7. Terms and Conditions Apply
ELECTIONS are supposed to be competitive and I have no problem with that, but I also had very little competition. Plenty of people had declared themselves as candidates, but only a couple had any serious finance — two billionaires, a mad one from high tech and a dull one from Wall Street, spending their own money — and none had more than fractional support. Nor did they seem to have much in the way of staffs or campaigns, and in the end I delegated to the media who not unreasonably thought there should be a debate the task of organising one, specifying only that twelve rivals plus Skuffles and me was the upper limit, and Wash U. as the venue — they'd been very helpful with Duckpond Scholarships and other things, so I was glad to return a favour and in any case had happy memories of presidential debating there.
The organising process was messy and prolonged, and I counted myself well out of it, as did my grinning Press Secretary. In the end a consortium of major networks commissioned Gallup to average all polls, with a big new one added, and though all my would-be rivals were well below one percent nationally and wouldn't usually qualify for anything they simply took the top twelve. To my amusement the mad billionaire was out, despite much public screaming about censorship, oppression, and his right to buy the presidency if he chose, as no-one wanted him running the country and plenty didn't want him running anything at all. The dull one was in, just, because what he wanted was the privatisation of all the new geothermal plants so he and his Wall Street pals could make big profits, and as that amounted to a platform of higher energy bills and higher taxes only the pals were keen, but his claims that federal power stations were rampant socialism or worse had some traction with the further right. The other eleven were also against things, not for them — re-legalising automatic weapons for three of them, which split such votes as there were, reverting to road haulage for another, who was a lifelong Teamsters' fanboy, keeping all our lovely dams for a couple more, and so on, but they were all one-note wonders.
Any which way a date was set for mid-October, my Press Secretary promised me files on the lucky twelve, which was all I'd accept by way of debate-coaching, and I went off to the last of the regional conferences about what sensible people wanted doing, which was in New Hampshire, at Dartmouth's Rockefeller Center, and happily timed for the glories of Fall foliage. As at the others the remaining problems were far more local and regional than national, where the message was pretty much 'more of the same, please' — though whether that meant more totem-poles, manitous, thunderbolts, or dragons was unclear — but as this was one of the regions outside any of the three great manitous' basins there was some anxiety about their share of cheap geothermal energy. As with Florida and the south-east, the best I could do about that was new plants as near as a basin came plus dedicated supply through the grid, and they were happy with that so we got on to the smaller issues, many with perfectly sensible solutions that just needed actually doing. By careful arrangement there was a fair First-Person presence, from reservations in New York, Rhode Island, and Maine, and Skuffles and I gave them generous time, glad to extend contacts and knowledge. We were also given to understand that they strongly approved of having a coyote or two in the White House, slightly to their own surprise, and really liked the totem-pole, although they were not an eastern tradition at all.
Still more heartening was that a fair majority of them had been to DC to see the presidential exhibition — still running, though Jesse's dress was regularly reclaimed as needed, and always full — and were very happy indeed about its more inclusive reframing of American history. I'd heard from Professor Hämäläinen that his US sales were strong, and now discovered where some of those copies had gone, which did lead to one serious proposal — a new Full History of North America, under presidential sponsorship, that would include not only Hämäläinen's work on the Comanche and Lakota empires, re-expanding on his synoptic Indigenous Continent, plus lots of preternatural witness, but full African-American perspectives, with Latinx and others, and would also be cognisant that neither First People nor buffalo stopped at the Mexican and Canadian borders. The big version should be as many volumes as it needed, but there would also have to be a seriously scrunched text-book-size synopsis for schools' use, keeping the balance however it had to shelve detail and complexities. I'd already pushed some historians about First-People history, as had Frank, while others had needed no pushing, but I liked the idea and was happy to promise some corralling of top historians and arm-twisting of a big university press, which to their amusement I did at once. Harvard being nearest, and having the most formally prestigious press, I asked my staff to set up a teleconference with its president, as many senior historians of the US as they could corral, Frank, and Hämäläinen, as well as those who'd made the request, and they managed to pull it off, bless them, before the conference wrapped up. All the historians were keen in principle, including Frank, however the actual title was clearly going to be the subject of a running academic bunfight, the Belknap Press of Harvard UP would do the deed handsomely, I would guarantee some subsidy, even if not re-elected (though given the depth of Harvard's coffers not that much), and though quite how to organise it all in how many volumes was going to take a bunch of threshing out — as would integrating Canadian and Mexican history, though I could also facilitate that, especially if re-elected — Hämäläinen had been asking that very question of himself, and had all sorts of useful guidelines and sketches to offer. The First People who'd asked me were invited to come by Harvard's history department to add their ideas and concerns more fully, and before leaving them all to it I goosed them by promising to put them in contact with Asil, Charles, Baba Yaga, and Stefan, for assorted preternatural input, and would also alert the manitous to their research, so running sessions at Great Manitou Corner might be an idea. I left feeling virtuous, thanked by happy people, and genuinely looked forward to the historiographical debates, on which I would be kept posted.
That news splashed, as tends to happen when Harvard sets it mind to announcing things, and I cheerfully fielded questions at my weekly press conference, agreeing the full version would take considerable time and have a fair carbon footprint, even if most copies were smart-PDF, but insisting it was seriously worth it.
"It's not just new facts and new witnesses, sir, though there are plenty of those — the preternatural was here all along, and it knows plenty that isn't written down. So do First People. It's how we — all of us, the US of A — think about our history. One of Professor Hämäläinen's basic points is that we barely recognise what the Comanche and Lakota had as empires, because they didn't do empire the Anglo way — no big stone buildings or monuments, no fancy cloth uniforms for soldiers, and no big cities because they were mobile empires, populations shifting with the buffalo and the seasons. But that doesn't mean they weren't large, trans-regional tribal hegemonies, who over more than three centuries beat, variously, the Spanish, French, and British empires when those came calling. Or again, pretty much the only widely-known representations of interactions between First People and African Americans are Faulkner, who's kinda highbrow, and Bob Marley, who isn't but 'Buffalo Soldier' only lasts for four minutes and change. But that doesn't mean there weren't plenty of interactions, from killings to marriages. The history of North America, including the US, is not just the history of Anglos arriving and what they did, however that's writ often painfully large, and if the historians are rightly dubious about calling anything a 'full history', they can certainly go for a much more inclusive and multi-perspectival history. We might actually learn something, you know."
