light to intermediate response against San Diego—”

Mayeaux’s Louisiana drawl got worse as his anger rose and he lost control. “Mais—let me tell you somethin’! The people must be utterly convinced that the President is still in charge! Abraham Lincoln did it, and so can I. Lincoln suspended the writ of habeas corpus, jailed political leaders and newspaper editors in Baltimore to prevent Maryland from seceding from the union.”

Wacom sat rigid, masking his emotions. Beside him, the CNO’s eyes widened when Mayeaux turned his attention to him. “Admiral, I want you to give me a list of the surviving Trident-II submarines within range of San Diego.”

The Admiral threw a glance at the Chairman; General Wacom nodded stiffly. Mayeaux scowled. Who the hell was in charge here, anyway?

The Admiral avoided Mayeaux’s eyes by glancing at a sheet of paper. He cleared his throat. “Of the subs still in contact, two are in position to strike targets on the west coast of the United States.” He fiddled with his paper, as if it was very important for him to file it away at that moment. “However, Mr. President, I cannot assure you that the crews of either vessel will carry out war orders that require them to retarget missiles against their own country—”

“Thank you, Admiral,” said Mayeaux icily. “I’m sure the captains of those vessels remember who their Commander is, even if my Joint Chiefs do not.”

He felt giddy, detached, as if he had just been swept up by a giant invisible hand. Within days of the first strike—one decisive strike—word would spread like wildfire over the available channels of communication. The rebellios cities would be shocked, then afraid, then repentant. Time for everyone to work together, not break apart. History would hail Jeffrey Mayeaux as a savior, the architect of the future United States.

Mayeaux leaned back in his seat and tapped his fingers together. “Very well, Admiral. I’ve made my decision. I want you to transmit the order that one nuclear missile be launched at the heart of downtown San Diego.”

The Chairman and admiral exchanged glances. General Wacom’s face looked blotchy with submerged fury.

Mayeaux turned to the Chairman. “General Wacom, work with the NSA to broadcast in the widest possible manner that unless the nationwide rioting stops and all of the new city-states recind their claims of independence, one city after another will be obliterated in a similar fashion. The leaders advocating secession must resign their posts and surrender.”

No one spoke. Mayeaux looked from person to person. Each member of his staff looked away, not meeting his glance.

He drew in a breath. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

The military officers sat erect, hands on the table.

Mayeaux felt his face grow warm. “Admiral, I gave you a direct order. The Navy will fulfill its legal obligations under my authority as Commander-in-Chief. Do I have to repeat it? Is something not clear?”

The CNO spoke slowly. “No, Mr. President. I understand completely.” Still, he made no move.

Mayeaux felt his heart rate quicken. A flush of adrenaline flooded his system, now that he had finally made his decision. “General Wacom—do I have to remind you, too? I am your Commander-in-Chief.”

The general pushed back his chair with a sudden motion. His silver hair contrasted with the dark blue of his worn Air Force uniform; his eyes looked glazed as he glared straight at Mayeaux and spoke in a level tone. “My allegiance is to the Constitution of the United States of America, sir, and to obey the legal orders of those appointed over me. I’m sorry, but I respectfully refuse to obey your illegal order. You cannot use nuclear force against our own citizens.”

Mayeaux leaped to his feet, his eyes wide, his breath coming in short gasps. “General Wacom—you are relieved!”

The Chairman picked up his papers and walked away. Without a word, the admiral also stood up and followed him to the door. Mayeaux’s voice sounded shrill in his own ears. “History will brand you a coward, General! Both of you!”

Wacom was halfway out the door when he turned and pointed an angry finger at Mayeaux. “Nuremberg set the stage, Mr. President—ask any American military officer since Lieutenant Calley. We’re responsible for our actions, and we have to pay the price. And as far as I’m concerned, using nuclear missiles to make an example of American cities is bullshit.” He hesitated, then added, “Sir!” before whirling to leave. The admiral followed him.

Two other members of the President’s staff got up and walked out the door. “Sorry, sir,” one of them muttered.

Mayeaux shook; he felt his teeth grinding together as his jaw worked tightly. Where was Weathersee, dammit?

“Come back here!” he shouted. “I’m still the President!”

One by one, the President’s staff exited the Situation Room, their heads down, muttering as they left, and not meeting his glare. They didn’t have to impeach him. They had stripped him of power in a much simpler way.

“Weathersee! Where are you!”

In a moment, Jeffrey Mayeaux stood alone—the most powerful man in the world, in the most important room . . . with no one around to hear him rage.

Chapter 74

A white flag of surrender dangled from a broomstick as Spencer Lockwood and Heather Dixon approached the burned-out control building for the electromagnetic launcher.

Early that morning, Bayclock’s main forces had occupied the place, taking prisoner the few scientists and technicians who had remained after the railgun explosion, including a seriously injured Gilbert Hertoya. Holding the EM launcher and the scientists hostage, Bayclock had sent a courier demanding Spencer’s immediate surrender of the entire antenna farm facility.

Spencer felt he had no choice. If only he had succeeded in getting the increased satellite power directed at the general’s troops! He had tried everything possible, but he could not get the orbiting Seven Dwarfs to respond, and the makeshift circuit board would not be worth anything for quite some time. Instead, the smallsats would pass overhead in just a short while, unaffected, beaming their increased solar power down onto the field of microwave antennas, oblivious to the conflict below.

Spencer idolized fictional scientists, geniuses like the professor on Gilligan’s Island who could kludge together a solution to the wildest problem with the skimpiest resources—and it would always work! But despite Spencer’s expertise and the help of his team, his desperate measures fizzled as often as not: the transformer at the water pumping station, Gilbert’s railgun defense system, and Spencer’s attempt to reprogram the smallsats.

Bayclock held all the good cards right now. He had demanded surrender, and so Spencer had rigged up the white flag.

Back at the solar-power farm, Heather Dixon had astonished him by asking to accompany him on the journey.

“What for?” Spencer blurted.

“Because I want to.” She fidgeted and then flashed him a smile. “Besides, the general is less likely to shoot at a man and a woman coming to meet him, than just a lone rider.”

He stared at her, then she smiled at him. Actually, Spencer didn’t think Bayclock would kill anyone coming in under a white flag, since the general seemed so anal retentive about law and order. Bayclock lived by a clearly defined code of honor—and that might be his weakness, Spencer thought, because it lets us predict what he will and won’t do.

