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  Royce Corealis felt his wind leave him in a ragged puff.

  Bowing to the project's scope, Warrington's tone softened. "Yes, I know," he said, reading his colleague's mind. "It will be humbling beyond belief to the memory of such a once proud and mighty nation. And overwhelming for myself alone to bear.

  "That's why I'd like you by my side, Royce, when I reveal my plan. And afterward, to help me orchestrate whatever mechanics are required to make it happen. Become my vice president, and partner, for as long as either one of us is truly needed.

  "Will you?"

  Corealis fought to regain control of his swimming senses. Just finding his voice took a Herculean effort.

  "I . . . don't know what to say," he mouthed in a near whisper.

  " 'Yes' is all I need for now," encouraged the president. "Please."

  The director swallowed a hard, rough knot.

  "Something this drastic . . ."

  Warrington vigorously nodded. "I know and agree. But together, the two of us can make something good happen. And it would be the two of us. Side by side in joint leadership. No longer would the vice presidency languish in a pointless role."

  Royce blinked. "I'm not even sure how such a plan could come about. With the Fed broken down and so many congressmen and senators lost to the Flu, could any kind of proper quorum be reached? Or even be legal?"

  "We'd call together whomever we could," said the president. "Try to do things by proper procedure. But, if not possible, it might very well boil down to invoking Emergency Order 8D966; allowing my final decision on all matters of national emergency."

  "Maybe," Corealis suggested cautiously, "there're other . . . avenues."

  The president paused, his voice spent and dry. "If you know of any, please tell me now, because I've searched long and hard without success."

  Corealis wet his lips. His next words came calmly.

  "The slot you've asked me to fill is the greatest honor, Eugene. And I agree in part with what you say."

  "But?" asked Warrington.

  "But this country is not alone in any of its so-called sins. We joined the Manna Project of our own volition and in good faith. And even as its largest single player, we did not force our dominance on the leadership.

  "Instead, we submitted to a project steering group comprised of countries with the least funds or technology to contribute. We pledged ourselves to abide by any and all decisions made by that group in the name of our common survival. And we've stood by that pledge, even as the marginal integrity the project's governing board had at the outset was eroded further by bias, favoritism, and pure conniving."

  "Only years of greed by our wealthy citizens put us in bad stead to begin with," Warrington declared. "Long before times ever got bad, they were let run wild like spoiled children; selling off their companies and private land. Taking foreign money indiscriminately with no qualms of conscience or thoughts of patriotism. Nationalizing property which was no longer ours only brought on the financial censure we rightly deserved."

  Corealis gently shook his head.

  "I don't see it that way, Eugene. And I certainly don't see us as having cheated on our pledge to the global program.

  "We nationalized foreign holdings, yes, but only after the closeout of accounts by overseas holders made doing that our only means of survival. And how did it vary from what the U.N. ultimately did itself? The only difference was their pseudo-parliamentary approach to make the maneuver look legal.

  "Coincidentally, those same funds we 'commandeered' were dumped right back into the common pot by way of USDA contributions to the Manna Project. So we haven't shortchanged anybody."

  The president sighed. "Like it or not, Royce, the alliances you object to are now, and possibly forever, in control of all meaningful finance. We can only hope they'll be willing to step in and help us out."

  "Of course they'd bankroll us," retorted Corealis. "Only a fool wouldn't. Question is, what do we have left for collateral? Terra firma. If we'd throw wide our doors, we'd be parceled out and turned back into the very colonies we started out as.

  "Look," he continued. "You mentioned foreign legion outposts currently established on our West Coast. That's correct. Between the South Americans, Orientals, and Soviets, it's open season out there, already. Could this not only make things worse?"

  "I am aware too," replied Warrington, his voice slowly filling with iron, "that they're doing the only real job of tending our people. I certainly haven't heard of anyone on the receiving end complaining. Have you?

  "In addition, can you tell me when was the last time anyone from back here even made an effort to venture forth and dialogue with those folks? Never. They were just written off and put out of mind. But not anymore. Because I intend to go out there and do just that.

  "Furthermore, if we were to be 'parceled out,' as you claim, would the pride of a starving so-called free man be better than the full stomach of a colonist? Which would the average Common Displaced family just outside these fortress walls rather have—a foot of earth or loaf of bread?"

  The president drew a bolstering breath.

  "My mind is set. If a world government is what it takes to finally put mankind on a level playing field, then I say let all countries tear up their flags and truly become one under God. And by that same God, let us lead the way."

  Straining to preserve his last threads of objectivity, Royce dared to contradict one final time.

  "That's a grand notion, Mister President. But there's more to life than scraps from a master's table. There's dignity and pride of independence—also God-endowed traits."

  "Again," countered Warrington, "values mattering only to those with full stomachs."

  A leaden, icy silence wedged between the men. Feeling its heavy chill, the president sought to mitigate the distance separating them. "I so wanted this to go easy and well between us, Royce. Hoped you'd embrace my concept outright and pave the way for converting other department heads. But I also understand what impact such a strategy must have when dumped unannounced on the table."