No-one could rationally object, though there was some ritual shrieking about woke transgressions of ingrained Anglo primacy in all things, and there was a pleasing bonus when Fox thought they'd try beating up on Professor Hämäläinen, who'd come over for a Harvard history-department pow-wow about the project. Instead he beat up on them, demolishing objections with hard evidence, figures and facts that outlined just how successful both tribal hegemonies had been over centuries, despite the dire inroads made by smallpox and alcohol, and while fundamentally and superbly adapting their entire cultures to the arrival of the horse. Fox, he pointed out, might claim to be a media empire, but they really didn't measure up, however you cut it. That and his whole segment went viral on YouTube and elsewhere, and his North American sales got another sizeable boost, which was fine by me though I suspected the people who most needed to read Indigenous Continent probably weren't among the buyers. Still, with perceptions-of-history wrangling you take what you can get, and it all revved up the First People vote very nicely, with knock-on effects.
With less than a month to polling day the promised national carpet of wake-up-and-get-ready events got going, and my cloak saw some hard use as I visited all fifty state capitals over a fortnight, with some bigger cities and reservations thrown in. It was all even weirder than the first time round because none of my rivals was within ninety points of me and everyone seemed quite content that it was all a done deal, so besides some presidential updating on ongoing stuff plus dragons (settling in fine, so far as I knew, and in the case of both fire and water orders apparently very taken with Yellowstone's hot springs) what I was mostly saying was that while I was, if not exactly happy, perfectly willing to do four more years, I wasn't asking for a skyhigh turnout just to preen at numbers. There were a lot more races going on than mine, getting those independents into Congress, state legislatures, gubernatorial mansions, and mayoral offices mattered, and the effects of a second clean sweep, if I got one, might well include all sorts of warm and beneficial feelings — and beyond all that, democracy depended on people voting. It was the rent citizens paid for living in the land of the free and the home of the brave, so if anyone knew someone who wasn't registered or didn't intend to stir themselves, kindly prod them hard and repeatedly. I also dropped into various independents' campaigns — those I knew or owed, including Irpa, Vanna, and Warren, and newcomers I liked the look of in tighter local races — which gave their poll-numbers and fundraising gratifyingly large boosts. It was also very tiring, and when I discovered one of the reasons some visits were delegated to Skuffles, who without lying at all cheerfully pointed out to various crowds that mind-voices did not suffer from hoarseness, and found it hysterical as well as deeply gratifying that her presence boosted support as much as mine.
There were also the pending musicians and the plans for the party in Sacajawea SP, which seemed never to have stopped expanding. Bob Dylan was playing a major gig in Europe, but while the Dead and the Boss had the long evening slot — it was my party — ever so many musicians I didn't much listen to and a few that I did were keen to appear, and who was I to refuse them? It did mean some of them had to perform together, but Taj Mahal and Ry Cooder were happy to do that anyway, and for the rest I mostly deferred to Jesse, who was happy to agree that boy bands, girl bands, and anyone else who didn't write their own songs was out but as close to teenage fangirl as I'd ever seen her about Taylor Swift. Go figure. Given our spread of time-zones things would kick off late morning, Pacific, and quite possibly go on until dawn, Chief Munday having laughingly told me that it wasn't everyday a local coyote-girl got re-elected as president, and as he expected most of Pasco to be there anyway and dancing even if they weren't he had no intention of closing anything celebratory down merely to reduce decibels.
Then it was time for the debate, and in the meanwhile its scale had also expanded, mostly meaning audience. Wash U. had found themselves besieged by requests for tickets, and as the weather was behaving itself I'd agreed a slight shift of venue, from the Athletics Complex to Francis Olympic Field, to which a covered daïs and vast amounts of seating had been added. The Freed were not needed for security this time round, but wanted to come, for old times' sake, according to a deadpan Ramona, and I had no objection to the symbolism. The Pack also wanted to come, to Adam's surprise as much as mine, but a smiling Warren told us it was just a mix of not having been involved last time and wanting to see first-hand whatever I wound up doing, even if it was only debate.
"Really? I raised eyebrows. "I have no plans to ask Thomas Hao to throw any of my rivals around, Warren."
"Nah, this time you'll do it yourself, Mercy." His grin became a shrug. "And it's what they can do to express support — they know you wouldn't be happy if they all did triple bows of awesomeness but they're feeling it. And not just for dragons and whatever — they weren't sure about you both being away so much, but the legate system's working well, everyone is being nicer to and about the preternatural, and they're happy."
We couldn't argue with that and didn't much want to, so another forty-odd wolves and families were in, and the rest of Air Force One's space was claimed by Charles and Anna, complete sets of Fishers and Willises, and some of my Episcopalians, including Reverend Jenkins and to my pleasure Mr and Mrs Wright, escorted by their blushing lumberjack grandson Jed. They were, Mr Wright cheerfully confessed when I welcomed them on board, shamelessly taking advantage of my kindness and would dine out on the tale for as long as they were spared.
"And welcome, Mr Wright." Mischief twitched. "You and Mrs Wright are pillars of the First Congregation, so some presidential travel is only proper."
"Oh go on with you, dear." Mrs Wright patted my arm, making the nearest agent twitch, and spoke confidentially. "We've been telling ourselves it's a treat for Jed, who quite worships you these days, but really it's for us. Air Force One! and VIP seats. Such a thrill."