Now, as they rode toward the launcher facility, dangling the surrender flag in front of them, both he and Heather stared straight ahead. The long rails extended up the side of Oscura Peak, flanked by debris, rocks, and underbrush. Plenty of good places to hide.

Spencer seethed at seeing the troops occupying the ruined facility—how many prisoners had Bayclock taken? Given his code of honor, the general wouldn’t abuse Hertoya or the other captives, but he seemed to have no compunction against destroying irreplaceable technical apparatus. A true barbarian.

In the rugged foothills by the base of the launcher, Bayclock’s scouts saw the two of them approaching and rode out. Spencer swallowed. “You ready for this?”

Heather reached over and squeezed his arm. Together, they waved the white flag.

The scouts rode up on either side of them. Spencer halted his horse as the Air Force men looked them over, guns leveled. “Are you unarmed?” one of the scouts asked.

“Yes,” Spencer said. The two men nodded. Somehow, he had known they wouldn’t bother to check. Bayclock, with his sense of military honor, would automatically expect everyone else to play by the same rules. He would be bound to accept Spencer’s surrender and offer terms.

But Spencer’s mind didn’t work the same way. He preferred the model of one of his other heroes, Captain James T. Kirk: promise the world, stall for time, and keep working to find a way to win. And that was exactly what he planned to do now. He just hoped this would work.

“Take me to your leader,” he said to the guards.

#

His hands bound behind him, Lieutenant Bobby Carron stood facing Bayclock’s wrath.

One of the airmen threw a rope over the crossbeam and dropped the rope down, letting the noose dangle at the height of Bobby’s shoulders. They would slip the noose over his neck, tighten it, and yank him into the air. No quick snapping of the neck for Bobby—he would kick and twist as the rough rope squeezed his throat shut.

Arnie, the scientist who had accompanied Bobby and Catilyn’s first expedition, stood watching by the ruined aluminum building. His hands were loosely bound, another of Bayclock’s prisoners of war; he looked as though he were reliving the nightmare of when his family had died under martial law.

Gilbert Hertoya sat with one broken leg crudely splinted and the other bandaged from several bloody gashes he had received in the explosion of the railgun. Unattended, Gilbert rested in the scant shade beside the wrecked capacitor banks and the long metal rails of the EM launcher. Both captive scientists looked angry, unable to believe what Bayclock was about to do.

The Air Force captain gripped the noose, opening it wide as he stepped toward Bobby. The captain kept his eyes down, avoiding Bobby’s eyes. Bobby wished he could remember the officer’s name, but his mind blanked.

General Bayclock stood with his hands behind his back, puffing his chest forward, as if his captive was transparent and insignificant.

Bobby could think of nothing to say. His stomach knotted, and his vision seemed sharp, too focused, as if trying to absorb a lifetime’s worth of details in just a few minutes: a cloudless sky, the dry dust, the sweet smell of sage, razor-sharp shadows.

Bayclock was not kidding. Not kidding at all.

A rider came up the path to the blockhouses. He had pushed his mount hard, crossing the foothills to the general’s new base of operations. Breathless, he dismounted next to Bayclock, glanced at Bobby and the ready noose, then saluted the general.

“What is it?” Bayclock asked. “Report!”

“A white flag, sir!” the airman said. “The scientists have sent two representatives to surrender. I believe one of them is Dr. Lockwood himself, sir.”

Bayclock suddenly looked relieved. “Very well. Bring them to me as soon as possible.”

“They’re on their way, sir.”

Bobby wanted to collapse in dismay. He couldn’t believe it! Why would Spencer give up after all they had accomplished? Bayclock’s army had been severely wounded by the scientists’ efforts, and their morale was shot. The general had occupied the launcher facility, but that was already ruined by the explosion. The cracks showed in Bayclock’s forces; they were ready to crumble in another few days, and he was sure the general knew it.

Why couldn’t Spencer have held out just a little longer? Bobby had no other choice, nothing to lose. He raised his voice. “You better hang me in a hurry, General. Now that they’ve come under the flag of surrender, can you justify executing prisoners of war?”

Bobby spat hard at Bayclock. “Yeah, General, I’m talking to you! If you string me up right now, I’m sure you can convince every one of your soldiers to pretend you hung me before anybody saw the white flag. That would cover your ass. In fact, why not just threaten to shoot any soldier who says otherwise?”

Bayclock turned from the courier, and his face became livid, deeper than the sunburn on his broad face. The black bristles of his hair stood on end. Bobby thought of the old fighter-pilot adage: balls the size of grapefruits, and brains the size of peas. He wanted to continue provoking Bayclock, keep him torn between his conflicting wishes.

“What’s the matter, General? Can’t make a snap decision?” Balls the size of grapefruits. “Good thing you’re not flying real aircraft anymore! You’re still fighting the last war. You’re better off flying a desk.”

Bayclock took one step forward, shoving his face less than an inch away from Bobby’s. Bobby didn’t flinch. Bayclock back-handed him across the cheek. Brains the size of a pea.

His face stinging, Bobby spat at him again. “You’re a coward, General, if you have to strike a man while he’s got his hands behind his back and waiting for a noose around his neck.”

Bayclock yanked the combat knife from his belt and sawed at the ropes around Bobby’s wrists. Bobby couldn’t believe how easily provoked the man was. The general tossed the cut rope and the knife over by the metal rails of the electromagnetic launcher. “All right then, traitor! Come at me!”

Bobby did not wait for the numbness to leave his hands. He charged at Bayclock, swinging with both hands as the other spectators stepped back.

#

Connor Brooks knew that even if the general’s troops moved at top speed, they’d still be hours behind him. He had walked all night, and the only thing he could see to the far distance was scrub brush and frail yucca plants. Overhead, some kind of hawk wheeled around, a dark check-mark in the clear sky.

Another few miles and he’d be at the solar-power facility. Then he could do some fast talking.

Earlier that morning, Connor had hidden as a group of people headed out from the metal trailers by the antenna farm, making their way north toward Bayclock. The idiots carried a white surrender flag—as if Bayclock would have mercy! The general would probably try to draft them too, or throw them in a dungeon somewhere.

He saw the snowy tops of gypsum sand dunes south of him, shimmering in the distance as heat rose from the desert. To the north, immense metal rails of the electromagnetic launcher rose up the side of Oscura Peak. If he could make it to the trailer at the microwave facility, he might find something he could use as a bargaining chip. Connor had always considered himself a resourceful person. After all, he had managed to walk away in the middle of the night, right under Bayclock’s nose.

