The Last President (4 page)

“Eggnog,” James said. “Warm eggnog.”

They clinked cups. “Merry Christmas. And that's not a rebuttal, oh chief advisor.”

“There's truth in warm eggnog, too, and the colors are beautiful, however they got there.”

Sunset was a streak of vivid purple with a deep red egg half nested in it, behind the black teeth of the mountains, when they heard the group of people singing “Adeste Fidelis.” “That hymn must have accompanied some bleak Christmases since the Romans first sang it,” Heather said.

“It's not
nearly
that old,” James said. “They were still writing hymns in Latin down almost to 1900, because Latin sings better than English.”

“How did you—don't tell me the government had a
pamphlet
on that?”

“You bet.
Recreating historic holidays, a teacher's guide
, 1950s booklet from the Park Service's history guides series. ‘Adeste Fidelis' would be okay for a grade-school production of
Christmas at Valley Forge
, but not much earlier, and even for
Christmas at the Lincoln White House
, only snooty Episcopalians would know it. If you want common soldiers singing it, go to the Bulge or Chosin.”

“I was visualizing Roman Britain, brave old legionaries and half-trained boys surrounded by Saxons, you know. Anyway, it sounds brave against the darkness.”

“‘Brave against the darkness' probably counts more than archival-librarian accuracy.”

She nodded and they sat quietly until she asked, “James, are we expecting too much, too soon, for putting the country back together? There's so much to do in this next year.”

He squatted by the fire, surprisingly agile, held his hands to the warmth, and seemed to listen to some voice. At last he said, “Right now, a few million loyal Americans—not Daybreakers, I mean good people who do their jobs and who we need—have just begun noticing that a restored United States might not be so good for them.”

Taken aback, Heather blurted, “Who
wouldn't
it be good for, besides Daybreak? Why not?” She could hear indignation in her own voice and wasn't sure she intended it.

James spread his hands. “Lots of people. The guy who created a business out of property that was just lying around, who has never paid taxes, and doesn't want to start. The teacher who teaches what she likes, how she likes. The farmer who has access to all the land he can plow.

“Right now, if people put resources back into productive use, good enough, and we let them keep it; the real owner is almost certainly dead and if not, unable to get back to the property. But what if the roads and the courts re-open, and people can come back and prove they're the old owners? Then add in that once it's set back up, there'll be taxes again.
And
that old folk figure of evil, The Book-Smart Man From Washington That Don't Know Shit, will begin to reappear at the doors of hardworking people.”

“There's no more Washington. There's a lake where it was.”

“You know what I mean. And you can bet that if we do carry out our plan and get a Federal government going again, ‘Springfield' will mean pretty much what ‘Washington' used to, well within our lifetimes. We'd have some people losing things they've worked for, and many people remembering things they didn't like. So some of them are catching on, right now, that the Restored Republic of the United States is a nice idea but it's not necessarily the best thing for them.”

“But, James,
who
?”

“How many people with a spending problem sleep better at night because their debt is gone, with no one to extend more credit to them and nothing to buy with it? Why would they want to bring back the world of consolidation, bankruptcy, and foreclosure, especially if they have to work at it? How many people played dead, and got a fresh start, by just walking away from lovers or families in the chaos? How many people were in jobs they hated back then and have lucked into jobs they like, now?”

“Oh, there are some like that, I'm sure, but come on, James, what about an ex-desk jockey who's shoveling mud? Won't he—”

“Everybody doesn't have to be better off for there to be a movement. Think how many big causes in history turned out to benefit
nobody
. And the benefits of the new world are not illusory, Heather. Re-creating the Federal government is going to be a net
cost
to a lot of people who won't want to pay that bill.”

“Then should we just give up? Are we too late already?”

“I think we're still in time, but only just. Right now, I think most people haven't yet admitted how much they have to lose if the United States comes back.

“But if we give them a year or two, they'll see all kinds of practical reasons to put off the Restored Republic for another year, or another decade, or their grandchildren's generation. My advice as your consigliere is
now
.” He stirred the pot, the red glow bathing his bald spot and sagging cheeks, making him look a thousand years old. “All in the timing. Like the moment for this bisque, and the moment to just enjoy Christmas with company, and every other moment that matters. Hold out your bowl and no more gloomy talk till we've finished.”

