Interface

The broadcast went live to all the networks at 2:08 p.m. Eleanor led off by making the first official a

Then she said, "You see before you the three branches of the United States government. Our purpose in being here is to reassure you of the continuity of the basic institutions of this government and to respond to the questions of these journalists, which will hopefully reflect the concerns of the nation."

A network anchorwoman raised her hand. Eleanor nodded to her.

The anchorwoman said, "Madame President. How do you feel at this moment?"

Cyrus Rutherford Ogle, handcuffed in the back of the GODS truck, had no idea what was going on until about 2:30, at which point the doors were suddenly thrown open and he was blinded by a rectangle of pure white light.

Framed in the white rectangle was a man in a black suit. Behind him were several men wearing dark FBI windbreakers. "Ogle," said the man in the black suit, "I've been looking for you."

"Howdy. Who are you?" Ogle asked.

"I'm the new Attorney General of the United States," the man said.

"I've been out of touch the last little while," Ogle said apologetically.

"Oh. I'm sorry. My name is Mel Meyer."

Ogle was deeply mortified. Not to mention confused. "I thought that President Cozzano was going to appoint-

"Change of plans. When you weren't there to keep things in hand at the crucial moment, we had to do a little improvising. I had to step in and fill the vacuum. You know all about filling vacuums, don't you, Mr. Ogle?"

"Well, I've done my share."

"But I think you'll be happy with the results," Mel Meyer said. He waved his hand at the FBI men. "I've directed the FBI to arrest you. I'm sure you understand."

Ogle didn't understand at all. "On what charge?" "Turning the Attorney General's best friend into a degraded slave," Mel said. "And a number of other charges which I have written out at great length, and which we can discuss in the fullness of time. President Richmond has ordered you held for a few days until we can sort things out." "President Richmond?"

The FBI agents grabbed Ogle's arms and hauled him up out of the chair where he'd been sitting for the last two hours. His feet almost slipped out from under him on the blood-slickened floor; they gripped his arms tightly and ushered him out the door and down the steps. An FBI chopper was idling on the ground in Taft Park.

"I hope you're not going to use the power of your office to pursue some kind of personal vendetta," Ogle said, shouting back over his shoulder as the agents took him across Louisana Avenue.

"Oh, on the contrary," Meyer said. "I've gone to great trouble to arrange a cell for you that I think will be to your liking." "You're not putting me in with crack dealers, are you?" "Absolutely not," Meyer said. "You'll be with people much like yourself."

"I thank you for that courtesy," Ogle said. They loaded him on to the chopper, strapped him into the seat, and lifted off, cutting forward across Constitution at a low angle. Ogle had a spectacular view of the Capitol dome out his window. He had gotten damn close. And now, in some way that no one had bothered to explain to him yet, he had lost.

It was okay. He was tied into the Network now. The Network needed him. As long as that was the case, he'd never have to worry about anything.

The chopper headed due south, crossing over the Southeast Freeway and then over Fort McNair, on the point of land where the Potomac and the Anacostia rivers came together. They cut down the center of the Potomac until they were south of National Airport, then banked into a gentle right turn and headed south-southeast, passing near the spire of the Masonic Memorial in Alexandria.

"Where are we going?" he asked twice. But the FBI agents either couldn't hear him or pretended they couldn't.

They flew for several miles across the suburban sprawl of northern Virginia, roughly paralleling I-395. The broad grassy lawns of Fort Belvoir were visible on the left. Perhaps they were using Fort Belvoir as a temporary camp for political prisoners. That wouldn't be so bad; folks in the Army called Belvoir the Country Club.

Instead, they came down in a yard amid enormous, drab buildings, surrounded by tall fences topped with swirls of razor ribbon.

Lorton. They were putting him in Lorton Reformatory. The District of Columbia was so small and so full of criminals that there wasn't room to build a big enough prison; they had built one out in Virginia instead. And now Ogle was going to be an inmate.

He reckoned they would put him in a minimum-security wing somewhere, maybe out in a nice wooded area. But they took him straight into one of the big prison buildings. Straight to a maximum-security wing, where all of the prisoners were locked in their cells all day long.

The prisoners hung on their bars and watched Ogle hungrily as he was led down the corridor in his nice suit and his polished shoes. They shouted things to him. Disgusting things.

Ogle was almost paralyzed with fear. Meyer had lied to him.

Finally they reached a cell that was empty. Maybe he'd be put there.

But they passed right on by it and continued to the next cell. This cell had one man in it, curled up on the upper bunk, not moving. Ogle just got a quick glimpse of him before he was shoved in through the door: his new roommate was small, stoop-shouldered, late middle-aged, wearing a dress shirt and slacks just like Ogle.

The massive iron door thudded shut behind him.

Ogle turned to greet his new cellmate. The man had risen up to his hands and knees and was now looking down at Ogle from the upper bunk like a jaguar perched in a tree. He was breathing rapidly and raggedly.

A huge bubble of mucous grew from Jeremiah Freel's left nostril and popped.

Freel launched himself from the bunk headfirst, trying to sink his teeth into Ogle's cheek. Ogle instinctively turned his head away and snapped his head back. The impact slammed him back against the bars. Freel tumbled to the floor.

Freel reached for Ogle's groin. Ogle bent over and shoved his finger into one of Freel's eyes. Freel moved his head at the last moment and sank his teeth into Ogle's finger. Ogle stomped on one of Freel's hands.

And then they started fighting. In cells all around them, the convicts from D.C. flocked to the bars shouting, laughing, and pumping their fists in exultation.

Several hundred feet beneath Cacher, Oklahoma, Otis Simpson was sitting in a swivel chair in the Communications Center, staring at a wall of dead screens. He had been staring at them ever since roughly 19:08 Greenwich Mean Time. At that moment, President Richmond had gone live to the world, flanked by the leaders of the legislative and judicial branches. Then all the screens had gone black. The faxes had gone silent. The computer links had been cut off. He had tried sending messages to the Network, but all the encryption keys had been changed.

Finally he stood up, harvested a few remaining faxes that had come out of the machines earlier that day, and fed them into the shredder. He typed a command into the computer system that would cause it to re-format all of its disks seven times in a row, destroying all of the information in the system.

Otho was lying in his bed. He had been lying there since earlier today and was now begi

Then he climbed on the lift and took it up to the surface. It was a bleak midwinter day, a strong steady wind coming out of the northwest prairie, whistling and gusting between the heaps of lead tailings as it picked up a load of toxic metal dust. Otis put on his warm coat and his mittens and his hat with the earflaps. Then he started to walk down the shoulder of the highway, headed southward, where he thought it might be warmer.