I took pity on Jed, who was adorably blushing even more, and gave them a real smile.
"There's room for all, Mrs Wright. But I have to say I doubt the soundtrack tonight will be much of a treat."
"Your side will be, dear, whatever all those silly men have to say. But we're holding people up."
They were shown to their seats, beaming at everyone, I welcomed Reverend Jenkins and her nice husband, with their wide-eyed teenage kids, and we were off. The Secret Service had wanted us to land at Scott AFB, but it was much further from Wash U. than Lambert International, and I'd dug my heels in, international airports not exactly being security-free even when not receiving Air Force One. Several of the marsh-sedge green Beasts had been flown in all the same, with the coach, and it was a mildly absurd motorcade that sped down I170 to Forest Parkway and the pleasingly named Big Bend Boulevard. Having roads cleared before me was one presidential perk I really appreciated, and given presidential schedules it's entirely justified, as a grinning Adam agreed.
When we disembarked in the secure area behind the temporary daïs Tom Yearman was waiting with a score of the St Louis Pack, so there were most of three werewolf packs present, and six alphas, if you counted Skuffles, Adam, and me separately, and there wasn't even a bassnote of tension or wolf rage. There could have been if we hadn't all liked and trusted one another, but as Adam and Charles agreed the testosterone and dominance friction endemic among wolves was distinctly lower than it had once been. Bran thought some of it was down to the amplified dominance I could manage with the cloak and Skuffles could manage on her own, which (he said) put other things in perspective, but that most of it was because all wolf lives had improved significantly.
"It is the Paths of Assertion and Mercy working", he'd told me when I asked a couple of days back, after we'd had a necessary conversation that had both made him smile and raised his eyebrows. "Of course bigotry against the preternatural in general or wolves in particular has not disappeared, but largely thanks to you it now has no focus, no major organised support, far less money, and an ever-dwindling credibility. And you have made wolves popular, with Adam and Jesse, and Ramona and the Freed. It has translated into much less hassle directed at individual wolves and their families, while having our justice ameliorated and more widely known has also been an ease. And that shows up in fewer fights and leadership challenges." He shrugged. "To say wolves have relaxed some in a less threatening environment would not be untrue, however there are any number of qualifications."
"So that's all good, right?"
"Truly, Mercy. It is a boon and a relief, for Charles and Anna as for me. I am also expecting requests for legates as we move towards having living alphas emeriti, and that is good too." He'd smiled, something I couldn't identify in his eyes. "You have been persistently and pleasingly outrageous, as you well know, and wise insanity still covers it. Four years in and wolves are happy, the Fae are as cheerful as I've ever known them, most Americans are more than content, if often as bemused as proud, and even vampires have mostly stopped sulking, besides starting to appreciate having longer-lived sheep. And yet a part of you really is surprised we all very much want you to get up tomorrow and do it some more." He shook his head. "I wager you a new Clyde Aspevig of choice that there will be a serious proposal to abolish the term limits for you."
"No bet, Bran, and if there is I'll veto it. The useful question is who should be Frank's running-mate in four years' time. Do me a pros and cons, as you see them, of human, wolf, or other citizen? My instinct is a double human ticket but there are all sorts of angles."
"There are, but I agree with you. Have you asked him?"
"In outline. He and Rachel are mulling it, but for my money he'll want to keep right on educating and building the legacy. The other thing to chew on, please, is where I'll be when it is President Lafferty. Rules say rightly that I'll stand well back but take all calls quietly as asked. Well and good. But preternatural interests are now also a part of the polity, and though Frank knows you and Gray Lords and manitous, he won't have my range of contacts. So, one, does anything actually need doing about that? and, two, if there's no First Person in the White House, are the totem-pole and Paramount Tipi justified? leading to three, my ideal, a First-Person running-mate. Talk to ap Lugh?"
"Certainly, and those are all excellent questions, Mercy. Do the manitous or Elder Spirits have views on any?"
"Haven't asked them yet, but I will."
The conversation ran through my head as I greeted Tom and his senior wolves, and they were relaxed, some at least, and just as happy as Bran had said, offering a palpable goodwill even while sensibly wary of a presidential coyote wearing cloak and Excalibur who also had a record of throwing thunderbolts. It made me feel more relaxed, too, and quite demonstrative in greeting the other special attendees, Ol' Manitou River with Teatime and Medicine Cub East, who'd asked if they might come when the venue had been switched outdoors — for the experience, Ol' Manitou River had said when it called, and in case we can help to answer any questions. Given one of my rival's stated aims the politics of that might prove interesting, and I don't say no to great manitous anyway, unless I really have to, so I was happy to see them and thought they were amused by entering the arena — and global TV coverage — amid three wolf-packs escorting Adam and Jesse with my other guests to the reserved block of VIP seats. It brought a great wave of noise and applause that declined into silence or distinctly isolated cheers as the moderators announced my assorted rivals, all male and neatly besuited, after which Skuffles and I (given my full Amerindian name) were greeted with a prolonged pandemonium including wolf-whistles and whistling wolves, and I saw wolves grinning as I added a little dominance to my slider-control and won something approximating silence.
"Thank you, everyone, from Skuffles too, for that very warm welcome, and we're delighted to see such a large and inclusive turnout, but do please all observe the rules of the debate in courtesy. Ms and Mr Moderator."
They were an experienced pair of news anchors and got things rolling along with crisp discipline. My not so rivalrous rivals each had two minutes to present themselves and the core of what they wanted to do, and both moderators were fierce in policing it, cutting individual mikes after a single warning when they had to, though I thought the whole still added up to twenty-four minutes of unsupported special pleading that was also overwhelmingly pie in the sky. Having made my own continuing agenda known far more widely than any of them had managed, I deferred my own two-minute slot to cut directly to my allowed questions, and to start with lumped together the three 'Give us back our spray-guns' candidates, one of whom had been even sillier than the others.