2 WEEKS LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 2:30 PM EASTERN TIME. THURSDAY, JANUARY 8, 2026.

Jenny Whilmire Grayson thanked the crowd and left the rostrum on the steps of the First National Church (the former University of Georgia chapel) knowing that she had given one of her best speeches, ever: just Christian enough so that her father's disciples would not feel deserted; heavy on Army, patriotism, and honor for Jeff's home crowd; enough quotes about restoring the Constitution for the Provi audience that would read the speech in the
Pueblo Post-Times
next week. And she'd written some good catchy phrases, and delivered them well.

Her father's expression brought her up short. “Honey, I'm proud of you, of course—”

“But . . . ?”

“As we move deeper into the Tribulation, we also move the saving remnant of America toward its union with the Lord, and—”

“Daddy, I can tell you're not speaking as my father, you're intoning as the Chief Bishop of the Post Raptural Church—”

“Jenny, I
am
your father. You were always my smart, beautiful daughter, and I love you, but if you are going to be our First Lady, you have to be
more
than smart and beautiful.”

“What else did you have in mind?”

“America needs a First Lady who is a model Christian woman, because the President and First Lady, in a very important symbolic way, are the national mother and father—”

“Daddy, Jeff has had a vasectomy and nowadays there's no way to reverse it.”
Sorry about lying to Daddy, Jesus, but we will just have to wait for the ten-year shot that Mama got me when I went off to college to wear off, because there's no counter-shot anymore. I guess once it does wear off we'll say we'd been praying and the Lord saw fit to reload Jeff's musket.

“I don't mean literally, physically parents, I mean that you represent motherhood and fatherhood, in the same way that the President himself represents not just fatherhood but our Father in heaven, too. Ever since Kennedy, America has responded to filth in the White House like the boy who saw his father with a prostitute—”

“And you think I'm behaving like a prostitute around the National Daddy?”

It was a calculated tantrum; before he could gather himself to protest that he hadn't meant that, she had pushed past him, and the guards had waved her into her husband's inner office.

Jeffrey Grayson looked up. “Well. Your speech was brilliant, and you look unhappy, so I guess you talked to your father.”

Her chuckle was humorless. “Do
you
want me to be more of a good National Mommy?”

He shook his head. “I want you around. And in love with me. That's first and second. Third, I want to know I've done my duty as an officer. And then, way down the list, but still on it, I want to be president.”

“And you think all that might conflict?”

“I think you're already angry and I didn't cause it.”

“True. But do you think I should go bake cookies like what's-her-name?”

“Hillary Clinton?
She
got in trouble for saying that people
expected
her to. I'll win with you the way you are. Or if I don't, keeping your love is what matters to me anyway. Everything else is just what I do for a living.” He drew a breath and was watching her intently when he added, “Okay?”

He wants
my
approval.
She smiled, and relished the relief in his eyes.

5 HOURS LATER. MANBROOKSTAT (FORMERLY THE AREAS SURROUNDING NEW YORK HARBOR). 8:30 PM EASTERN TIME. THURSDAY, JANUARY 8, 2026.

The shiny cylinders and dull spheres resembled heavy children's toys or mathematical demonstrations, but Jamayu Rollings felt like he was spreading out diamonds on the black velvet drape that covered the folding table.

Like the pale-skinned, smiling men facing him, Rollings wore a tuxedo. Beside him, the Commandant and his two Special Assistants were in dress uniform. The Special Assistants wore their shoulder holsters ostentatiously, as if to deter the Galway trade negotiators from lunging across the table and grabbing the ferromolybdenum, tungsten, and palladium. “We hope to have use for all these materials, soon, ourselves,” Rollings said, “but for the moment, truthfully, our labs and factories aren't ready.

“These were all found in a specialty metals workshop just a bit up the river from Albany, undisturbed in their containers, with full paperwork. I don't need to tell you that for the next ten years at least, no one on Earth will be able to refine any more, and if, let's say, you have any people working on hydrogen-based energy tech, there's no substitute for palladium.