He twisted his face at the very thought of that butthead general. Damned Napoleon. There had to be something about command that turned people into assholes. First there was Captain Uma on the Zoroaster, and now General Bayclock.

Connor laughed at the thought of getting back at the general, just as he had with Uma. If the solar-power facility was so precious to the son of a bitch, maybe Connor could even sabotage the place. That would really piss Bayclock off! In fact, the troops might even rebel once they discovered that their forced march all the way from Albuquerque had been for nothing.

Connor Brooks pulled the aluminum frame of his pack higher on his back and arrowed straight for the trailers. The pounding sun was high in the sky, and he cast very little shadow. If he could get to the trailer by noon, he’d have plenty of time to wreck some of the equipment, or snatch something with which he could barter.

The sunlight seemed magnified by the glittering white sands. If he had only swiped a hat from one of the soldiers, anything to keep off the sun.

“I’d like to see Bayclock’s troops march through this shit!” he muttered. He stopped and shrugged off his backpack. He pulled out the reflective thermal blanket and fixed it around him like an Arab kefiyeh. “If the towel-heads can do it, so can I,” he said to himself. Connor donned the makeshift headgear and soon felt cooler. He picked up his metal-frame backpack and whistled.

As he hiked toward the trailers, he spotted glints of sunlight reflected from the harsh ground in front of him. He walked up a small rise, and the bright flashes grew stronger, like a mile-wide field of whiplike chrome wires covering the basin between himself and the trailers.

He could see the blockhouse trailers more clearly now, even with just one eye. The three aluminum-sided structures with corrugated tops sat at angles to each other, forming a triangle. If he cut straight across the basin of whip-wires to get to the trailers, he could trim at least a mile off his path.

He looked behind him. Still no sign of Bayclock’s troops, but Connor didn’t want to screw up by getting there too late. He knew the importance of timing—he remembered his good timing running up the stairs on the Oilstar Zoroaster after setting off the fire alarm; he remembered finding out just in time about that lunatic Uma back at the camp . . . and he remembered getting double-crossed by Bayclock, because of bad timing. No way was he going to let that military fuckhead get there before him!

Connor grinned and started for the trailers.

As he stepped into the field, he discovered that the glints came not from wires, but from thousands of slender metal poles low to the ground, like a giant pin cushion in the desert.

He ducked through the strands of a barbed wire fence that ran around the antenna complex. It felt weird, walking through the field of metal poles. He stepped on fine wires that ran from the bottoms of the poles, kicking a few loose.

Picking up the pace, he made his way to the trailers. It wouldn’t be long now.

#

From his team’s camouflaged position at the top of the EM launcher rails, Todd Severyn watched Bayclock’s soldiers camped near the control building below. The troops had dug in, pitching their tents in the foothills, while the general set up his command post inside the burned shell of the building itself.

Todd saw Spencer’s white flag approach the encampment, surrounded by escorts. Waiting within view on the other side of the long metal rails, Rita Fellenstein signaled Todd. She had seen Spencer’s arrival as well.

Time to move in.

Todd jammed his cowboy hat on his head, then bent low over the horse’s neck. Rita tightened the string on her bush hat, and waved for the ranch hands to follow. With Todd came seven other ranchers from Alamogordo, all on horseback and carrying crude grenades made from the potent-smelling citrus-based explosives.

Todd and Rita both led their horses, picking up speed as they trotted down the service trail on either side of the long electromagnetic launcher. They would attack in two prongs, striking from either side of the supply camp. He just hoped they could manage not to blow themselves up when they lobbed the home-made grenades into Bayclock’s troops.

Unable to restrain themselves once they urged their horses into a full gallop, Todd’s attackers let out a loud war yell as they charged toward the camp.

#

Sitting in the shade near the blockhouses, Gilbert Hertoya watched the confrontation between General Bayclock and Bobby Carron. The two men crouched in a coiled stance, circling and glaring. The empty noose still dangled from the utility pole, and Spencer Lockwood was coming in under a white flag.

The short engineer felt his hope draining. He didn’t want to give up, but their chances seemed to be fading away. It had been absurd in the first place to think they could drive off a fully armed invasion force.

The nerves in Gilbert’s legs hurt with a throbbing, insistent pain, but he tried to ignore it. He had to focus his thoughts to formulate some way he could help Bobby, or stop Spencer from surrendering—or at the very least hurt Bayclock.

Bobby Carron lunged at the general, feinting with a left-handed blow to the stomach, which Bayclock blocked, then lashing out with a quick hammer-punch to the general’s face. Bobby struck him squarely in the nose, once, twice, before snapping backward to avoid a counterpunch.

Though he himself wasn’t much of a hand-to-hand fighter, Gilbert knew that the nose was a non-crippling but singularly effective place for a blow to land. Bobby’s punch would have sent a bright explosion of pain into Bayclock’s head, blinding him with a sudden flood of reflexive tears. A splash of scarlet blood dribbled out of his nostrils and splattered on the pale sands.

“Face it, you’re too old, General,” Bobby said.

Some of Bayclock’s troops had drawn up as spectators, but they remained oddly subdued and silent, as if they refused to cheer for the general but were afraid to cheer for his opponent. They stepped back, giving the two fighting men room.

Bayclock launched himself forward, moving his legs like pistons and butting Bobby in the stomach. Bobby let out an “oof!” but managed to sidestep part of the attack. As Bayclock crashed into him, Bobby caught the general’s foot with his own and tripped them both. They tumbled to the ground.

Bobby scrambled to get to his feet again, rolling away from Bayclock’s grasping hands. “Can’t fly, can’t fight—what else can’t you do, old man?” he gasped.

Bobby got to his knees, white dust covering his blue Air Force uniform. Bayclock’s nose continued to bleed onto the sand.

Gilbert tore his concentration away from the fight and looked into the sky. He had no way of telling accurate time, but the sun stood at about noon, and the Seven Dwarfs would orbit overhead any moment now.

He lay by the wreckage of the railgun. In the explosion, the capacitors had ruptured and the banks of storage batteries had burned. During the day of waiting and recovery, Arnie had lovingly disconnected and removed the blackened shapes. Given time and resources, they could repair everything—but it did not look like the general would give them the opportunity.

Every day at noon, though, when the Seven Dwarfs passed over the White Sands antenna farm, the solar energy beamed down to the collectors was distributed through the repaired power grid, charging up caches of batteries to run various equipment. A direct power line ran up to the EM launcher to charge the batteries for the railgun, but now those batteries had been destroyed and the ruined capacitors taken off-line.