"Sorry to burst your Cloud-Cuckoo-Land balloon, sir, but you can't repeal a constitutional amendment by executive order any more than you can pass one that way. Did you perhaps notice that I went to the trouble of getting my four constitutional amendments ratified by both Houses of Congress and all fifty state legislatures? You'd have to do the same to repeal the 31st Amendment. So what's the plan for that, any of you? And have any of you actually read the Constitution you plan to rewrite?"
That was plainly a 'no', and Silliest Gun-Nut tried insisting he could executive order amendments but the Moderators cut that off sharpish, telling him the platform they had offered did not entitle him to assert blatant falsehoods — a line that, comfortingly, got a sharp cheer of approval, and I turned to the not-so-former Teamster, correcting his stats and asking him straightforwardly why he thought it was a good idea to subsidise an increasingly obsolete and expensive form of freightage with a way high carbon footprint, preserving relatively few jobs at a potentially catastrophic cost to all. To his credit he did give a genuine answer, wanting to preserve the lifestyle of the long-haul trucker as the nearest modern version of iconic American cowboys — and somewhere in his dreams, I suspected, a necessary balance for renewed First-Person influence — but I shook my head.
"I can honour the wish, sir, but not the policy. Semis are way more inefficient, expensive, and polluting than rail and river. End of story. We are not remotely out of the climate woods, and even if wholly electric semis were easier, which they really aren't, their economics still suck. The romance of the road is still there, available to all, and with hybrids and all-electrics booming and way more animal overpasses it now involves far less fumes and roadkill, but the version of it you want is already just a Hollywood memory. Or a C. W. McCall one. We've moved on, and so has the freight trade."
He wasn't so happy, but I moved on too, to the anti-dam-demolition candidates, who also needed a lesson in economics because the cost of hydropower was actually down, while gigawatts were up and so, with more smaller turbines, was employment. The point of geothermal was to retire fossil fuel and limit wind-turbines, and the dams were evils in themselves, not things we wanted to keep if we could. They had ignored salmon, with all other effects on river systems of backing them up, and one at least was so resentful at Second People being excluded from the Sacred Space he actually said he'd gladly see it drowned again. That gave my eyes some gold, and I thought regretfully about thunderbolts while I told him in a very flat voice that he should be very careful not to find himself alone with any First Person any time soon.
"Sacred means sacred, sir, and you should wash your blasphemous mouth out with soap and water. And as for you" — as the idiot flushed and the crowd laughed I turned to the dull billionaire, who'd waved the 'government ownership is flagrant commie socialism' flag ever harder as he'd found he had no support — "I'm already cross enough with inanities that I'll let Skuffles take point on this one. Maxi-me?"
Inanities is right. The Federal Government has always been involved in some power-supply, because dams tend to flood federal land, and if it builds power plants there is no reason for other people to get the profits when they could lower costs and taxes. And beyond that basic sense, tell me, sir, how do you propose to negotiate your smash-and-grab raid on the federal government with the manitous?
He blinked. "The manitous? What have they to do with it?"
You ask that but accept it's a smash-and-grab raid? There was laughter, and Skuffles turned it up. And what have great manitous to do with the new geothermal plants? D'oh. Let me count the ways. The crowd laughed again and the dull billionaire flushed. They are essential to creating them, as even you must know, and they have done a great deal of major magical work to open the shafts, hundreds of thousands of feet of them by now. You propose to steal their work so you can sell it to others. Do you not think they might have something to say about that? Teatime?
Even a merely ten-foot smilodon has a seriously fangy yawn, displayed as Teatime sat up.
I'm not sure I'm big enough to eat him as Medicine Wolf did that transgressor, Skuffles, but I'm sure Medicine Cub East and I could manage half each. But perhaps a clear warning is enough for now. Medicine Cub?
I thought Coyote was going to have to revise his opinions about smilodons and humour, which would be entertaining, and in the meantime merely ten-foot dire wolves have decent teeth too.
Skuffles is quite right. We great manitous do not mind helping the federal government to be greener, because with She Doesn't Only Fix Cars as your Paramount Chief we are assured the benefits to all are maximised, but that does not mean we are passive. We will defend our work as we must, and were you to succeed in being elected, which happily seems exceedingly unlikely, you would find it very tricky indeed to be a president who could not afford ever to set foot in any of the Mississippi, Colorado, and Columbia Basins.
Ol' Manitou River laughed, a great huff of mindvoice.
True, my friend, and another pleasing benefit of our collaboration. The mindvoice became stern as he addressed the billionaire. You not only seek a personal profit, which we understand, you seek it assuming human authority to steal from us, and heedless of our and the planet's need. What She Doesn't Only Fix Cars saw was the chance to foreclose rapidly on your destructive use of fossil fuels, with many side-benefits to many kinds, as well as much long-term strategic advantage. Well and good. What you saw was a way to benefit only yourself, with many costs to many kinds about which you care nothing.
Teatime added a growl. Yes. You are in yourself koyaanisquatsi, a way of life that cries out to be changed. We strongly suggest you do something about that, soon.
Mini-manitous sat down again, and Skuffles dropped her jaw in a grin.
Which takes care of that. Next?
The rest of my rivals were even less interesting or plausible, and Skuffles and I alternated in pointing out basic economic, political, or magical problems with what they wanted, or seemed to want, before the moderators invited them to their second, ninety-second slot to restate their cases, which was painfully dull except for the billionaire, who was looking quite gray and sensibly withdrew his candidacy, and the Silliest Gun-Nut, who still wasn't clear on the relationship between Executive Orders, federal law, and the Constitution and once again got himself chopped off by the moderators. Then it was over except that I took back my two minutes, and with a smile at the moderators noted that if I overran a bit it wasn't now disadvantaging anyone else so I hoped they'd feel more lenient.
