Free The Last President by John Barnes Page B

documents under her arm, freeing a hand to tuck Leo’s blanket.
    â€œThis is
really
bad news.” Ruth Odawa, her Chief of Cryptography, was standing beside her. “They’ve never targeted Pueblo before; they always just aimed at radio sources, and we were careful to stay fairly quiet. So now the moon gun knows we’re important.”
    Lyndon Phat joined them. “Wow, it’s cold out here this—”
    â€œPeople, listen up!” Kendall, the area’s Emergency Action Coordinator, was a stocky African-American woman who had been an MP at Fort Carson back before. “Mister Mendoza from the railroad says they’ve got a locomotive spot-welded into place on the main narrow gauge track, and they need a lot of hands on ropes and levers—”
    Gunshot.
    Phat said, “Down,” and guided Heather onto the hard-packed snow, her body sheltering Leo.
    Two more shots. A man shouted, “Mother Earth! Mother
Earth
!
Mother
—”
    Another shot.
    Yells and shrieks. She clutched Leo close and stayed down, trying to look around, but seeing only hurrying feet and huddled backs.
    An eternity later, Phat helped her to her feet. “Captain Kendall wants us to go to a safe house under guard,” General Phat said. “She is perturbed because I tackled the shooter.”
    Heather smothered her exasperated scream into a croak. “Has it occurred to you that that was probably an
assassin
, and
you
are the most assassinatable person here, and you ran
toward
him?”
    â€œI thought of that just after I took him down.”
    â€œMay I quote you on that?”
    They turned and saw Cassie Cartland, the editor of the
Pueblo Post-Times
. Her brown hair had grown out from a practical pixie to an expedient shag in the last year, so that now she looked her actual age—seventeen—rather than several years younger. When Chris Manckiewicz had gone with Mensche on the long traverse of the Lost Quarter last fall, she’d taken over and run the
Post-Times
well enough so that on his return, he’d just left Cassie in charge. “Any tips for your fans about how to take down terrorists bare-handed, General Phat?”
    â€œIt was an act of complete irresponsible idiocy.”
    She grinned. “Just let me get that down and read it back.”
    Heather said, “Wow, the world has changed. Back before, nobody running for president would have dared to say anything like that.”
    â€œAlso,” Phat said, “an ugly runt, to quote my ex-wife, has a chance of winning a presidential election. You can quote that too, Cassie—on one condition. I want a news story that says ‘General urges common sense in walling city,’ and run it alongside a map I’ll lay out for you. It’s a disgrace we don’t have a city wall yet, and City Council is a bunch of whistleheads who need to get their job done. Quote me on that too, or the deal is off. Clear?”
    â€œClear.” She shook her head and brought her pencil back to her pad. “Now, what do you all see as the role of Pueblo under the Restored Republic, and do you think there will be more job opportunities locally?”
    5 DAYS LATER. MOSCOW, IDAHO. 2:30 PM MOUNTAIN TIME. SATURDAY, JANUARY 17, 2026.
    Darcage heard footsteps. The door opened, sudden bright light hurting his eyes. Guards unbound him from his bunk, dragged him from the train, shoved him along the broken pavement of the platform. Big hands grabbed his arms and dragged him onto his back in the bed of a wagon.
    As he rode through the streets, he pressed his bound hands awkwardly against his face to block the sunlight, sobbing to recover his breath, until his eyes adjusted; as soon as he could bear it he stared into the deep blue sky and let himself feel sun on his face, sucking in the freezing air. It had been so long.
    When the wagon halted, they flung him headlong off the tailgate, catching him with his face barely off the