LATER THAT EVENING. WASHINGTON. DC. PITTSBURGH. PENNSYLVANIA. AND MOST OF THE UNITED STATES. 7:00 P.M. EST. SUNDAY. NOVEMBER 3.
Chris Manckiewicz’s introduction for the radio presidential debate stressed that despite everything, voting would still take place on Tuesday, and added, “Because our Republic is stronger even than this.” He went on to explain Vote Where You Are, the system Shaunsen had worked out for people to vote on a simple honor system: find any State, Federal, or local official on election day, no matter where you were, give them your address and as many preferences as you could, and the votes would be passed up the chain, exchanged around among the states, until every vote came home to its proper roost.
“It’s the only thing about him that doesn’t make me gnash my teeth. It’s sort of weirdly magnificent,” Lenny said. “Shaunsen is a corrupt old idiot, but he’s so much a politician that he can’t imagine canceling an election. Heroic lack of imagination.”
“Shh,” Heather said, adjusting to hold him closer. “Shut up so I can hear the history getting made.”
His good hand ran gently down her flank, and she thought, Well, there’s something even more distracting. But she focused her attention and waited to hear the two candidates, sharing a moment with the rest of the country.
KP-1’s Tech Tips had broadcast directions on making workable crystal radios using Christmas LED bulbs as the crystal, which allowed you to add amplifying power from a battery, so it was hoped that a majority of surviving Americans would find a way to hear this broadcast; after all, it wasn’t as if there was a lot of competing entertainment.
Norcross spoke first, and surprised them by not mentioning religious faith at all; he simply said that he wanted the job of putting the country back on its feet, and he knew what a big job it would be.
Shaunsen repeated his long list of something for everyone, suggested that Norcross was apt to impose religious tyranny, and gay-ron-teed! that everything would be back to normal in two years; he reminded everyone to simply hand whatever public official they could find on election day, “Your name, your address, and the big bold words STRAIGHT DEMOCRAT!”
Manckiewicz asked about several subjects; the answer from Shaunsen was always a list of where they were spending money, and “Be sure to vote STRAIGHT DEMOCRAT!” After the third such conclusion, Lenny muttered, “Wonder how many gay Democrat votes he’s losing?”
“About like everyone else, straight, gay, male, female, black, white. Everyone with a brain who hears him,” Heather said.
“And same question, Mr. Norcross?”
Norcross said, “Well, it just seems to me that we can be balanced about this. No, the experts really don’t agree yet on whether we were attacked by what they call a ‘system artifact,’ meaning sort of a mind-virus that just kind of grew in the Internet like termites in the baseboards, or whether it was an actual act of war by some nation or terrorist outfit. But common sense says a reconstructed nation can fight better, and a secure nation can reconstruct better.”
“Isn’t it amazing what having a big, important job does to some people?” Lenny said. “Norcross went from Jesus nut to almost-statesman; Shaunsen went from third-rate to tenth-rate.”
“Yeah, I almost feel good about voting for Norcross. Where did he get all that system artifact stuff?”
“Oh, Cam told both of them about it at a briefing; Norcross listened, I guess. Or maybe Shaunsen listened but didn’t care; probably he just figured that whether we’re being attacked by self-aware malware, or an international terror network, or for that matter Satan or freakin’ Monaco, why worry which? Shaunsen’s solution will always be to spend money.”
THE NEXT DAY. WASHINGTON. DC. JUST BEFORE 7:00 A.M. EST. MONDAY. NOVEMBER 4.
That morning, the price for a copy of the Advertiser-Gazette had gone up to “thirty-two ounces of canned food or forty-eight of dry,” according to the masthead, but Heather had still had to struggle through the crowd around the newsboy for a copy; the kid looked like he was standing in a food-drive donation bin. Back at St. Elizabeth’s, where the power was on temporarily, she paged through it quickly under an ultraviolet spotlight, and then rolled it up, ran it through a degausser, and finally let them put it under a salvaged dental X-ray machine for about ten times the dose a human being should take in a year. That was the new procedure for documents that had been exposed outside, since yesterday they’d lost a satellite uplink to biotes that had probably come in on some paper maps from USGS.
It was worth it all, though, for the experience of being able to have powdered eggs, instant mashed potatoes, and freeze-dried coffee in their little makeshift bedroom, especially since, with the power on again in this wing for the moment, they had light enough to read to each other. Heather took a turn reading the rightmost column on the front page, which carried the basic information about the Vote Where You Are program.
While Heather ate, Lenny read the roundup story on the post-Daybreak disasters around the country: the big fires in St. Paul and Boston, the rioting and looting in DC, the weather disasters unfolding across the northern states.
They switched again for Lenny to have his toast while it was warm. Heather read Chris Manckiewicz’s editorial about the already-appearing corruption of many reconstruction projects, Shaunsen’s non-answers and attempted demagoguing during the debate on KP-1, the creation of the unneeded and threatening National Unity Guard without Congressional authorization, and finally the symbolism of the limo issue: that Washington’s scarce and vital supply of tires and gasoline had been depleted “so that the Acting President may wander around glad-handing and trying to persuade people that he is fit for office. We call on the voters to elect Norcross, and because the country cannot afford more of Shaunsen, we believe that we cannot wait for Norcross to take office in January. We urge the House to impeach Acting President Shaunsen and the Senate to remove him.’ You know, I am getting to like Chris Manckiewicz and Rusty Parlotta more than—”
There was a knock at the door. “Heather O’Grainne, please report immediately to Mr. Nguyen-Peters in his office, and he requests that you bring a day bag and a firearm.”
“On my way.” She bolted the last of her eggs and potatoes, gulped the last of her coffee, and kissed Lenny tenderly; nowadays she kept a packed day bag, including a weapon, by the door.
IMMEDIATELY AFTER. WASHINGTON. DC. 8:15 A.M. EST. MONDAY. NOVEMBER 4.
Cam looked up from his desk as she came in; he looked stressed-out, overworked, and relieved to see her.
“What would you say,” he said, “if I reminded you that you have taken an oath—several times—to ‘support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign or domestic’?”
“I’d say ‘well, duh, Cam,’ and ask if I was being accused of treason.”
“Good. Would you say that a President—or an Acting President—who deputizes members of his staff, arms them, and sends them out to arrest someone is acting Constitutionally?”