  Warrington reconsidered his glass. He didn't drink, but slowly spun its condensation into wet circles on the polished surface beneath.

  "Do me one great personal favor," he asked Corealis. "Don't make any decision on the matter until you've at least had time to sleep on it. Take more time if need be. I do need your help on this."

  Warrington dropped his gaze and turned away, ending the talk. But recalling an earlier item, he swung back with renewed vigor.

  "Royce, a moment ago you mentioned the possibility of alternatives. Do you have any such in mind?"

  Corealis looked up, then away. "No," he said quietly and left the room.

  CHAPTER 4

  Fifteen hundred miles to the west Doctor Martin Keener sat alone at his lab desk. Struggling with both his composure and handwriting, the bioengineer swiped again at bunched tears of frustration. He braced himself with yet another deep breath and refocused on setting his coded script to the coarse yellow pages before him.

  The frivolous adolescent behavior of keeping a secret diary was decidedly out of place for a man of Keener's educational stature, position, and clinical logic, not to mention just plain risky. Yet the nightly ritual he'd taken up in these last months offered the single vent to all his years of scientific captivity; the old-fashioned method of putting pencil to brittle pages became the sole confessor he dared share a desperate prisoner's deepest secrets with.

  Even so, limiting himself to just this secondary exercise was no longer possible. A bizarre fury had grown within the soft-spoken man, one gone beyond the simple restraints of such a passive avenue. The stark truth of his labors had swelled to a boiling rage, which now demanded a much more radical and total closure.

  Like so many researchers kept in governmental harness, Martin had for years turned a blind eye to the reality of his work. Leading a handful of learned disciples who had unquestioningly accepted him as their shepherd, Keener had slogged the way throu
gh scores of military-interest projects.

  In the name of so-called national security, the doctor and his loyal troop had developed plant forms ranging from the very strain of antipersonnel thorn barriers encircling this camp, to crop poisoning viruses capable of starving whole nations into submission.

  For three decades the plant geneticist had labored solely on dark government projects, hoping someday for a truly noble cause to materialize and be his ransom. The horror of global starvation arrived to grant just that wish.

  But even mankind's threat of total annihilation couldn't disrupt military scrutiny of Keener's work. And eventually an object of covert value was detected in his reports—something powerful enough to forever divert and sequester his team from a key Manna Project conference trip those many months ago.

  Given the simple explanation of having been reassigned to new and alternate duties, Keener's squad was severed from all further contact with the Manna Project and plunked down here, wherever this place was. And again, his obedient, if typically naïve team, followed Martin in complying.

  But the doctor could stand no more. In his diary, he'd detailed the truth of his work. Subtly coded in the dog-eared commonplace notebook, he hoped, like a message in a random bottle, it would somehow be discovered by an honorable person, who would carry the truth forward. Yet, even if that never happened, Martin felt somehow cleansed by the exercise, purified for his next and final step.

  Martin closed the book and spared a moment to reflect on the quiet night about him. He'd given his life to his work, forsaking even marriage in its name. Never sparing the time for anything remotely like love, until Geri happened into his life with her beautiful smile and gentle ways.

  It was her presence here which gave him the focus to finally devise a stern course of action. Yet a gnawing wave of regret washed over Martin, as well. Regardless of the years separating them, given the means, he'd have grabbed her hand and abandoned everything familiar to run just as fast and far as he could. But there was no escape from this remote prison. And nowhere to run to. He'd been over that element too many times.

  The doctor capped his thoughts and straightened. His task was at hand. Important work to be done. No longer in the devil's fashion, but finally an honorable, God-fearing kind.

  For some time Keener had been intentionally altering and omitting key bits and pieces of data in his reports, dragging out the work here as best he could to help make time for his plan. With him gone, the records destroyed, and no product to reverse-engineer, the power structure sustaining this work would simply have to admit defeat and recall everyone to more ethical enterprises. There'd be no practical reason to retain the team. It would work, he assured himself for the hundredth time since morning. Yes. It had to.

  Martin's plan was simple and direct, bold and irreversible. Wait until everyone was asleep. Gather up the electronic and hardcopy research files, along with the rendered catalyst samples. Place them all in the central vault storage, then smash and set fire to the whole thing.

  Yet again, his thoughts slipped to Geri. His only regret was in keeping the truth from her. She at least deserved to know why. But he couldn't tell her for her own protection. Not to mention weakening his resolve.

  Martin listened to the night. The research station was quiet about him. With everyone in bed he could start his chore.

  The young woman leaned against a low, prefab building in a different part of the same lab complex. She drew another puff, indulging in her single camp vice, a late-night cigarette. Though the others never openly criticized, she knew they disapproved of her habit and honored their feelings by smoking privately, only at certain times of the day, and only at this place.

  Tonight, though, there was another reason to be here, a deep and smothering gloom. The research program was fast winding down. And with that thought any hope of sleep was lost.

  Geri exhaled another puff, gazing forlornly after it. From the darkened camp to the azure and vermilion waves of silent northern lights washed across the corrupted sky. Somewhere beyond loomed invisible Chicago and a return to her hated old way of life.

