Daybreak Zero (31 page)

ABOUT THE SAME TIME. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 10:15 PM MST. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 2025.

Leslie was trying to talk to herself.
Got to face things. I don’t know why I’m accused, but I’m accused of . . .

There was a glow on the floor, coming from beneath the door. It opened.

She felt better seeing that it was Arnie Yang—pleasant, sensible, dorkish, slightly sad Arnie, who you could always have a beer with, always so desperate for human company; not exactly her friend, but she trusted his honesty, and she couldn’t imagine him treating her, or anyone, harshly.

He squatted down so as not to stand over her. “Are you being welltreated?”

“I guess. It’s clean. Nobody hits me or yells at me.” Humiliatingly, she began to cry; it was such a relief that someone seemed to care. She wiped at her eyes. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You know my job is to hear all about it.”

“I didn’t do anything, I didn’t tell anyone anything, I’m as loyal as you are.”

He sighed. “I can’t imagine how you could have done it, but the evidence Heather showed me—”

“That’s part of it, Doctor Yang, I can’t even imagine how there could be any evidence—”

“Were you so careful?”

“No, I mean I didn’t do anything, so—”

He raised his hands gently, and spoke quietly and kindly. “Leslie, a moment ago you were talking about the evidence.”

“How could it possibly—”

“Leslie, I really want to believe you. But you’ll have to put it
all
in my hands. I’m going to ask you about things going back a decade or more, and some of them won’t have any apparent connection to this situation. You know that you and I both want to clear you. If there is evidence anywhere that will clear you, if you tell me everything, hold nothing back, I can find my way to that evidence, Leslie. I couldn’t tell you why, but I believe somehow you’re innocent, and if you’ll help me, I can find the path to the truth. But you’ve got to cooperate; answer my questions, no matter how personal, even if I just ask you to ramble on. Withhold nothing, object to nothing, just give me what I ask for. Will you promise to help me try?”

She wiped her face with the little piece of toweling they’d given him. “With you all the way, Doctor Yang.”

“Arnie. If we weren’t before, we’re going to be friends.” He leaned forward and said, “Now, as much as you remember, had you ever heard the word ‘Daybreak’ in any kind of political or environmental context, any time before October 28th, 2024?”

THE NEXT MORNING. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 9:04 AM MST. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2025.

This is not going to be easy.
Heather looked down at the notes she had scrawled minutes ago, after her quick conference with Arnie. Leslie Antonowicz had been no more forthcoming this morning, refusing to answer any questions, saying only that she was innocent,
which is kind of what you’d expect, isn’t it?

She looked up; both delegations were silent, either watching her or working over notes.
Probably they both already know. It’s not like we’re hard to penetrate or anything.
Her own sarcasm was bitter brass in her brain.

She drew a breath and began. “There’s something we need to cover before talking about anything else this morning. Last night an ongoing investigation discovered that one of the Reconstruction Research Center’s top analysts, Leslie Antonowicz, was working for Daybreak. At this point we don’t even know what that really means, whether she was actually in the pay of some Daybreak-related organization or whether she is a believing convert to the Daybreak system of ideas. Ms. Antonowicz is in detention at a secure location.

“My senior researcher, Doctor Arnold Yang, is interrogating her, and I hope within a few days we will know much more about what has been going on, for how long, and how much damage has been done. At this point, however, because she was on our Board, the librarian for our field reporting system, and a senior researcher, and therefore her routine access to information was at such a high level, we have to assume that
no
communications between RRC and anywhere else—including either the Temporary National Government or the Provisional Constitutional Government—have been secure, since the founding of the RRC. The responsibility for this is entirely mine. I urge that you immediately contact your home offices by your own most secure channels and begin appropriate investigations. I ask your patience while we investigate our own very serious situation. Thank you.”

General Grayson cleared his throat as if to say something, but Cam froze him with a glance, then pulled a file card from his pocket and read, “‘Whereas any agreement on the matters currently in negotiation is absolutely dependent on maintenance of full security, we believe the conference must be canceled for the time being, until RRC is able to show that security is re-established. We expect that this will take a period of weeks or months and therefore will return to the temporary capital at Athens in the TNG District. We regret this necessity and look forward to reconvening at the earliest feasible date.’”

He had that ready to go on his card; he knew.

Graham nodded, pulled out three cards (Heather could see they were in Allie’s all-caps printed scrawl), and selected the one he wanted; he read, “We will be happy to reconvene as soon as security issues are settled, but we do not believe this can be done at any early date, so we are returning to Olympia, where we will await the successful conclusion of the RRC’s investigations.”

