With a nod, Rena made the note. “Will do. I suppose it only matters in Apex, but shall I have the devs begin work on updating our profiling system to account for cosmic events? We can use other global disaster models as the baseline and progress from there in simulations.”

  He gave a wave of assent in response, but after a moment’s thought added, “Have the code forwarded to my console each evening. I’d like to review.”

  “Certainly.” Rena flashed a tight smile. “That just leaves the matter of Springfield. Assuming our window is sixteen days, we might consider acting sooner than you’d previously planned. Do you think President Welcher will balk at moving the timeline up?”

  Trusk smirked, imagining Margaret’s possible reactions. Algorithms had made him one of the most powerful men in the world before the meteor, his ability to make social calculations—to predict the behavior of the people around him—had made him influential enough to have half the Senate and two-thirds of the House of Representatives in his pocket. Once they were all using his technology, it only made them easier to predict and manipulate.

  He’d always known Margaret would end up in the White House, even if he hadn’t quite imagined the new location of the oval office. “She’ll be resistant to the idea of letting us run the operation entirely. But you let me worry about that. By the time we’ve got control of Springfield, it’ll be too late for her to do much about it, and she’ll see the benefits of having Apex in control.”

  He twirled the empty glass between two fingers. “But you’re right about moving our timeline. Get briefings out to the field commanders. Aggression should be minimal, but level 3-B force is authorized. Top priority remains their food production capabilities. There should be absolutely no damage to any of the gardening or livestock infrastructure. That needs to be made perfectly clear to everyone involved.”

  Rena was quiet a moment, and Trusk glanced over. She noticed him, face pensive, but didn’t immediately respond. Whatever was on her mind must have been a complicated matter for her to need buffering time, but it was usually worth it to let her think things through when she needed. He waited, watching patiently until she finally gave voice to her contemplation.

  “So far, Springfield’s leaders have rebuffed the US government’s attempts to offer aid. They must realize that by aid, the government means control. Those leaders—Denise Killbern, Sophia Gennaro, and Otis Thornberger—are three people we don’t have any real data on other than their purchase and browsing history. They never engaged on social media and weren’t Novus users. That suggests a high level of independence and social defiance.”

  It didn’t take him more than a few seconds to catch up to her. “You think they might be willing to torch their own supply sources if it becomes apparent they can’t keep control?”

  She spread one hand. “I think it’s within the bounds of an approximated behavioral profile, yes.”

  Trusk turned back to the skyline view. Below, in the lower levels of Apex’s twenty tiers that each stood out from the mountains, the tiny figures of Apex citizens milled about. There was a birthday party going on, he noted, and idly wondered if it was anyone he ought to drop in and make an appearance for. But Rena wouldn’t have missed that, and in any case, the days of his having to show up and shake hands were probably over.

  This was his kingdom now.

  If he couldn’t keep his people fed, however, history suggested he wouldn’t be king for very long. “3-B force for the general populace, then,” he amended his previous orders. “Mark those three for level 5-S. They can’t be taken out publicly. Have a three-unit squadron assigned. It’s a last resort, though. The more compliant Springfield is in the end, the better it will be for us.”

  He paused for a moment, considering. “Have the analysts start working on whatever profile data we do have for those three. Focus on purchase history; that should give us a profile for priorities, at least.”

  “Yes, sir” Rena peered out the window, following his gaze down to the landing of level 18, where the birthday party was going. “It’s a good sign that people are celebrating something. Compliance across Apex is at 98.35 percent, and contentment is hovering around 90. Not bad for the end of the world, sir.”

  “Not the end. Just a new beginning, Rena. A better beginning.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Outside Springfield, CO

  Thursday, July 19th, 8:41 am MST

  Pete Camby peered through the dusty windshield of the Volvo he and President Daniels—former President Daniels—had taken from Cheyenne Mountain’s garage at the road ahead of them. About two hundred yards ahead, a roadblock stretched across the ash. From what he could tell, it didn’t look like the military. That was either good, or very, very bad. “Could be the perimeter for Springfield,” he said. “Or...”

  Thomas Daniels leaned forward and finished the thought. “It might be trouble.”

  “We could try going around,” Pete offered. “There was a turn about two miles back that could take us south. We’ve got to be close to Springfield, but there’s a route that comes up from New Mexico, I think? We’d cut across, come back up. Probably another day or so. But, it’s up to you, sir.”

  Thomas gave him a sidelong look of mild irritation. “Really wish you’d stop doing that, Pete.”

  Three days on the road together trying to find this place, and Thomas had repeatedly corrected him, but it was an old habit. Sir or Mr. President, or President Daniels, had been the only three ways Pete had ever addressed the man, with some very rare exceptions. And, he supposed, it kept at bay the sense of failure that had ridden on his shoulders over the last week. “I’ll try to remember, s—ah, Thomas.”

  The former president sighed. “I guess I’ll know when you’ve warmed up to me properly when you start calling me Tom.” He gave a quiet chuckle, but it was short lived as he studied the roadblock. “Those are civilians... armed, but you can’t blame them for it these days. We should be near the coordinates for Springfield, so there are only a few possibilities.”