The solar smallsats didn’t know that, however. They would continue to beam their power, and the electrical lines would run the current up to the railgun facility. Disconnected from any source, the cable would become a live wire for the twenty minutes that the satellites passed overhead transmitting their energy.

A live wire. As everyone watched the fistfight, Gilbert Hertoya took the disconnected cable, praying as he touched it that the deadly current wasn’t already flowing. No guard watched him closely, with both of his legs heavily bandaged.

Gilbert dragged himself to the metal superstructure of the railgun. He jammed the end of the wire into the steel base, then backed away—ignoring the sharp darts of pain jabbing his legs in a thousand places. He collapsed back on the dirt, trying to keep from passing out.

From the other side of the group of buildings, Arnie saw what Gilbert had done, and his eyes widened. Gilbert winked and crossed his fingers. In response, Arnie crossed his fingers, too.

Bayclock attacked Bobby again, and the fight went on.

#

Seven hundred kilometers overhead, seven satellites flew in a constellation of four planar orbits, inclined at 45 degrees from the equator. Tiny solar-electric thrusters boiled plasma off their electrodes, keeping the satellites positioned in orbit, cancelling perturbations caused by gravitational variations in the Earth’s crust.

The satellites updated their position using the military’s still-functioning Global Positioning Satellites, making necessary corrections. Each smallsat carried a tiny atomic clock, attuned to the energy of a certain fundamental transition frequency to know when they were. Isolated from the events taking place below, the satellites functioned as programmed.

One minute before noon, Mountain Standard Time, the lead satellite swung its gimboled antenna toward the horizon. Energy collected by the array of inflatable solar-cell panels was converted into electricity, which trickled into the transmitter.

The satellites silently began to irradiate the microwave antenna farm at White Sands.

#

Connor Brooks was within two hundred yards of the edge of the antenna farm when he heard sparks jumping from the metal poles of his backpack. The sound scared him—it was if he had fallen into the middle of a huge popcorn popper.

At the same instant, his head began to grow hot. Very hot. The thermal blanket felt as if it had suddenly turned into napalm. The searing fabric pressed down upon his skull, across the back of his neck. Only seconds earlier, he had enjoyed the relative coolness of being shielded from the sun, but it now felt like molten lead.

Connor screamed and tore at the metal-backed cloth. But already the fabric smoldered. The metal snapped and popped in an inferno of blue sparks; the poles on his backpack burned hot-iron slices into his back. Acidic smoke billowed out; even the metal eyelets on his boots crackled with tiny arcs of flame.

The pain went on and on. Connor fell to his knees, clutching at the melting blanket that spread over his head, over his skin.

In a final effort, Connor tried to pry the covering from his scalp, but his fingers refused to respond, turning into burned, bloody stumps by the boiling metal. Sparks continued to crackle in a cocoon around him. He screamed, and hot arcs lanced from the fillings in his teeth.

The pain . . . wouldn’t . . . stop . . . .

#

Seven hundred kilometers above the Earth, the second satellite locked on and started to beam its microwaves down to the target.

Five others waited patiently behind for their own turns.

#

Todd and Rita galloped in on either side of the base camp near the burned-out railgun facility, yelling their loudest battle cries. Todd set the spring-loaded timer on his crude grenade canister and lobbed the explosive toward a supply tent.

The Air Force men saw what he had thrown, and they scrambled in the opposite direction. Some ran for their rifles, but most ducked for cover.

Rita Fellenstein headed them off from the other direction, tossing another grenade in among the campfires. Following closely behind, the ranch hands fired their own rifles and shouted.

One colonel stood in the middle of it all, with a wounded arm in a sling, staring at Todd and the other riders. Very carefully, the colonel tossed his own rifle to the ground.

Bayclock’s other troops, as if waiting to surrender, took this as a sign of permission. Other explosions erupted from the citrus-based explosives. Gunfire rattled around the hills, but nobody seemed to be shooting at anything.

Todd had intended only to ride in, cause damage, panic, and confusion, make the troops scatter, then hit the road as fast as possible to hide in an overgrown arroyo.

Rita pulled up beside him, and they stared as more and more of the soldiers either ran or tossed down their weapons.

“Now what do we do?” Todd asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Rita shrugged. “We didn’t plan on winning!”

#

Carrying their white flag like a shield, Spencer and Heather were escorted up to the main buildings of the railgun only moments before the first explosions and gunshots broke out in the camp below them.

Heather gripped his hand hard enough that her nails bit into his skin. Spencer felt himself trembling, knowing he was crazy even to be making this attempt. He tried to keep a straight face, although his guts had tangled into knots.

The first thing he noticed near the control building was the fistfight between Bobby Carron and the general. A small group of Bayclock’s soldiers had formed a ring around the combatants, like gamblers watching a cockfight. But they did not cheer, simply watched the pummelling in silence.

Spencer’s attention was yanked like a metal filing to a magnet when he noticed the noose hanging from the utility pole—and the bloated body of a strangled Lance Nedermyer tied to the creosote-smeared wood.

“Oh, Lance!” Spencer said, and his breath went out of him. Even his cocky plans evaporated in his mind. If Bayclock could do this to one of his own supporters, then he would have no qualms about slaughtering Spencer or Rita or anyone else who dared to defy him.

Lance Nedermyer had been a real pain most of the time, but he had a good streak in him—a streak that Lance himself tried to extinguish. Maybe that good streak had been his downfall while trapped in Bayclock’s hell.

Farther down the long rail launcher, he heard the first shouts of Todd’s charge as they struck the base camp. Gunshots. Explosions. Several of the spectators ran off to see the attack, while others seemed afraid of leaving Bayclock’s side.

Bobby Carron and Bayclock rolled around on the ground, pounding each other with fists. The general clawed the back of Bobby’s head, attempting to grab his hair. Finally, he dug his fingers into Bobby’s ear until it bled. Bobby cried out and smashed his forehead down on the general’s skull, butting him viciously.

Blood poured out of Bayclock’s nose and sprayed in red foam every time he took a heaving breath. Bobby hammered the general’s side with his sharp elbow; Bayclock bit and grabbed, sinking his teeth into Bobby’s shoulder.

With a scream, Bobby tore himself free and scrambled away. Bayclock climbed to his feet and charged, but Bobby met the attack with a double blow to the general’s stomach, making him stumble back toward the railgun launcher. Bayclock’s eyes were bloodshot and his skin looked like a cube steak. Bobby didn’t look much better, but he remained on his feet as the general wobbled and fell to his knees in the dirt.