"So, my fellow Americans, I hope it's not boasting to say it seems probable I'll be keeping my job" — I waited out the laughter — "but there is something you all need to know before polling day, however Adam and I would be keeping it to ourselves for a while yet if it weren't for the election. I didn't bring it up earlier because it's not up for debate, nor will I be taking questions, but if you do all decide to re-elect me next month there'll be a spell next year when Vice-President Lafferty will have to be on the job, because I shall be taking maternity leave." I leaned into a suddenly deep silence. "Adam and I had spoken of children before I was first elected, I turn 39 in a few weeks, and you'll understand that after I had to use that thunderbolt to keep us all alive we didn't altogether feel like waiting another four years. Also, Manannán's Bane being at all times round and about me, I am carrying twins." And wasn't that going to be a blast, but I needed to get the rest out before the crowd got noisy and held up the stick as it preened. "It's very pleased with itself, so please all add to your electoral calculations that this time round I am the first pregnant presidential candidate, and if re-elected would a while thereafter become the first president in labour, while our children would be the first born in the White house since Esther Cleveland in 1893, the first to a serving president, and the only twins. To date, anyway. How exactly it'll work once reasonable maternity and paternity leave is up, we'll work out when we get there, but I expect we'll spend even more time in Kennewick and less in DC, though you'll appreciate that we shan't lack for wolf baby-sitters." Which was an understatement, and reminded me of a question. "Any which way, people, now you know, which as voting citizens is your right. I'm willing to do the job, though if that happens I shall be very glad to stop in four years' time, because it is not an easy burden, but with a first term served, all campaign promises kept, and things by and large progressing smoothly, I'm not willing to put my life and Adam's on hold any longer. Your call. And my two minutes are up. Be safe and well, everyone."
The cheering was as heartening as it was deafening, and Adam and Jesse had to join me for a long moment before I got Skuffles to thank the moderators and (almost keeping the irony out of her mindvoice) my staring rivals, and after some promiscuous handshaking we got ourselves offstage. There was a wait while my assorted entourage reassembled, and we found ourselves being hugged and congratulated by a very happy Jude and Leslie, who whispered in my ear.
"Way to go, Mercy. Paris?"
"Might have had something to do with it, yeah."
"Classy. And twins! Do you know …?"
"Nope, neither gender, type, or species. I'm quite looking forward to Bran's and Coyote's best guesses."
Her eyes went wide. "Species? Lordy lawks."
"Yeah, you could say. And you can imagine what the White House medicos had to say. Assuming, I'll probably wind up hiding from them in Kennewick, and the one big downside is that I can't go coyote for another seven months plus, which will make me very grumpy. And if I get hormonal, you have my permission as well as Adam's to sit on me as hard as necessary."
She laughed, joy returning to her eyes. "We'll deal. Your food cravings ought to be interesting."
"There's that."
There were more hugs and intensely curious congratulations from the pack. Those from the Freed were also strong, though Ramona and the women had a wistfulness for their own lost fecundities, while Tom Yearman was also genuinely happy for us, on top of truly amused by most of the debate, and already thinking through what the effect would be on wolves. He was glad to know Bran was already aware, as Charles and Anna had been, and with some caveats I promised at least one genuine alpha conference call, pointing out for the first of many times that on all known facts the chance of born werewolves was nil without two wolf parents and my paternal inheritance was way more likely to come through, though given all my other blended magics almost anything was possible. Then we could finally head back to Air Force One, where a host of Benny's miracle pies made me feel mellower, even if they were reheated, and I finally managed to catch up with Reverend Jenkins, whose congratulations and felicitations were also warm.
"So, Reverend, within the Anglican Communion, do godparents have to be Anglican themselves, and is there any upper limit to the number of godparents a child can have?"
She didn't even blink. "No, Ms President, they don't and there isn't. Practicing Christians are certainly recommended, but we are a broad church. And three is normal, four by no means unknown."
"Dozens?"
This time she did. "Um … no limit is no limit, but … you feel high numbers necessary?"
"I think our kids are going to need all the dedicated adult protection they can get, Reverend, mostly to fend off insane preternatural curiosity, and doubly so if they turn out identical rather than fraternal. Werewolf times avatar is new on everyone. It may depend on how clear a sense I have of whatever their magical inheritance amounts to, but if we're still guessing come christening time, which is more likely than not, both Adam and I will have a strong urge to cover the bases."
"Preternatural godparents?"
"I hope so, Reverend. Wouldn't you have liked as a child to have Irpa as a fairy godmother?"
I left her unsure if she was more amused or appalled, and enjoyed some beautifully courteous congratulations from the Wrights, both thrilled for me and for Adam in a way that reminded me of exactly why I liked them so much, while Jed overcame his blushes to offer both felicitations and thanks for the Longwoods and dragons, of which he said he and his friends greatly approved. By the time I was back in more private space with family and close friends there were media reports for me to scan, showing some expected kneejerk alarm about a pregnant woman holding nuclear codes, some wryer reflections on presidential maternity leave and its legal aspects, considerably altered by the ERA I'd seen passed as the 30th Amendment, and a kinder understanding of my personal calculus than I'd expected despite some rather intrusive speculations about Manannán's Bane. I knew from Jill that I would not hit menopause for millennia yet, if ever, but by human standards 39 was not young for a primigravida, and 43 a quantifiably greater risk, while most commentators wryly understood why the assassination attempt might have triggered a decision. No-one except Leslie, and I assumed Jude, knew that having to tatami-mat both a US and a Chinese aircraft carrier had played any part in anything, and that was as it should be, though the pure depth of Adam's amusement at what life had made possible was a boon I still felt in my heart, and had felt all the way to my toes.