And Allie had prepared Graham Weisbrod to go three different ways. Gah. There used to be high school marching bands that had better security than we do.

That afternoon, walking back with James from seeing off the PCG train to Olympia (just twenty minutes after the TNG train to Athens), Heather spotted a newsboy running up the street toward the riverfront. She flagged him down, paid him, and showed James the extra edition of the
Pueblo Post-Times
. Half the front page was headline:

PEACE TALKS COLLAPSE
SENIOR RRC OFFICIAL IS COVERT DAYBREAKER
PROSPECTS FOR REUNION ELECTION NEXT YEAR DIM

“This might be the first issue, ever, that I don’t read,” she said. As they walked on they could hear the shouts of “Extra!” in the streets around them.

“I don’t suppose many people will be collecting those,” James said. “Not the way they did the PEACE headline a few months ago.”

After another block, Heather said, “I got all three of your notes about Leslie. James, we all know you’re her most loyal friend. There’s no reason for us to consider you a suspect, but it’s only common sense for us to keep you away from the investigation. And for God’s sake, James, it’s
Arnie
. Are you expecting him to torture her or something? He’s told me already that he really wants to believe she’s innocent, but she’s not cooperating at all. I know she’s important to you, but what else would you have us do? Now, of course you have to worry. She’s your friend and you don’t think she’s guilty. But I know that if she’s innocent, Arnie Yang will find that out. And I promise, no matter what, you’ll see her again.”

James nodded, said, “Thanks for understanding,” and walked away, hands in his pockets, head down, kicking at the dirt.

He’s thinking, and that’s not as good a thing as it usually is,
Heather thought, turning toward her own office door.
And I hope he doesn’t realize how likely it is that when he sees Leslie again, it’ll be to sit up with her the night before we hang her.

THE NEXT DAY. SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA. 8:30 AM PST. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2025.

The big thugly types at the main gate of Castle Castro held their black-powder carbines pointed down. Carlucci had left weapons and deputies at home; he carried three letters. The most important one was from Natalie Thanh, a Federal district judge. Finding that Article IV, Section 4, of the Constitution outlawed hereditary monarchy and any form of feudal aristocracy on American territory, she ordered the League of Southern Castles dissolved, voided all oaths of fealty to the League, and demanded the renunciation of all titles.

Carlucci had had to sell that one to Thanh himself, dusting off his law school education, sitting long nights by a flickering oil lamp, reading dusty law books rescued from basements and attics to put together the pieces of
PacTel versus Oregon
,
Gregory versus Ashcroft
, and
Forsyth versus Hammond
, but he’d made Thanh see it his way.

That letter was important, but the other two that Heather had secured for him, flown down to him by Bambi Castro, were what made it matter. Cameron Nguyen-Peters, NCCC of the Temporary National Government in Athens, Georgia, declared that he would use his emergency powers to enforce Judge Thanh’s decision “as consistent with constitutional restoration.” President Graham Weisbrod of the Provisional Constitutional Government ordered all Federal agents to enforce Judge Thanh’s order “without equivocation or delay.”

As on every other visit to Castle Castro, Carlucci couldn’t help noticing that Castro’s brawny, efficient, uniformed guards were much more impressive than anything Carlucci had across the bay, at what was nominally the FBI’s California HQ and actually around twenty people in a fortified office building.

Once Carlucci had convinced Judge Thanh that he was right, she had suggested that he arrest Harrison Castro under RICO and the 1903 Militia Act.
And the cat should be ordered to wear a bell under the Cruelty to Mice Act.

“Okay, they’re answering.” Castro’s guard read the semaphore through his binoculars. “Permit entry, all other checkpoints pre-cleared.” He lowered the binoculars. “Well, there you go; do you still remember the way?”

“Yeah, I lived here for a few weeks last fall,” Carlucci said.

“Some of us hoped things would work out so that the Feds would work with us, and support what we’re trying to do here.”

“You never know what may come,” Carlucci said.

Between Daybreak and Christmas last year, Harrison Castro had admitted a few thousand selected refugees. About three thousand adults had sworn their allegiance to Castle Castro, and brought along maybe four hundred kids. Since then, Castle Castro had taken over about half the old San Diego waterfront, wrapped in concentric rings of zigzag walls. The walls themselves were mostly the rubble of wrecked and pulled-down buildings between chain link and boards, running across streets between intact buildings; the outer walls were more than a mile inland.
Wonder if Castro got permission from all those property holders? He used to be very insistent that property rights were the whole basis of civilization. . . .

