He’d always liked Lu Song’s films.

“We’re Confucian Fist,” Bai said. He paused. “We serve the people.”

Then Bai felt something that shocked him.

A mind. A mind he hadn’t touched for most of a year.

A mind he’d thought was dead.

Here, now.

Very much alive.

117
Confrontations

Monday 2041.01.20

John Stockton waited in the President’s Room off the US Senate Chambers.

What a gaudy, tacky place this was. The gold and blue tile-work on the floor. The frescos on the ceiling. It looked more like a church in Italy than something that belonged in the US.

Goddammit, he didn’t want to be here.

He’d made this his first stop after his inauguration in 37, coming here to show the Congress that he was serious about working with them, that he was serious about signing bills right here, like Lincoln had, like Reagan had.

After the inauguration. Not before.

He hadn’t been back once, until now.

He hated this. Hated having the inauguration indoors for fear of disruption. Hated the mistrust the American people had, when everything he’d done the last four years he’d done to make the country stronger.

Stockton parted a heavy red curtain with his hand. He heard one of his Secret Service detail make a sound behind him. He ignored the man. The glass was bulletproof. If they wanted to fire a rocket at him, they were welcome to try.

Somewhere out there, protesters were gathering. Maybe a million of them. Because they thought he’d lied. Because they thought he was a monster.

I never lied to you, America, Stockton thought at those people. If I’m hard, it’s because you’re soft. It’s because you don’t see the danger.

“Mr President,” he heard from behind him.

He turned. Jerry Aiken, his Chief of Staff, had the door open.

“President Jameson is here, sir.”

Stockton nodded.

They wheeled Jameson in. He was impeccably dressed in a grey suit and red tie, a prominent flag pin on his lapel. A man choosing to sit, not a cripple. Not an invalid. Not a man who’d been through three strokes.

His chair was obviously self-drive, but he still had some aide push it in for him. His own Secret Service detail came in with him.

“John,” Miles Jameson said with a smile. “About to start your second term!” He sounded proud. “And you still made time to chat with me?”

John Stockton met the eyes of the man who’d chosen him as VP eight years ago, who’d all but handed him the White House when health precluded a second run.

He didn’t smile back.

“I need a few minutes with President Jameson,” he said, his eyes still on Jameson’s. “Please leave us.”

Jameson cocked his head quizzically, kept smiling as people filed out.

When they were gone, and the soundproof door was closed, Jameson spoke again.

“John,” he started.