The next few days did see some sourer grapes and more inanity from smarting rivals, but there was also a groundswell of delighted congratulation with so many personal messages that I had my staff set up an autoreply that offered thanks with apologies for impersonality, x million and whatever emails having already been received. A match programme Andrea had set up picked out eddresses of my registered ten-buck voters from last time and substituted a somewhat fuller thanks with a renewed request to vote and make sure all registered family and friends did so too, thanks for their diligence on democracy's behalf, and an additional titbit in my due date, which was mid-June. Amid it all I bagged an early night with Adam, who knew perfectly well from Christie's pregnancy with Jesse that the condition often ignited desire, but still felt very potently a protective alpha mode that badly wanted to swathe me yards deep in velvet and bubblewrap. After dealing with his reluctances, which was fun, we managed a much less stressed conversation about what restrictions and how much hovering I could and couldn't reasonably accept, either from him or from the fascinated White House medics, and I pushed it on to how much he really fancied becoming an alpha emeritus. The bigger problem was safely delegating responsibilities within his business, but what he actually wanted was to be freer to do more for me, for Bran, and for wolves in general.
"I don't want to be without a pack or to cede to another alpha, love, but with the two of us and Darryl and Warren as legates our wolves have got used to dealing with what they've taken to calling the duty alpha, when one is needed — and it's interesting that one mostly hasn't been. They're pretty happy wolves, no-one wants to let you down, and though I didn't expect it the Freed have actually been a boon in easing … dynamics, I suppose." He grinned at me. "No-one wants to take me on anyway, but knowing Ramona doesn't like any trouble is a further deterrent, and the deep calmness the Freed have with all their submissives is becoming a model to emulate, for a wonder." We thought about that one, feeling the ironies. "So I feel making the Alpha Emeritus official for both of us and letting Darryl have formal status as Alpha would be right, for us and the pack."
"Have you talked to Warren?"
"Yes. He doesn't want Alpha while he's a state senator, which he is enjoying far more than he expected, and probably not anyway. I doubt our wolves would object, now, but some others would."
"Un huh. So where does that leave us for the next four years, assuming?"
"More able to be away from Kennewick if we need, including full moons, which would ease travel schedules if you feel the need to do some more foreign jaunting."
I sighed. "Which, if, I probably should."
"I don't think there's much if, love, and yeah, you should. If China keeps up the greening a state visit should be doable now, and frankly, if there are places you want to see I think you should use Air Force One while you have it."
"Huh. Temptations, temptations. I had been wondering about a southern hemisphere swing with some built-in sight-seeing — Africa, Australasia, and South America — but then dragons came up, and Paris, and June will arrive soon enough. Who knows, love? Let's see what it looks like in December, and what cabinet I'll have in January."
"You're expecting resignations?"
"Not particularly, but the Fed chair is due to change."
"Right. I knew that. But December it is. And being freer of Kennewick at need will be good when you can dump it all on Frank — we could be one heck of a power-couple on anyone's circuit."
I looked at him dubiously. "Sure we could, if we wanted to. But why would we?"
"Fun, money, going on pushing where it's needed, stirring up trouble so you can whack it. Any number of reasons." He kissed me. "Mercy, your magical power isn't going to go away when you stop being president, nor your desire to change the world to suit yourself and everyone better."
I sighed again. "Probably not, no. Oh well. I'll cross that bridge as and when. Ditto nursing twins while in presidential office."
That one came up with the brasher media too, with the moods of pregnancy, but by then I was feeling more bullish and pointed out that gestating and lactation were abilities, not disabilities, and if I was liable to be hormonal it would be sensible for the media to be wary of irritating me.
"All else aside, my disreputable Da is already into step-paternity with Jesse, and delighted to become a genetic grandparent for the first time in a century and some, so if you do annoy me I'll probably put him on your case."
Oddly, the next question was on a completely different topic, and in general the media were actually better than I'd feared, commending me for honesty and having fun with the mandated legalities of presidential maternity leave, which would shift if I were to need any anaesthesia. Frank was mostly over his consternation and to Andrea's amusement Rachel half-suspected me of engineering a dry-run to tempt him to succeed me, but as I told them both that was entirely a side-benefit. So was an unimpeachable public excuse to do even less campaigning by cloak, compensated for with some longer TV interviews that Caroline and Penny did from Kennewick, though I allowed myself a few trips to help newbie preternatural candidates — wolves and half-fae, with a Hopi avatar of Bobcat's who was involved with Koyaanisquat and though water reform would be much easier without a particular state senator in Arizona, which it would. There were also one or two remnants of the former main parties I was very willing to campaign against, and while I still didn't do attack ads I didn't mind asking honest questions about their attendance and voting records, than which the citizens they nominally represented clearly deserved better.
November arrived, and the half-week before polling day saw me tied up in DC with a long list of things potentially outgoing presidents should do whatever their lead in any polls, including a clear summary of what their successors ought to take promptly in hand which was useful as a stock-take and reminded me of several things that had slid while I was distracted by dragons and whatever. Having rectified some of that, on the Monday I headed happily back to Kennewick, and took out the small change in cooking properly for the first time in several weeks. I went Middle Eastern, with a houmous starter on bread hot from the oven and a Moroccan chicken, raisin, and apricot tagine that was a new recipe on me and turned out very nicely, though I say so myself. It was only Adam, Jesse, and me, all of us feeling that tomorrow would be quite crowded enough, and we lingered a little at the table, reflecting and making plans. Jesse would be graduating in the summer, and was undecided about postgrad work but had some good questions about what I would or wouldn't be able to allow if she did go for a masters or doctoral research topic on top-down governmental integration of preternatural abilities and powers.
"Still at Georgetown U., Jesse?"
"Probably, Mom. In lots of ways a move would be good, but there's no programme on the preternatural more advanced plus I already know the professors who'd be supervising, and so do you and Dad." She shrugged. "Plus security. But I think I could write something with solid data that would be … useful for people to understand."