  “Namely?”

  Thomas—or, Tom, if Pete could ever bring himself to be that casual with the man—leaned back in the passenger seat of the Volvo, arms folded in a familiar posture that said he was applying the kind of academic logical rigor to the problem that Pete had always admired in him. He’d seemed a lot more like himself since they left the mountain, as if all he needed was some fresh air and to see the outside world.

  “Whatever the condition of Springfield, they must address security concerns. It would make sense to have perimeter guards posted at each road into the settlement. On the other hand, if people are trickling into the place, it would make just as much sense for the unscrupulous to set up checkpoints on those same roads to scalp whatever they can from anyone trying to get there. They aren’t military, and don’t look like those Apex agents we’ve seen.”

  He couldn’t argue with the logic and had been thinking much the same thing. “Any thoughts on finding out which of those possibilities we’re dealing with?”

  Thomas pursed his lips, then smiled slightly. “We could sit right here and wait. They’d have to see us. If it’s bandits, they’ll come at us hoping to keep us at ease until it’s too late to do anything. If it’s security for Springfield, they’ll be cautious and let us see right away that they’re armed, in case we plan to try anything.”

  “That... seems like a lot of assumptions. No offense, sir.”

  The former president raised an eyebrow.

  “Thomas, I mean.” Pete gestured at the roadblock. “If we wait long enough, someone might take a shot.”

  Thomas peered through the other dusty windows. It had to have been more symbolic than an actual look at their surroundings—there was less visibility through the windows than there was through the windshield. “If it were me, I’d have a few people out of sight of the road. At this point, we’re probably already vulnerable, but no one’s taken a shot yet.”

  It made the hair on the back of Pete’s neck stand up. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of snipers or scouts who might be closing in on them. He started to put the car in reverse and ease up on the brake. “We should get some distance, then, at least.”

  Thomas put his hand on Pete’s before he could shift the gear. “No. Just wait. We’re almost out of gas. Try and have a little faith.”

  Faith was not Pete’s strong suit, and never had been. For that matter, there was a time when it hadn’t really been Thomas’s. His recent obsession with the Bible, and with God, was... alarming, at times. Particularly when the former president insisted on relying on faith in the face of very real threats.

  If there was a God up there watching over things, Pete reasoned, he must not care very much about small-scale stuff like people being gunned down on the road or keeping giant space rocks from slamming into the Earth. “Are you sure?”

  Thomas removed his hand and nodded. “Sit tight. Let them come to us.”

  Pete didn’t mask his reluctance. “If you say so.”

  “One of the most valuable skills you can develop in life is the skill of strategic waiting. This’ll be good practice.”

  Whether that was true or not didn’t change the sudden feeling of exposure crawling under Pete’s skin. He watched the people at the roadblock, fingers itching to put the car in gear and leave, and kept glancing out the windows, trying to see if there was someone else approaching. For what felt like half an hour, at least, no one did—but that only made it worse.

  If Thomas was anxious, he didn’t show it. He just sat patiently, waiting and occasionally humming snippets of songs. Something by Bob Dylan, then another song Pete didn’t recognize. Older music—the President had always been a fan of the classics.

  Eventually, though, there was movement at the roadblock. Three of the six or so people there broke off and began walking toward them. They looked cautious, their guns—long barreled firearms, either shotguns or rifles, or some mix—positioned to be obviously ready to use.

  Pete’s heart sped up, and again he nearly made the unilateral decision to get them out of there. They didn’t have anything of value in the car, but the car itself was in good condition and that was a limited commodity these days. Thomas had been a boy scout once, about fifty years ago, but somehow Pete didn’t think they would last long out there on foot. He certainly didn’t have a clue how to survive.

  And, not for the first time, he questioned whether he had made the right decision. “Sir,” he started, “I’m sorry that I dragged you—”

  “Save it, Pete,” Thomas interrupted. “And please stop calling me that. I told you—they come up aggressive, it’s a warning, that’s all. These are Springfield’s people. I’d bet you money if that meant anything. Roll your window down.”

  Jaw clenched tight, Pete did as he was told. Thomas did the same. Once it was done, Thomas put his hands on the dashboard and gave Pete a nod to do the same. Hesitantly, Pete put his hands on the wheel. It at least gave him something to grip as the two men and one woman made their way up the road to them. They fanned out slightly as they came, the young man in the middle of the formation keeping his eyes on the car while the other two clearly searched the surroundings for any sign that Pete and Thomas weren’t alone.

  The man on the right, an older gentleman with ruddy cheeks from the cold and tufts of copper hair sticking out from beneath his ball cap said something inaudible to the other two when they were just a few yards away. They took up posts at angles from the hood of the Volvo that, Pete noted, would have made it hard for him to aim at them if he’d been armed. Which he wasn’t—a fact he was now acutely aware of.

  The red-haired man finally made his final approach, his rifle pointed at the ground but held with confidence and, as far as Pete could see, with his finger on the trigger. He stopped a few steps away from Pete’s open window and looked through it briefly before he spoke, eyes flitting to the passenger and then to the backseat. “Wanna tell me who you are and why you’re camped out here?”