Todd and Rita rode into the area, with a tall solemn-looking colonel striding between them. The colonel cradled his wounded arm as he absorbed the situation, then he took another step toward the beaten Bayclock.

“General . . . “ he hesitated, but Bayclock did not acknowledge him. Colonel David didn’t seem to care.

“It’s over, General.” The colonel flashed a glance behind him to Spencer standing with his white flag. “I believe these gentlemen are in a position to discuss terms.”

Rita leaped from her horse and ran to help Bobby up. Bobby swayed on his feet and flicked blood out of his eyes. Sweat ran in rivers down his exposed skin, and he shuddered like a shack in a hurricane. “That’s it, Bayclock. Your troops have caused enough damage.”

Bayclock collapsed, but Spencer saw that the man’s eyes were open and calculating. In the shadows by the railgun supports, he fished around on the ground. After a moment, he snatched up a hunting knife that lay beside severed strands of rope.

“I don’t surrender!” He lurched to his feet, brandishing the wicked-looking combat knife. Bobby stiffened; Rita tightened her grip on his arm. One of Bayclock’s men grabbed a rifle, but didn’t know what to shoot at.

The general turned, holding out the knife. Backing up, his arm brushed against the metal supports of the electromagnetic launcher rails. The live wire, disconnected from the battery banks and capacitors, dumped its electricity into the bottomless ground of the miles-long rail, waiting for a load.

Bayclock completed the circuit.

He froze as if caught in amber, then in an instant he seemed to go out of focus, with a million nerves in his skin suddenly misfiring, every strand of muscle fiber in his body scrambling. Sparks flew from the point of contact, and his skin blackened.

His mouth cracked open in a long silent scream, and then his lips curled away from his teeth. When General Bayclock finally fell to the white sands, his entire form steamed from the moisture boiling inside his body.

No one spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Colonel David turned to them all. He looked strong, even with his wounded arm in a sling. The other troops kept staring.

“The general is dead, as is Colonel Nachimya. This leaves me in command of the expeditionary force.”

He met Spencer’s gaze, Todd, Bobby and Rita’s. “We have a lot of details to discuss, you and I.”

Chapter 75

The breeze picked up in the late afternoon on Labor Day, rippling the golden grass along the Altamont Range. The wind-turbines, like metal flowers lining the hilltops, whirled around and around, generating a silent river of power that flowed to the speedway stadium.

At last, the great concert got underway.

Next to Jackson and Daphne Harris, Iris sat alone on her blanket, elbows on her knees. She had worked too hard to make this event a reality, and she didn’t want to miss a note. The fluttery feeling of anticipation in her stomach during the morning had disappeared, replaced by a spreading warmth of amazed relief. She looked around to see the same excitement in the eyes of the other spectators.

Jackson and Daphne Harris held each other close, as they stared at the band on the raised stage.

Iris and many others had forsaken the closer seats in the repaired bleachers to sit on the grass. She felt the lumpy ground beneath her, but it didn’t matter. Sitting on the grass for a rock n’ roll concert seemed perfectly appropriate.

The first band got a laugh and a resounding cheer by opening with their rendition of Jackson Browne’s “Running on Empty,” which they followed with other rock classics from the seventies, then a few folk songs that everyone knew. The murmur of the audience singing along as if in a trance sent shivers through Iris. The musicians used improvised musical instruments, and the songs didn’t sound much like what Iris remembered—but the sheer delight of music again was enough. The notes vibrated through the speedway’s metal loudspeakers, sounding tinny and muffled. Iris found it absolutely wonderful.

The crowd cheered, nearly loud enough to drown out the sound blasting from the improvised amplifiers the engineers had cobbled together. Iris couldn’t wait to see if they had indeed managed to build a working electric guitar. She knew the energy drain was stupendous, and they’d be lucky to finish the concert. But the wind kept blowing, the windmills kept turning, and the music kept blasting through the air.

The bands were a mishmash of musical talent that had arrived after hearing word of the proposed concert. Many of the musicians had played in bar bands around the Bay Area, working day jobs and performing on weekends. The only “professional” they counted among their number was the lead singer from Visual Purple, a late sixties alternative rock band, who had been stranded in San Jose during a rather unsuccessful attempt at a comeback tour. He had worked with the volunteer musicians, directing the others and getting upset when they spent more time tuning up than they did performing. But the singer’s rough voice wrapped itself around the lyrics of all the old classics, even two country & western hits, but he really began to shine when he managed to work in the few chart-scratching songs Visual Purple had released.

The musicians kept playing for an hour. Iris expected any moment for some fuse to blow, some component to fail, and the concert would be over. But the only pause occurred when the first band took a break to stand down while the second group came onstage.

The next lead singer had a softer, warbly voice—due in part from nervousness, Iris was sure. But the crowd received the music with full enthusiasm, almost growing too introspective with Crosby, Stills and Nash’s post-apocalyptic “Wooden Ships.”

Sitting on her blanket, Iris looked around at the crowd. Thousands and thousands had arrived, most from the local cities, but some had come all the way from the Monterey Peninsula to the south, others from Sacramento to the north. It seemed like a holy pilgrimage to them. They couldn’t believe what they were hearing.

She wished Todd could have been there to share it. Maybe seeing how the music affected all these people would get through his thick head and make him see what he was missing. Iris felt very isolated as she sat by herself, trying not to notice Jackson and Daphne Harris snuggling next to her. . . .

As darkness fell, everyone grew silent, stunned, as the stadium lights came on, flooding the stage and the abandoned racetrack.

Powered by the windmills, the incandescent lights blazed with a warm white light that dazzled the viewers; the lights flickered, but they kept up. After a breathless pause, a spontaneous wave of people stood up and applauded, cheering. The lights and the music made them feel as if they had come home again.

Up in the tower, the kid Harley ran the lights, standing by the controls like the captain of a spaceship. He had begged Jackson Harris for the job, and Harris had given it to him. Iris had never seen Harley look so proud or so determined to do something right.

When the audience finally fell silent after seeing the electric lights, the lead singer from Visual Purple took the stage again, accompanied by two Livermore engineers who had each crafted an electric guitar. Hooked up to the amplifiers and the speedway loudspeakers, they began to play.

The first chords came out, gentle but with a biting memory that sent a liquid tingle down Iris’s spine. People struggled to their feet again as the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner” echoed over the speakers; the crowd sang along but Iris felt a lump in her throat.