"I bet. No way round formal legal advice on this one, and it'll depend on what data you want. Any clues?"
"Permission to interview, mostly — Mr and Mrs Lafferty, your cabinet members and agency heads, the ED and SSAC, governors, state legislators." She waggled hands. "Maybe also people like Chief Munday and Buffalo Soldier — I don't want only the very top national layers. It's not secrets, Mom, just candour about how you've made it all work, with some sideways, but the data has to be verifiable."
"Yeah, I get that. Sounds workable enough, Jesse, if this is what you want. Jenna and Sally?"
"Oh yeah. There it's client confidentiality, but they don't mind asking the clients if they're willing to give me an interview." Her eyes glinted. "I'd think most would be curious, and built-in commentary from Gwyn ap Lugh, the Marrok, nine manitous, and China ought to impress examiners."
Adam and I both laughed, and he cocked his head.
"Right about that, Jesse. But you don't want to join Jenna and Sally direct? Once you've graduated I can't see why you shouldn't."
She waggled a hand. "We've talked about it a bit, Dad, but they aren't interested in postgrad and consensus is it'd be better for me to do that if I want and join in four years, if that's still what we want. As a research student I can ask Mom in a way I couldn't as a commercial enquirer."
Adam was good with that and we both liked the way Jesse was thinking things through down different paths. The research also sounded every bit as useful as she thought, if doubtless embarrassing for me, and conversation wandered again, down memory lane a little until a late brief told me a volcano had made a very big bang in the Pacific, giving some islands a bad time with the resulting tsunami and cutting various undersea cables, so I authorised all possible USN humanitarian and technical aid as needed, once again diverting a carrier group, before heading gratefully up to bed.
Last time around we'd wound up watching the election results at Benny's in Richland, but this time Benny's came to us via his two new mobile miracle-suppliers. His Richland eat-in place had been hitting the limits of oven capacity, and while there was room for more outside tables in good weather there was none for more kitchen. A Freed working there had suggested that if he converted one of the many one-trailer semis for sale and rejigged the staff parking lot, it could both give more oven capacity at home and a mobile capacity for festivals, private hire, and whatever. Liking the idea and the extra employment, Ramona had involved Zee as a consultant and he'd wound up doing the conversions at my otherwise little-used garage, with the superior results you'd expect. Both mobiles had a logo declaring Benny's a preferred supplier of pies to the Western White House, and at Sacajawea SP they were set up with one counter facing the public and the other the secure area behind the stage to fulfil that promise. Presidents also get dedicated pizza service, and quite right too.
After my brief, including Pacific updates about the scale of the damage to cables, though fortunately not so many people, the morning was straightforward enough if absurdly crowded. Lots of folk prefer early postal voting but I like doing the deed in person and on paper, a preference the Tri-Cities had noted with interest, and the line was long. People excited to greet me offered to let me cut in line but I told them I wouldn't dream of it, and with circling, jumpy agents and hopping reporters all round we spent close to forty minutes shuffling along and chatting. Jesse took up much media slack, bless her, telling them solemnly that you bet she was looking forward to her first presidential vote and having carefully set all emotional issues aside had found the decision a howling no-brainer, even before what she called the undebate. I opened a second front by adding that while I understood that this time round a lot of people with far more wit and ability than any declared rival had decided it wasn't worth running, because they didn't think they could win and objected to the cost of trying, next time was going to be more open, however I thought and hoped that Frank would be the clear favourite. Unless the main-party rumps could pull themselves together in decently updated fashion — which was looking more and more moot — we needed a less costly means of deciding the presidency.
"Four years back I crowd-funded, and that's one good model, but the costs were still very substantial. I raised more than I needed, and as you know the balance went to Clean up the Basin!, but between campaign-staff, travel, food, security, and all my PR-guru Da's amazing posters I still spent better than a hundred million bucks." I shook my head. "It's one reason I did so little campaigning this time, because there is something in that kind of number that really stinks. Needing such big bucks even to try is a bad skew on who's likely to be able to run, and remember the billionaire who didn't get to debate but actually said he had the right to buy the presidency if he wanted, and seemed to believe it?"
They did and took the point, hardly new but one I'd made considerably more urgent, besides having cleared a lot of lumber by throwing all sorts of PACs into disarray and thumping the NRA right out of it. I also had some waiting plans for real campaign finance reform, and Jesse cut smoothly back in.
"It's new grassroots democracy that's needed, and I've been using social media to push that as best I can, but some sustained mass-media attention to what we might do when Mom's not in office to hold it all together for us would be welcome. And sometime in the next year or two there's going to have to be a campaign finance bill, so get that debate going properly, hey?"
Someone had the chutzpah to ask about term-limits, suggesting their abolition would be pretty popular just now, and I told them flatly what I'd told Bran.
"If the House passed such a law I'd veto it, and in four years' time I will not be running, no matter what. Terms and conditions apply, and there are several excellent reasons that no-one should serve more than two as president. It's bad for democracy and very bad for the person. A president is necessary, because committees, but as it now stands it is an entirely insane brief even when you don't have to disarm less sane gun-nuts, accept ex-godly powers of smiting to save yourself and Georgetown from suicidal bigots, or argue dragons with China. Frankly, the anchoring normality of children was a real factor for Adam and me in accepting a second term. Think about it. And as I think it'd be a good idea if Frank had a First-Person running mate in four years' time, I'd be interested in hearing from any First Person who thinks they'd be up for it. And that's any First Person, restricted only by the constitutional age requirement of being 35 by Inauguration Day. Being smart and sensible is necessary, but being politically experienced in the old system isn't — I'd never run for anything four years ago, and that seems to have worked out well enough."
