“That was the warm-up in the Daybreak sales pitch to women,” Jason said, thinking how much that sounded like his father or brother. “Some women love the idea of being all Earth-mothery, I am woman, I give birth to the world, I am the mother the world needs—I used to riff on phrases like that all the time for my Daybreak poems. But if human beings are a blight on the face of Mother Gaia, and getting rid of them is the paramount goal, you’ve got to get rid of women.
“Men breed too,” Chris pointed out.
“A hundred men and one woman can turn out about one baby per year. A hundred women and one man can turn out about a hundred babies per year. If you want to get rid of people, you get rid of mothers,” Jason said. “But that wasn’t what we said to them, not at first. Our first message was, ‘You are Woman and the world depends on you.’” He wasn’t looking up from his food, lost in thinking about home and his pregnant wife. “That’s what got Beth into it; she was from a dirty-ass pack of urban white trash scum that was trying to pretend they were ghetto gangstas because for them it was an upgrade. Daybreak was the first time anyone said they wanted her for something besides her boobs. A lot of women didn’t see where it was going till too late. A lot of men, too.” He seemed to be a thousand miles inside himself.
“Why don’t they rebel?” Chris asked.
“Some do. Beth and I walked into Pueblo and volunteered. I don’t know why more ex-Daybreakers don’t.”
“But why don’t they rebel here?”
Jason shrugged. “Why do you think there’s a whipping post and a boneyard?”
ELEVEN:
DANCED UPON THE HEAPS OF SHRUNKEN DEAD
ABOUT 3 HOURS LATER. CASTLE EARTHSTONE. 5:30 PM EST. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2025.
Larry, Chris, and Jason waited for sunset in a cluster of trees, near a ditch to give them a covered retreat. Slaves and soldiers emerged from the main gate, followed by the technicians and the favored slaves, and then the lord and his “palace staff.”
“If we’d known they were going to do this,” Chris said, “we could’ve spared all that effort counting them.”
“At least they’re confirming our count,” Larry pointed out. They had spent much of the afternoon observing and counting, figuring out that there were quarters for about four hundred soldiers, though less than fifty seemed to be present; fifteen or so in the lord’s entourage; about twenty pump-and-windmill mechanics, overseers, and attractive women, in the hut Larry had dubbed the tech-and-trollop shack; and between eight and nine hundred emaciated, sickly slaves.
The whole population seemed to be gathering in a semicircle between the main wall and the outer gateway. Slaves ran to set up front-row chairs for the lord and his staff. Everyone else sat on the ground.
The bass drum beat faster, and other drums joined in. Slaves danced into the center area. This uncostumed daylight version was danced more than acted, but it was very recognizably The Play of Daybreak. Whenever the coincidence of wind and volume enabled them to hear a phrase, Larry or Jason or both would nod at the familiar words.
“Look at the way the audience is swaying to the drum,” Chris breathed. “Like a rock concert with hypnosis.”
Jason said, “Most of them spent years being hypnotized via the screen every night, sinking deeper and deeper into Daybreak, and now they—”
Jason didn’t know what moved beside him, but weeks of nerves and months of Samson’s training made him draw his short hatchet and chop sideways across the motion, splitting the hand holding the knife between the wrist bones before he knew what it was. He snatched back the hatchet, slapped the knife away with the flat of the blade, and backhanded up the arm and shoulder, using the handle running along the arm to guide him till the blade found the neck and bit deep into the carotid and windpipe. One out.
Jason kept his hatchet high behind his head, clearing into his turn with a cloud-hand.
Larry was yanking his commando knife back from a man’s throat. Two women had jumped onto Chris, one with arms wrapped around his throat in a half-nelson strangle, the other tangling his arms. They were pulling him over backward as he struggled to his feet.
Jason swung as Chris bucked forward, and struck the upper woman on the crown of her head, sinking his hatchet deep. Chris’s freed hands clawed back for the eyes of the woman tackling him.
She shrieked as Larry’s knife slashed into her thigh and cut upward, bringing a gush of arterial blood. She fell dying, but the entire crowd was now staring toward them. Jason and Chris whirled to plunge into the ditch.
Larry grabbed them by their collars. “No! This way!”
They ran for a clump of trees and bushes about sixty yards off. Behind them, Jason heard thrashing sounds—they must’ve been set to ambush us in the ditch, glad Larry spotted them, run, run, come on, run.
Larry dove headfirst among the bushes in a tsugari roll, and Jason followed; Chris plunged forward and prone, covering his face with his outturned hands. Things hissed and thudded among the low branches. Something spun and clattered down to the ground, hissing like a furious goose. Larry grabbed it, rose to his knees to throw it, and fell back prone.
Jason felt the boom in the ground, through his chest. Leaves and twigs showered his back. Beth, babe, if it’s a boy we’re naming him Larry.
“Up, run.” Larry jumped to his feet and they ran up a slope, across an open field, and around behind a lean-to shed. “Chris, right side, prone firing. Jason, same thing, left side.” Larry rolled away from the shed and took cover behind a low hummock.
Back toward Castle Earthstone, horns blew and people shouted. Jason sighted around the side of the lean-to. The soldiers from the ditch were running back to join the main group by Castle Earthstone.
“They’re organizing pursuit,” Larry said, softly. “Now, see the lord there?”
“Looks like Santa Claus throwing a tantrum,” Chris observed.
“He does. It’s a long shot, but these big heavy bullets tend to fly straight and hit hard even far away. On three we’re all taking a shot at Lord Santa there. If you see him react to the shots but he’s not hit, take another shot at him as quick as you can. If you see him hit, look over the crowd and shoot anyone you see giving orders and being listened to. Keep shooting till your magazine’s empty and your last round is chambered. There’s a long line of trees along an old railroad embankment about a hundred and twenty yards behind me. As soon as your magazine is empty with your last round chambered, get back behind the embankment. Switch magazines there. If you’re the only one that gets there, make something up; otherwise wait till we’re all there. Got all that?”
“Yeah,” Jason said, sighting about five feet above Lord Santa’s head, and hoping his guess was right for the long shot.
“Yep,” Chris said.
“On three. One, two, thr—” Crack.
Black-powder forms a gray, dirty cloud that obscures the shooter’s sight and gives away his position. In the long breath while the white blur with its burnt-sulfur stench cleared away, Jason considered the importance of the project at Pueblo trying to make a biote-immune smokeless powder.
The smoke cleared. The big, white-bearded man was on his back on the ground with a dozen people bent over him. Hit.
Larry’s rifle cracked, and Chris was working his lever; belatedly Jason worked his own and looked around. A young man with a yellow beard and dreads had jumped up on one of the seats in the elite section of the audience and was pointing toward Jason. Should’ve kept your mouth shut, dude. Jason pulled the trigger, worked the lever.