He hated the feeling of envy that hit him at times like this. Castle Castro had the most reliable food supply in the area, and electricity some of every day. Carlucci had two great teenage kids, Paley and Acey; like others at FBI West, they sometimes went hungry and sometimes were up all night when tribal attacks threatened, and school was a matter of reading when they weren’t working, which was rare. Castro had an actual K-12 high school in the main keep there, the only problem being it taught what Castro wanted it to.

Carlucci passed through the second line of walls and buildings; the guards came to attention as he passed.
Probably standard courtesy for a visiting dignitary.
He couldn’t help adding, mentally,
From a “foreign power.”

The path wound past greenhouses, fishponds, and animal barns; standing a siege right now might have been awkward, but if the crops in the outside fields came in and filled up their food storage this year, and with the access to the sea and all those sailboats Castro had managed to pull together, Castle Castro would be, for all practical, short-run purposes, impregnable.

The central compound and keep had been built prior to Daybreak, back when Castro had merely been a billionaire nut enacting bizarre power fantasies. Inside its steel fences, a complex maze of roads led anyone who didn’t know the system around rather than toward the big house. Wrong routes ended in cul-de-sacs under the guns of blockhouses.

The man at the front door smiled and said, “Nice to see you again, Mister Carlucci.”

“How have you been, Donald?”

“Busy, safe, and well-fed,” the man said. “The boss is in the main office. I guess you still know your way.”

Before Carlucci could knock, Harrison Castro opened the door and said, “Dave. Welcome. Come right this way.”

The breakfast table on the balcony was set with fussy precision. “Since this is bound to involve being rude to each other,” Castro said, “I thought we might as well start off with something we’d enjoy.”

They made small talk while Carlucci let himself get reacquainted with eggs, bacon, and coffee. “One small piece of business I’d like to do before the main business,” Castro said. “Tribes are getting bigger and worse everywhere, and the beating we gave them here back in June doesn’t seem to have stuck. If you need to shelter at Castle Castro against any tribal attack, the door is open to everyone under your command or protection.”

“Of course I accept,” Carlucci said.
Jeez, there could be a tribal attack up from Baja any time, and I’ve got Arlene and the kids, what else can I say but “yes”?
“If you remember my number two guy, Terry Bolton, I was going to have him contact your folks for some liaison. We’ve got some ops going down in Baja and you’re right, something real bad is building up.”

“I remember Terry, and if he thinks it’s bad down there, he’s not the panicking kind; it’s bad. All right, well, I’m out of the pleasant stuff.” Castro had a sardonic smile. “I suppose you’re here to place me under arrest.”

Carlucci shrugged. “Not this time, anyway. That isn’t how the law works in this case. I’m here to serve a Federal District Court order and to deliver letters from the governments at Athens and Olympia. What you do after receiving those letters is what determines whether we’d ask the court for an arrest warrant. It’s one of those things like a restraining order where the activity isn’t illegal until you’ve been told to stop and haven’t complied. At least that’s what Judge Thanh thinks. Will you accept the papers now?”

“Sure, I’ll read anything, unless by accepting them I agree to them.”

“All you do is allow me to say you weren’t unaware of the order.”

“No harm in that I can see.” He extended a hand, took the three pieces of paper, and read them. “Shall I make a statement?”

“You could send a letter within a reasonable length of time, decline to respond but send an attorney to Judge Thanh during business hours, or tell me whatever you like. Or I suppose you could declare war and have me thrown out the window.”

“Well, definitely not the last alternative. I’ll just tell you, Dave, and I trust you to report it accurately enough. The court order and the letters cite the Constitution of the United States. It’s no longer in force. The United States of America is over, Carlucci. I wish a brave, decent, honorable man like you could see that. The Constitution was created so that the people who were worth shit could run the country, but it got bent around to all kinds of other shitty, worthless purposes. So now it’s gone, and good riddance, and though I wouldn’t have asked for Daybreak before it happened, now that it has, well, from now on you can deal with the Earl of San Diego.”

“We can’t address you by that title,” Carlucci said. “Article One, patents of nobility clause. Here’s the blunt word from a Federal court: You still live in the United States of America. Our Constitution doesn’t permit private armies, hereditary sovereignty, or titles of nobility.”

Castro rose. “Can I send you on your way with some food or something?”