  She so loved it here. As odd and isolated a place as it was, Geri had grown to prize the secluded tableland site as her refuge. After nearly two years, everything about its small cluster of camouflaged labs and living quarters had come to represent all things good and honorable. Her simple "housekeeping" chores for the group had gone on to offer so much personal reward.

  Genuine friendship had been extended to Geri from the outset by this very exclusive fraternity of researchers. They had easily accepted the pretense of her arrival as a cook and housekeeper after she had struck up a premeditated friendship with Martin during a brief R and R recess those many months ago.

  Unaware of her true purpose as a sentinel, they'd quickly come to enjoy Geri's cooking and conversation as a relief from their otherwise humdrum existence. And she had strangely found herself eager to reciprocate, furiously supporting a project she could never hope to understand, simply because of the eight wonderful people invested in it.

  Then there was Martin. No more gentle-hearted, giving man had ever existed in her life, certainly no recent client. Had he asked, she'd have given herself over to him in total. But he wasn't the kind. So they shared a special love in subtle, platonic ways. But now that was unraveling as well. No, he wasn't the kind to lament. Yet Geri had felt Martin's melancholy grow as certainly as her own.

  Geri drew a deep, slow breath of the cool, open country air. Out here, everything from before seemed part of someone else's life: the shattered society, the suffering, violence, and despair—her own degrading life as a tech center VIP "hostess." Now, though, it was all coming to a certain and quick end. With the work here complete, her separation from the place, her adoptive family—and doubtless return to the hostess "stable"—were inevitable.

  Geri had suffered privately through each dwindling day, clinging to the fragile, impossible hope of some last-minute program extension. But in this eleventh hour, no such relief seemed likely. So she sat, helpless to change any of it.

  Until maybe now.

  Geri felt about her throat for the special necklace and chrome key given her those months ago. She remembered the specific instructions on its use. Using it now was still far premature. But her desperate fingers clenched its hard, tiny outline as the only life preserver she could find in her vast, churning sea of despair.

  Geri crushed out her cigarette. Clasping the key tight, she started a determined pace toward the night-shrouded battery of humming camp machinery.

  The post-dinner meeting convened in a comfortable guest bungalow. No introductions were required of its gathered members. Through allegiance and necessity, they knew each other too well. Their faces belonged to a tight-knit group of conspirators.

  Staff economist, Hampton. Chief meteorologist, Shields. Medical officer, Ashton. Transport manager, Clausen. Quinsel of Census and Demographics. Marquart of Communications. Security head and chief intelligence officer, Welton. All reliable and efficient to a fault, they were the nucleus of covert power in modern devastated America.

  Sitting in their midst, Royce Corealis never felt he could truly call any one of them friend. But that seemed a fair enough compromise for the monumental task they'd shouldered together in the name of their country—a task which now teetered, pointless and floundering.

  "Just like that?" protested the first voice to thaw. "Warrington decides to surrender, so it's all over?"

  "He can't!" joined a second. "It's . . . unconstitutional."

  "The Constitution is a tired old piece of paper without much current relevance," snorted a third. "Like the man said, Emergency Order 8D966 puts him in the driver's seat on any decision of national concern he chooses to orchestrate. That includes surrendering the entire country for its believed betterment, unless somebody cares to stop him."

  "Regardless of what he wants—or thinks he can do," returned the second, "ours is a project that doesn't officially exist i
n the first place. So he has no control over it."

  "Maybe. But surrendering national sovereignty to the World Finance Council is something he has plenty of control over. There's no dedicated Congress or Senate to oppose things anymore. All the regional governing groups have gravitated to practical matters closer to their own homes—and that's their individual survival.

  "Face it, through disregard, the presidency has reverted back to its original father figure supremacy. Just like a monarchy, with all the now tragically obvious potential for dictatorship."

  "Wait a minute," said the meteorologist, Shields, walking over.

  "Royce never really did bring up the project, did you, Royce? So maybe we're just getting the cart before the horse. If we take Warrington aside and explain things as a group, he'll see it our way. He's an objective person and, deep inside, still every bit a politician."

  Welton, the intelligence man retorted. "Objective? Objective enough to have been totally bypassed up to now for the sake of project security. He's always been a borderline progressive. And from what Royce says, he's gone over all the way now.

  "What happens if we do take the chance, show our cards, and can't bring him into the fold? We stand to lose a lot more than just wasted dollars and a lost cause if this comes to light.

  "The world court is always looking to make public examples of covert actions detrimental to the Manna Project—let alone what might be considered an entire secret society like ours."

  Clausen spoke up. "If we're really committed to this program, we can't allow either possibility. Until the opportunity presents itself for an organized election or some chance for us to replace him with a more agreeable successor, the man is in power indefinitely. We need to face the plain fact: If Warrington can't be brought in, he needs to be diverted."

  "How?"

  "By any means required."

  "And what do you suggest, lock the President of the United States in his room like some naughty little boy?"