Many of the audience members sat back, sucking in a collective audible breath. As the darkness deepened, battered back and defeated by the brilliant stadium lights, the guitarists on stage played “Stairway to Heaven.”

In the bleachers, the crowd swayed and sang along with the lyrics they all knew by heart. On the grass, people got up and held hands, adding their voices in a swell of song that rang across the hills. Behind her, on one of the blankets, Iris heard two men arguing about what the lyrics really meant, but she ignored it—she had been hearing that discussion since her high school days.

To her left and down the slope, she noticed the teenaged couple from Oakland standing next to each other; the young father cradled the new baby in his arms, rocking it back and forth to the chorus. The young mother rubbed fingers across her boyfriend’s shoulder blades.

As the music and a flood of other memories poured into her, Iris felt tears brimming in her dark eyes. She had seen other people in the audience crying during the concert, but never as many as now. Many of their voices broke as they tried to sing along.

With barely a pause, the singer slid into “The Long and Winding Road” by the Beatles, which kept people standing and stunned, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Finally, continuing with the Beatles, he lightened the mood with the now-absurd song “Drive My Car.”

When the band finished, cheers pummelled them, and the singer turned to his two electric guitarists. “Are you ready to do what you came here for?”

Cranking up the volume, the trio, joined by the drummer and keyboardist, launched into the strangest mixture of music Iris could have imagined, Top 40, new rock, more folk songs, even a pair of Broadway showtunes. Everyone began moving, dancing, swaying, stomping. They seemed to care only that they were hearing music again, an icon of their lost civilization. Iris felt that the entire silent post-petroplague world must have been able to hear them.

The music continued late into the night. Iris was exhausted, but she never wanted it to stop. The people had shouted and chanted and sung until their voices were hoarse; they had clapped until their hands were sore. The magic in the air was intoxicating, and she felt in her heart that the dark ghosts from the previous violent concert at the Altamont must have been exorcised that day.

She saw Doog standing near the stage, his face tilted toward the stars in rapture, his round John Lennon glasses like shining coins in the stadium lights.

Iris looked around to see the hills glittering with a thousand yellow gems, tiny flames raised high. In another concert, the fans would be flicking their lighters, but this time they had brought candles, saving them until the very end in a gesture of their heartfelt appreciation.

“Nice touch, don’t you think?” Daphne Harris said, giving Iris a look that made it apparent she had been behind it.

A thousand points of light, Iris thought.

Civilization might come to an end, but rock and roll would never die.

Chapter 76

In the aftermath of the desert battle, Bayclock’s expedition force broke into a confusion of smaller groups with different agendas.

Many of the soldiers and camp followers gathered to make preparations for the long trip back north to Albuquerque, this time without the general’s martial law. The consensus seemed to be that Mayor Reinski would be able to hold things together even without a reign of terror.

In the following days, others teamed up with some of the Alamogordo ranchers and dispersed, deciding to stay near the solar-power farm in the hope of eventually turning it into a bona fide settlement, an Atlantis out in the sparkling gypsum sands. Given the extra manpower, Spencer Lockwood told them they could lay new power lines and dig wells to the aquifer.

With Rita Fellenstein riding beside him, Bobby Carron fetched back the wagon and the ten precious solar-power satellites he had hidden in an arroyo. Spencer lightly touched the metal shells resting in the wagon bed, blinking back tears, as if he’d found the Holy Grail.

Already, Gilbert Hertoya limped among the remnants of Bayclock’s army, talking to some of the enthusiastic Air Force troops about taking a military contingent back to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory for the rest of the satellites. Some of the soldiers, anxious to atone for their forced attack against the scientists, were willing to go without delay. Armed with functional rifles, the new military escort would provide a much safer expedition than Todd’s crazy quest.

Ten more smallsats remained in Pasadena, and the parts for more were readily available. Someday, there might be enough to complete the orbital ring for uninterrupted electrical power from the antenna farm. Spencer was sure he could convince his old mentor, Dr. Seth Mansfield, to accompany the second mission back to White Sands.

Meanwhile, Todd Severyn felt at a loss, wandering among the blockhouse trailers and reluctantly relaxing. He felt the inner depression of having successfully completed a major goal and discovering that he had no idea what to do next.

Sitting in the noon shade, he watched Heather and Spencer chatting, walking to the aluminum water barrel. Spencer poured a cup for her; she drank most of it and, when he bent over to fill a cup for himself, she playfully trickled the rest down his back. Startled, Spencer dropped his cup and sputtered.

Just watching them together, Todd could see Heather had fallen for Spencer, though he didn’t know if they realized it themselves yet. He remembered when Heather had offered herself to him out by the stream in the hills. But Heather had made the offer out of desperation; and the memory of that one time was irrevocably stained with blood and violence. He and she could not look at each other without being haunted by the ghosts of Casey Jones and Henrietta Soo.

“Hey, Todd!” Gilbert Hertoya came around the corner of the blockhouse. “I want to talk to you about something.”

By the water barrel Heather looked up, suddenly aware that Todd had been watching. She flushed, then turned away to follow Spencer, who knew nothing about what had happened between her and Todd.

He cocked back his cowboy hat and looked up at the short, peppery-haired scientist who stood propped on a wooden crutch. “What do you want, Gilbert?”

Hertoya put one hand on his hip, covering a big leather belt that one of the ranchers had given him. “We’re going to go back to California in a few months to pick up the rest of the satellites, and I wanted you to come along. This time we’ll be armed, with plenty of help. What do you say?”

Todd looked west to the dim line of mountains. He had considered going along—it would be another major effort, an important quest, something to keep him busy. It would extinguish the restless indecision that had been bothering him.

But he slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve got to get going.” He sighed, then tried to put his reasons into words that made sense to himself. “I’m going to try saving the world in little ways from now on, not by meeting it head on.”

Hertoya scratched his head. His grizzled face plainly showed his disappointment. “What does that mean?”

Todd tipped back his cowboy hat. “I think I’m going to go back to the Altamont, to stay this time. I made a promise. And it’s the closest thing I have to home.”

#

Grateful for his help, Spencer gave Todd his pick of the horses for his journey back. Todd pondered the choices from the Alamogordo ranchers and the Air Force troops; finally, somewhat uneasily, he selected Bayclock’s black gelding.

He saddled up, took two of the working rifles and some ammunition, and as many supplies as he could cram into the saddle bags. The ride would be long and arduous, at least a month or so, but he didn’t care how long it took him—just the fact that he was returning made it worthwhile.