“Gold, silver, or special barter are acceptable, but I won't give credit. I'll await your offer with interest, gentlemen. Anything else you'd like me to be looking out for?”

Dr. O'Ryan, who had spoken little till now, said, “We have a very acute interest in titanium, especially in sheets, but any piece larger than five kilograms. If you should happen to find anything like that on any future salvage expedition, you can notify the trade mission and have them send a message to my attention at the Recovered Technology Project in Galway.”

Rollings made a note in his pad. “Anything else, gentlemen? I should get out of Captain Carton's way, as he has a lot of good stuff to show you too.”

“Excellent stuff, Captain Rollings.” Doyle, the Irish trade delegation leader, extended a firm handshake and a warm smile. “You'll be hearing our offer within a few days.”

Rollings's younger son Whorf stepped up beside him and slipped the samples into velvet jeweler's bags with flair and reverence.
I could have brought Geordie but he'd just have shoved our samples into bags, and never met the eyes of the Irishmen. Whorf's got the
I am the keeper of tungsten, and who are you?
condescending stare down perfect.

God, I'm going to miss him so much. Time to tell him, though, keeping him in suspense wouldn't be fair to anyone.

As Whorf took up the cloth from the table, Carton came in with his samples of salvage timber.

The Commandant walked Rollings to the ballroom. “Nice job, Captain Rollings. I think we'll have a deal for your metals with them.”

“If they beat
Discovery
's offer, sure. We'll take the best deal we can get.”

“An excellent principle.” At the ballroom door, the Commandant added, “But I think it will turn out the Galway men can offer us far more than the rednecks for Jesus. Enjoy the party.” He clapped Rollings on the shoulder too heartily, and headed back to the conference room. The Special Assistants at his heels wheeled and closed up behind him. Over his shoulder, he added, “If you can persuade Uhura to save me a dance, it will be much appreciated.”

And if I can keep Uhura away from you, she'll appreciate that,
Rollings thought.

The Commandant's engineering team had rigged the Ritz-Carlton ballroom with producer-gas lighting. The warm, brilliant glow, after so many months of candles and oil lanterns, could almost make you forget the sharp, dirty odor and the soot streaks on the wall above each light.

At his side, Whorf said, “Wow, a whole room full of people with clean clothes and a recent bath.”

Rollings choked on a laugh. “Thanks for that. The Commandant dropped me a big hint about your little sis.”

“I'd be just as happy if Uhura went home early,” Whorf muttered, looking down at the floor so no one could read his lips.

“Me too,” Jamayu said, also looking down. When he looked up, he was smiling again. “Let's grab some free chow and then take a short walk outside; there're details I'd like to go over. Unless, of course, I'm spoiling your chances to hustle the local ladies?”

Whorf snorted. “Dad, look around. The single ladies my age are
not
here to have fun. Any more than I am. Let's get some of that stew.”

They found a table back in the shadows, and, wary of being overheard, concentrated on eating, watching their neighbors in tuxedos and long dresses dancing not-very-well to a still-not-very-good band. Rollings glanced sideways; Whorf had grown into a big, strong young man with a piercing, alert expression. Both men wore dreads, but whereas Jamayu's were gray and rough, Whorf's were black and glistening.

He's not going to want to spend his good, vigorous years mining junk,
Rollings thought, and resisting sadness, smiled broadly when he asked, “So, about that walk . . . ?”

In the lobby, they pulled on heavy coats against the fierce cold.

They were silent until they stood in the dark, far from where anyone could hear them, looking at the flaring gaslights and lanterns in the harbor. Outside that yellow-orange pool of light, beyond what had once been the western boundary of Battery Park, Rollings finally spoke, his voice low, his face pointed down at the icy rubble around his feet. “The Temper offer is
real
good,” he said, softly. “I didn't tell the Commandant, but Captain Halleck sent a guy by on the down low this afternoon, and
Discovery
is offering cash and carry—they're carrying enough gold and silver to pay for all our specialty metals, and they want to take them to Savannah once their repairs are done at the end of the month.”