  Before Pete could come up with an answer, Thomas leaned over a bit, looking out the driver’s side window at the stranger. “We’re looking for Springfield,” he told the man. “If you were here to rob us, I’m guessing you’d have been a bit more subtle. Is this part of the perimeter?”

  The man’s lips parted, but no words came out right away. His brow furrowed slightly. “Most people just drive up... sorry, do I know you, mister? You look familiar.”

  Thomas only smiled.

  Pete answered for him. “My name is Pete Camby. This is... President Thomas Daniels.”

  “Former,” Thomas corrected. “As of three days ago. I’m a free man, you could say. What’s your name, sir?”

  “Randy,” the stranger answered. “You’re Thomas Daniels?”

  “I am,” Thomas agreed.

  “The President,” Randy said, as if there was no way it could be true.

  “Well, not anymore,” Thomas admitted. “But I held the job for a while.”

  It was hard to tell if Randy believed them or not. Between the beard and the hood of his jacket, all that was clearly visible on his face were lines of concern and suspicion in his eyes. At length, he said, “I didn’t vote for you.”

  Thomas grinned as if Randy had made a joke. “You and about seventeen million other people, my friend. Listen, we’re not here to make any kind of trouble. Things just got a little crowded back at Cheyenne. But I’m afraid we came out here with very little. We heard there’s a settlement at Springfield and figured that was a place we could make ourselves useful.”

  He gestured at the road. “We’d appreciate it if we could go ahead, but we understand that it’s a strange time for all of us. You have no reason to trust newcomers. So, if there’s anything we can do to make you feel better about letting us in I’m more than happy to do it. Both of us are, right Pete?”

  Pete’s jaw was clenched so tight he had to force himself to relax before he could answer. “Yes, of course. Just tell us what you need.”

  Randy rubbed his jaw slowly, considering the two of them. The silence was worrisome and dire, as if he were about to ask them to go on a suicide mission, or perhaps turn them away entirely, to be safe.

  Instead of doing either, though, he gave a heavy sigh as his hand fell. “We try to take in everyone we can,” he said at last. “But look—no offense, Mr. President, but we already have a mayor in Springfield. Here, you’re just Thomas Daniels. Think you can be okay with that?”

  Thomas gave a quiet chuckle as he relaxed back into his seat. “Randy, believe me; that’s all I want these days. I won’t cause any trouble; you have my word. Neither will Pete, of course. Will you, Pete?”

  “No, sir. I’m... just along for the ride.”

  Randy nodded, and after another moment, drew a slip of paper out of the inside of his jacket, along with a pen. He scribbled something on it, then handed it to Pete. “Take this down the road, till you get to the next roadblock. It’ll be at the edge of town. Show it to the guards there, and they’ll let you in. Don’t stop for anyone else between here and there, understand? No matter what they look like. We do our best to clear out the criminals and rogue elements but... well, there’s only so many of us and we can’t be everywhere.”

  “Is that a problem for you?” Thomas asked.

  “Sure,” Randy said, shrugging. “It’s a problem for everyone these days. I figured you of all people would know that, Mr. Daniels.”

  On the campaign trail, Thomas Daniels had always been a deft politician, with an answer for everything. Even when the answer was meaningless. Countless reporters and state representatives had tried to slip him up with one gotcha or another.

  Part of what made the man so charismatic was his ability to smile kindly through it and respond in a way that always made it seem like the ‘gotcha’ was all just part of a carefully thought-out strategy. Pete had never seen the former president genuinely chagrined before, but that was the only word for the way his expression pinched, and his head bowed slightly.

  “I suppose I should have,” he admitted quietly. “I hope our new President does.”

  Randy took a step back from the car and waved them on. Pete shifted into drive and pulled forward, slowly at first ,and then picking up speed when they were clear of the other two guards and the forward checkpoint.

  Once they were on their way, he glanced over at Thomas and realized how much older he seemed. Something in his posture had finally cracked, and he stared ahead with a grim look on his face that deepened the lines around his eyes and lips. After a moment, Thomas exhaled. “I froze, Pete.”

  “Yes, sir.” No point in denying it.

  Thomas closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “Next time, I won’t. When it matters. I promise you—I won’t freeze again.”

  “I know you won’t, sir.” He sighed as he caught himself. “I mean... I know you won’t, Tom.”

  The former president of the United States of America shot him a half-smile. And with something now more at ease between them, they made their way to Springfield and, Pete hoped, something new for them both.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cheyenne Mountain Complex

  Thursday, July 19th, 9:50 am MST

  Margaret Welcher stood by her desk, ten minutes before her first briefing of the day, and did her best to keep her anger at the report in her hand hidden. There was a time to show when she was shaken or furious, and a time to keep it to herself.

  Finding out that the previous president and his chief of staff had not only slipped away, but apparently settled in one of the most hotly debated rebel cities in the region was a time to present calm thoughtfulness. Even though the first thought in her mind was to wonder what the hell that man was playing at. “Who else knows about this?”