Spencer and Heather, Gilbert Hertoya, Juan Romero, Bobby Carron, and Rita Fellenstein watched him as he departed. He waved back at them, saying nothing special to Heather, then turned and guided the gelding westward, once again riding off in the direction of the sunset . . . .

Over the following weeks, he rode across New Mexico and Arizona, stopping again at the ranch of the dead diabetic man. Todd took an extra few hours straightening up the house. He got a good night’s sleep, replenished his supplies, then set off again.

He had nothing to do but think as he sat astride the horse throughout the heat of the day and into the cooling evening.

Part of him wished he had never left Iris, but he also knew that wouldn’t have made him happy. If he had not gone to deliver the smallsats to White Sands, if he had not made some sort of tangible difference, Todd would never have been able to settle down for the rest of his life. Iris had reached a point where she wanted to put down roots, but Todd hadn’t been ready for that; he’d spurned her offer to share her bed. He couldn’t calmly accept the fate of the world without trying to make his mark. And he had succeeded.

But Todd didn’t need to keep seeking bigger dragons to slay, wilder gooses to chase. He’d had enough.

Would Iris have him back? He had left her without saying goodbye. She had no reason even to think he might return, despite the message he had transmitted from JPL. Had she waited for him? She was so intelligent, and so beautiful . . . someone else had probably claimed Iris the moment his bootprints faded from the dry grass in the Altamont hills.

Then Todd forced a bittersweet grin. Iris Shikozu did not allow herself to be claimed! She might have changed her mind, gone with somebody else because of her own decision—but she would not have been wooed away by a sweet talker. No way!

He passed into California and headed north, following abandoned highways and the line of the mountains. He came upon a former dude ranch in the Sierra Nevada where a tall man named Carlos Bettario had established thriving, comfortable quarters.

Bettario’s group of workers had managed to keep themselves supplied with cut firewood, fresh fish and game, as well as meat from a herd of beef cattle. They powered their equipment and lights with electricity generated by water wheels turning in a hydroelectric plant on a nearby dam. One of Bettario’s men, a grizzled old man named Dick Morgret, showed Todd the wild horses up in the mountains and how they had already begun to barter with people living not too far away.

Todd stayed there for a day, helping to repair a long fence to pay for his room and board, then set off again.

He pondered trying to find someplace where he could send a short-wave signal, to let Iris know he was coming. But he was afraid to. He didn’t want to know if she was with somebody else.

Crossing the Sierra Nevada well before the first snows, Todd rode up the flat Central Valley, living off the generosity of farmers who shared their produce with him. In exchange, he told them all the news he knew, entertaining them with stories about the battle for the solar-power farm, Casey Jones and his train, and crumbling Los Angeles.

As he reached Tracy, moving westward to the grassy Altamont Range, he caught his first glimpse again of the white windmill towers lining the hill crests. He pulled Bayclock’s black horse to a halt and stared up at them with a pang. Anxiety shuddered through him, and he seriously considered turning around and heading back to White Sands, or making the long journey off to his parents’ ranch in Wyoming.

But he couldn’t do that. Todd could never live with himself if he gave up now. He had braved armies and murderers and mobs—he could not let a five-foot three-inch woman make him turn tail!

As he approached the Altamont commune, he saw that it had tripled in size in the months since he had been gone. Most of the windmills whirled in the breeze. Looking around the settlement, Todd didn’t recognize most of the people, but they somehow looked less . . . weird.

Daphne Harris came out to meet him. Her skin was dark and glistening with perspiration as she worked in the garden; her colorful tie-dye blouse looked as startling as a gunshot. She strode up to him with a grin. “Hey, look what the cat dragged in!”

Todd dismounted and tied up the gelding as other people came to see who had arrived. Jackson Harris appeared, his hands grimy from working on wind-turbine rotors, but he clapped Todd on the back. “We already heard what happened! Over the short-wave, Dr. Lockwood made sure we all knew what a hero you were down at the solar-power farm. Even Tibbett at Sandia got excited telling the story, if you can believe that.”

“We were wondering when you would finally haul your butt back here,” Daphne said.

Todd couldn’t restrain himself any longer. “What about Iris? Is she still in the same old place?”

Daphne and Jackson flashed a knowing glance at each other that made Todd uneasy. “Go see her for yourself, Todd,” Daphne said.

On weak knees—which he told himself was just from too many hours on horseback—Todd clumped up to their old trailer. His cowboy boots crunched on the dry grass. He spotted Ren and Stimpy off to the side, munching on dry grass.

The battered white aluminum siding of the trailer looked the same, with water spots and algae in the crevices; the rusty wheel rims still sat on concrete blocks. The metal screen on the door had been fixed; Todd wondered if Iris had done it herself.

He stared for a moment, terrified, then he finally rapped on the door frame.

Deep inside, Todd knew another man was going to answer. And what could he say to that? It was his own fault he had left. He made up his mind just to shake hands and leave.

But Iris opened the door herself, blinking up at him in the bright late-morning sunlight. Her almond eyes widened. She flashed an instinctive, shocked grin, but then she recovered. She cocked her head and looked wryly up at him. “So you came back.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” He took off his hat, wringing the brim in his big hands. “I’m ready to take you up on that offer—if you still want me. But you’ll have to marry me,” he said doggedly.

She was silent for a long moment, then made a tsking sound. “And you still didn’t remember to bring flowers.”

Iris laughed, then she hugged him.

Dramatis Personae

San Francisco

Connor Brooks—Seaman

Miles Uma—Captain, Oilstar Zoroaster

Ed Dailey—Second Mate

Dr. Alex Kramer—Oilstar Microbiogist

Maureen Kramer—his wife

Jay Kramer—his son

Erin Kramer—his daughter

Dr. Mitchell Stone—Alex’s assistant

Jackson Harris—Environmental activist

Daphne Harris—Environmental activist, Jackson’s wife

Todd Severyn—Petroleum Engineer

Dr. Iris Shikozu—Stanford University

William Plerry—Environmental Policy Office

Emma Branson—CEO Oilstar

Walter Cochran—Oilstar executive

Moira Tibbett—Sandia, Livermore researcher

Dave Hensch—Stanford student

Officer Orenio—security guard

Jake Torgens—Environmentalist, radical activist

Reverend Timothy Rudge—Pastor, Holy Grace Baptist Church

White Sands, New Mexico

Dr. Spencer Lockwood—Physicist, Solar Satellite project head

Rita Fellenstein—Chief technician

Dr. Lance Nedermyer—Department of Energy program manager

Dr. Gilbert Hertoya—Director, Electromagnetic Launch Facility

Juan Romero—technician

Dr Arnold Norton—Sandia scientist

Albuquerque, NM

Brig General Bayclock—Commander, Kirtland Air Force Base

David Reinski—Mayor of Albuquerque

Sgt Catilyn Morris—Helicopter mechanic

Colonel David—Commander, Phillips Laboratory

Colonel Nichimya—Commander, Base Personnel

Washington DC

Henry Holback—President of the US

Harald Wolani—Vice President of the US

The Honorable Jeffrey Mayeaux—Speaker of the House

Rita Mayeaux—his wife

Franklin Weathersee—Mayeaux’s Chief of Staff

General Wacon—Chairman, JCS

Other locations

Heather Dixon—Insurance adjuster (Flagstaff, AZ)

