“Help you?”

“I’m here to see President Sanchez. I have an appointment.”

“Name?” His eyes had returned to his desk; he was filling out some kind of form.

“Peter Jaxon.”

It was like a light going on in the man’s face. “You’re Jaxon?”

Peter dipped his head.

“Holy smokes.” The man just sat there, awkwardly staring. It had been some time since Peter had gotten this kind of reaction. On the other hand, he rarely met anybody new these days. Never, in fact.

“Maybe you could let somebody know?” Peter said finally.

“Right.” The officer popped from his chair. “Just a second. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

Peter noted the word “them.” Who else would be attending the meeting? For that matter, why was he here at all? In the hours of mulling over the president’s note, he’d come up empty. Maybe it was just as Caleb had suggested and they really did want him back in the Army. If so, it was going to be a short conversation.

“You can come right back, Mr. Jaxon.”

The officer took Peter’s tool bag and led him down a long hallway. Sanchez’s door was open. She rose from behind her desk as Peter entered: a small woman with mostly white hair, sharp features, and a strong gaze. A second person, a man with a tight, bristly beard, was seated across from her. He looked familiar, though Peter couldn’t place him.

“Mr. Jaxon, it’s good to see you.” Sanchez stepped around her desk and extended her hand.

“Madam President. It’s an honor.”

“Please,” she said, “it’s Vicky. Let me introduce you to Ford Chase, my chief of staff.”

“I believe we’ve met, Mr. Jaxon.”

Now Peter remembered: Chase had attended the inquest after the destruction of the bridge on the Oil Road. The memory was unpleasant; he’d taken an instant disliking to the man. Compounding Peter’s distrust, Chase was wearing a necktie, the most incomprehensible article of clothing in the history of the world.

“And of course you know General Apgar,” Sanchez said.

Peter turned to see his former commanding officer rising from the couch. Gunnar had aged a little, his clipped hair gone gray, his brow more deeply furrowed. A bit of a paunch stretched the buttons of his uniform. The urge to salute was strong, but Peter held it in check, and the two men shook.

“Congratulations on the promotion, sir.” To the surprise of no one who had served under the man, Apgar had been named general of the Army after Fleet had stepped down.

“I regret it every day. Tell me, how’s your boy?”

“He’s doing well, sir. Thanks for asking.”

“If I wanted you to call me ‘sir,’ I wouldn’t have accepted your resignation. Which is my second-biggest regret, by the way. I should have put up more of a fight.”

Peter liked Gunnar; the man’s presence put him at his ease. “It wouldn’t have done you any good.”

Sanchez led them to a small sitting area with a sofa and a couple of leather armchairs surrounding a low table with a stone top, on which rested a long tube of rolled paper. For the first time Peter had a chance to look at his surroundings: a wall of books, a curtainless window, a chipped desk piled high with paper. A pole stood behind it bearing the Texas flag, the only ceremonial object in the room. Peter took one of the chairs, across from Sanchez. Apgar and Chase sat to the side.

“To begin, Mr. Jaxon,” Sanchez said, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you to come see me. I’d like to request a favor. To put this in context, let me show you something. Ford?”

Chase unrolled the paper on the table and weighed down the corners. A surveyor’s map: Kerrville stood at the center, its walls and perimeter lines clearly marked. To the west, along the Guadalupe, three large areas were blocked off with cross-hatching, each with a notation: SP1, SP2, SP3.

“At the risk of sounding grandiose, what you’re looking at is the future of the Texas Republic,” Sanchez said.

Chase explained, “SP stands for ‘settlement parcel.’ ”

“These are the most logical areas for moving out the population, at least to start. There’s water, arable soil in the bottoms, good land for grazing. We’re going to proceed in stages, using a lottery system for people who want to leave.”

“Which will be a lot of them,” Chase added.

Peter looked up. Everyone was waiting for his reaction.

“You don’t seem pleased,” Sanchez said.

He searched for the words. “I guess…I never really thought this day would come.”

“The war is over,” Apgar said. “Three years without a single viral. It’s what we’ve been fighting for, all these years.”

Sanchez was leaning forward. There was something tremendously attractive about the woman, an undeniable force. Peter had heard this about her—she was said to have been a great beauty in her youth, with a list of suitors a mile long—but it was an entirely different matter to experience it.

“History will remember you, Peter, for all you’ve done.”

“It was more than just me.”

“I know that, too. There’s more than enough congratulations to go around. And I’m sorry about your friends. Captain Donadio is a great loss. And Amy, well…” She paused. “I’ll be honest with you. The stories about her—I was never quite sure what to believe. I’m not sure I completely understand them now. What I do know is that none of us would be having this conversation if not for Amy, and for you. You’re the one who brought her to us. That’s what the people know. And it makes you very important. You could say there’s no one like you.” Her eyes remained fixed on his face; she had a way of making it feel as if they were the only two people in the room. “Tell me, how do you like working for the Housing Authority?”