“And it's a good offer?”

“It's
excellent
. I want to take it without bothering to hear what Doyle and his people offer. I'd rather be selling to the government of America than to those slick Irishmen.”

“Athens is
one
government of America,” Whorf pointed out. “They'll want our metals for their labs at Castle Newberry. The Provis are just as American, Hanford probably needs those metals just as bad, and when a coffee clipper comes—”

“
Discovery
will leave before any other American ship comes in. And once I've got that metal on board
Discovery
, I won't have it in my possession, for the Commandant to seize and tell me who's buying it.” Rollings kicked at a scrap of steel. “That metal came from a government lab, so it belongs to
some
American government, and
not this one
. Because it's obvious that the Commandant wants some deal with the Irish. Like he can just decide what to do after we did the work, and with stuff we retrieved at our own risk, from . . .” He shook his head, his arms rising with his shrug under his thick coat. “Back before, he was a plain old cadet at West Point.”

“Pop, back before, you were a dentist with an expensive boat, and I was a freshman in African-American Studies,” Whorf pointed out. “Daybreak hit, you had a schooner, and we made a good life. The Commandant had a military force, and he's made himself a great life. We
all
feed off the wreckage.”

“True.” Rollings sighed, listening to the crackle of the water vapor in his breath freezing. “Cold out here. Let's not stay too long. Look, if the metal is in my possession and hasn't been sold yet, the Commandant can push that deal onto me with his thugs and their guns. I already might have to make some bad trades to avoid having him for a son-in-law. For that matter, he might want Uhura for something a lot less than a wife.” Rollings kicked the ground with his heel as if trying to bury the thought. “So, they've offered you a spot on
Discovery
.”

The name had magic. They both turned to look to where the handsome three-master was moored, gleaming in the ruddy gaslights on the pier. The ship was taller to the eye even than most tall ships, with her hull long and low and her superstructure raking back in a series of smoothed out, oblique steps; most of her was freshly painted a gleaming white that glowed gold in the gaslights, and her masts seemed to reach right up into the stars.

USS
Discovery
had been SS
l'Esprit de Brest
, offering the priciest of Caribbean sailing cruises. Back before, she'd been just finishing an overhaul, awaiting the crew that would never fly in to Savannah.

The TNG had rechristened
Discovery
as a science ship, because she had been designed for a minimal sailing crew and the old recreational spaces made decent labs, libraries, and sample storage. In addition she had ample room for a staff of fifty, who came from every intellectual center on the continent: the RRC at Pueblo, the Oregon Exploration Center at Eugene, the Scholar's League at Santa Fe, the NASA remnant at Houston, and Stone Lab up in the Erie Islands.

On
Discovery
's shakedown cruise up the coast to map the Atlantic shore of the Dead Belt, the winter weather had shaken her harder than they'd expected. Repairs would take a few weeks. Some crew were too injured or sick to continue; Captain Halleck had offered Whorf a chance to take over a berth as a “scholar-sailor,” bluntly describing it as “a chance to work as an Able Seaman and do homework, too.”

“So, do you think Halleck offered me the job because he wanted our metals?”

Rollings shook his head emphatically, stamping his feet to warm them. “Halleck made the offer to you before he ever saw or even heard about the metal. And he's not a man to link a deal or take advantage, that Halleck. I've always prided myself on sharp unsentimental dealing, but now I find I'd rather deal with an honest Yankee who had a real commission in the old Navy than a passel of slick Irishmen and ambitious kay-dets.” Rollings tracked Whorf's gaze as it reached out to
Discovery
. “Got to admit it,” Rollings said, softly, “I mean,
look
at her, she's
gorgeous
.”

“Yeah.” Whorf sounded choked up.

“Whorf, I'm thinking about the family here. You know how we keep
Ferengi
stocked and ready to go, and we all know we might have to run for it any time. Geordie's a good guy, but—and don't you ever quote this to your brother—even though he can take
Ferengi
anywhere with enough water under her keel, I think he will always need someone to tell him where.