Al Sysco—Manager, Surety Insurance (Flagstaff, AZ)

Dick Morgret—Gas station owner (Death Valley, CA)

Carlos Bettario—Rancher (Death Valley, CA)

Lt Bobby Carron—F/A-18 pilot, USN (China Lake, CA)

Lt Ralph “Barfman” Petronfi—Bobby’s wingman (China Lake, CA)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Look for these and other digital works by Kevin J. Anderson:

RESURRECTION, INC.

In the future, the dead walk the streets—Resurrection, Inc. found a profitable way to do it. A microprocessor brain, synthetic heart, artificial blood, and a fresh corpse can return as a Servant for anyone with the price. Trained to obey any command, Servants have no minds of their own, no memories of their past lives.

Supposedly.

Then came Danal. He was murdered, a sacrifice from the ever-growing cult of neo-Satanists who sought heaven in the depths of hell. But as a Servant, Danal began to remember. He learned who had killed him, who he was, and what Resurrection, Inc. had in mind for the human race.

CLIMBING OLYMPUS

They were prisoners, exiles, pawns of a corrupt government. Now they are Dr. Rachel Dycek’s adin, surgically transformed beings who can survive new lives on the surface of Mars. But they are still exiles, unable ever again to breathe Earth’s air. And they are still pawns.

For the adin exist to terraform Mars for human colonists, not for themselves. Creating a new Earth, they will destroy their world, killed by their own success. Desperate, adin leader Boris Tiban launches a suicide campaign to sabotage the Mars Project, knowing his people will perish in a glorious, doomed campaign of mayhem—unless embattled, bitter Rachel Dycek can find a miracle to save both the Mars Project and the race she created.

BLINDFOLD

Atlas is a struggling colony on an untamable world, a fragile society held together by the Truthsayers. Parentless, trained from birth as the sole users of Veritas, a telepathy virus that lets them read the souls of the guilty. Truthsayers are Justice—infallible, beyond appeal.

But sometimes they are wrong.

Falsely accused of murder, Troy Boren trusts the young Truthsayer Kalliana…until, impossibly, she convicts him. Still shaken from a previous reading, Kalliana doesn’t realize her power is fading. But soon the evidence becomes impossible to ignore. The Truthsayers’ Veritas has been diluted and someone in the colony is selling smuggled telepathy. Justice isn’t blind—it’s been blinded.

From an immortal’s orbital prison to the buried secrets of a regal fortress, Kalliana and Troy seek the conspiracy that threatens to destroy their world from within. For without truth and justice, Atlas will certainly fall…

GAMEARTH

Book 1 of the Gamearth Trilogy

By Kevin J. Anderson

It was supposed to be just another Sunday night fantasy role-playing game for David, Tyrone, Scott, and Melanie. But after years of playing, the game had become so real that all their creations—humans, sorcerers, dragons, ogres, panther-folk, cyclops—now had existences of their own. And when the four outside players decide to end their game, the characters inside the world of Gamearth—warriors, scholars, and the few remaining wielders of magic—band together to keep their land from vanishing. Now they must embark on a desperate quest for their own magic—magic that can twist the Rules enough to save them all from the evil that the players created to destroy their entire world.

GAME'S END

Book 3 of the Gamearth Trilogy

By Kevin J. Anderson

The finale to the Gamearth Trilogy. It’s all-out war between the players and characters in a role-playing game that has taken on a life of its own. The fighter Delrael, the sorcerer Bryl, as well as famed scientists Verne and Frankenstein, use every trick in the Book of Rules to keep the world of Gamearth intact while the outside group of players does everything possible to destroy it.

CAPTAIN NEMO

The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius

By Kevin J. Anderson

The life story of the enigmatic dark hero most readers know from Jules Verne’s novels 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and The Mysterious Island. A boyhood friend of Verne’s, Nemo goes off to explore the world, adventuring aboard sailing ships, crossing Africa in a balloon, exploring deep caverns that lead to the center of the Earth, and eventually building the Nautilus, the terrible submarine in which he wages war against war.

Short stories:

“Drumbeats”

A chilling story cowritten with Rush drummer and lyricist Neil Peart. A rock drummer bicycling through the African wilderness encounters a village that makes very special drums. This one will make your heart skip a beat.

“Frog Kiss”

A humorous fantasy tale. An evil wizard has turned the entire royal family into frogs and set them loose in the marshes, and only a kiss can restore them to their natural forms . . . but there are so many frogs, and so much swamp, who is willing to kiss them all?

“Fondest of Memories”

Everyone tends to edit their memories of lost loved ones, emphasizing the admirable qualities and good times, downplaying the unpleasant aspects. For a man given the chance to have his dead wife cloned, he can rebuild and restore her memories . . . with a few slight modifications.

“Redmond’s Private Screening”

A hard-edged horror tale. For a shady filmmaker in the early days of Hollywood, it seems like a great opportunity when a disgraced samurai offers to commit seppuku before the cameras. But the cameras are rolling.

“Job Qualifications”

The expectations we place on our politicians seem impossible for any person to achieve. A candidate needs to be all things, know all walks of life, understand every segment of his constituency. How could one person achieve so much . . . without a little help from a handful of clones.

“Prisons”

Co-written with Doug Beason. On a harsh prison planet, the warden and the staff are as much prisoners as the convicts, but a risky prison break might free them all.

“Collaborators”

Co-written with Rebecca Moesta. A collaboration is a close synergy between two creative artists, where one idea is a catalyst for another, and another. But when two people join their minds to create virtual universes, the artwork is so vast they begin to lose their own identities.