The Elder Spirits and a whole bunch of chiefs had known that one was coming, and were already thinking hard, seeing the shape that a Lafferty + First Person campaign could take and liking it a lot. It was a new thought for the media, though, and kicked off discussion among themselves as well as the listening line of waiting voters and crowd of already-voteds. Coyote showing up stirred it right along, while he repeated his laments of four years back about not having a vote himself in any form when they should have one each, and this time Adam, Jesse, and I could all go in to vote together. Warren had briefed us all on the other local and state races in which we had votes, and doing the deed this time I found I didn't have the hollow stomach I remembered, only a mingled satisfaction and resignation. Four more years in the Beltway was still pretty close to my leading definition of hell, however I'd whacked a lot of it upside its little pointy head, and if I could honourably have bailed out I would have been badly tempted; but there was still good I could do, and I would.
When we were all outside again and Jesse had dealt with some questions about how she felt having voted—d'oh, but with some nuances of duty as well as satisfaction — we went to the same billboard as before and unveiled my first and last second-campaign poster, closely echoing the one that had been there four years ago. It was a more recent shot of She Moves Mountains (And So Do I), but it was again in dawnlight and hundred-foot direwolfite me still had snow on my shoulders and head, as did Medicine Wolf and Skuffles, while this time the legend said EVEN SHE THROWS THUNDERBOLTS & SURPRISES DRAGONS CAN ONLY WORK WITH WHAT'S THERE and below it YOUR JOBS STILL DON'T END TODAY. Being hungry I kept the speech very brief, thanking all who voted, re-thanking those who voted for me, and offering a smiling promise to drop as many more people in it as I could manage.
"We all have to keep right on truckin', however long and strange the trip. Thank you, everyone, for all you have done and will do, and may the Christian God I believe in be with you all. And that's it. I'm now off-radar until the declared results tell us what the electoral college will be saying, and I'm going to go listen to a lot of excellent music and eat some very superior pies. See you all later."
One great virtue of the Secret Service is that getting out of places despite would-be media obstruction is a great deal easier with their stone-faced help, and off to Sacajawea SP we went, Coyote joining us in a Beast whose suspension had been tweaked to allow it to deal with the bumpier bits of the back-route. Sorta. At the other end most of the world seemed to be waiting, but as I'd invited the half who weren't security I couldn't complain. Some famous rappers were onstage, but other musicians were hanging about, some I was happy to greet, and others to meet, Taylor Swift turning Jesse an interestingly faint pink and pleasing her enormously by returning the favour, having apparently been an intranet fan. I left an intrigued and amused Adam to watch that one, Jenna and Sal having already hooked up with Jesse, and with Skuffles went to greet Zee and Tad, Gordon, Bear, and a cheerful Jill, who had hopes of having met some potential husband material, Warren and Kyle, Darryl, Auriele, and other pack, Clay and Donna, an on-duty but relaxed Leslie, with a grinning Jude, Mary Oliver with ex-kiddos, Maya and Boz, ditto, Jim Alvin and Calvin Seeker, with the girlfriend of whom Jim approved and so did I. The vetting she'd received had left her thoughtful and we spoke for a few minutes, Calvin giving me a grateful look and Jim an amused one before I went on to other avatars who'd been able to come, Linda Redruff and Joey Diamond among them, as well as the fliers who'd helped out escorting dragons and had stories to tell about trying to keep station on creatures that phased in and out whether or not they were moving. Medicine Wolf, Tigger, and Young Manitou River West were already there, observing with interest, and the other manitous were onscreen and watching from Great Manitou Corner, where it was also sunny, if no doubt colder. To cap it all, making me very happy, Adam had overcome my Mom's and sisters' hesitations (and Curt's) about coming by simply sending a car for them — they'd all been rigidly careful about not seeking any presidential favours, which I appreciated more than I could say, but they'd stayed home four years ago and as I told them while giving and receiving welcome hugs, enough was enough.
Coyote was pleased too, saying something to Curt that made him laugh, and both my sisters were as happy as Jesse to meet Taylor Swift. It was all soothing and relaxed — no-one seemed to have any doubts at all about another clean sweep — and after a while I took pity on my poor agents and established myself at a properly secure presidential table and exercised my miracle-pie priority to start with a new combo I'd persuaded Benny to adopt, heavy pepperoni, local hothouse pineapple, with the zing of fresh, and all three colours of sweet pepper; his mozzarella and edam mix was already properly jacked with mature cheddar, but I'd switched in a little manchego and he'd called the result the Presidential, finding it as popular as it ought to be.
Greeting the rappers when they'd come off stage was mildly wearying — they were nice enough but celebrity preeners, wanting multiple selfies — but as it put Taylor Swift on stage and let me get to know Ry Cooder and Taj Mahal a little, the Boss and various Dead sitting in and appreciating priority pies as much as I did, I counted it an excellent bargain. 3 p.m. Pacific was when the first polling in EST ended and media could call exit polls, and as that time neared and Taj Mahal and Ry Cooder rotated onto the stage, playing some fine low-down and dirty blues that had my feet and fingers twitching until the next rush of arrivals — Frank and Rachel with Andrea and Jenny, Charles and Anna, who'd flown down from Aspen Creek, a more cheerful Stefan with Thomas Hao, daywalking in my honour, and then Irpa with an oversize fae party of trolls plus Thor, Purity with her family, keen to dance, and Gwyn ap Lugh. The secure presidential table was considerably enlarged, introductions were made, and pies ordered before we hit 3 p.m. and the blues paused to let the news on, CBS's anchor sounding very dry.
"CBS calls both Indiana and Kentucky for the President by very large majorities. Landslide squared. This election has been in effect called for months now, and there are no surprises except that turnout is even higher than four years ago, pushing towards ninety percent, and a second clean sweep for the President and Vice-President is very much still on."
The blues switched up to 'Steady Rolling Man', dancing heated up amid the cheers, and after checking on other races, where my independents were also winning soundly, I went back to talking with friends. I was still on duty but I meant what I'd said about being off-radar until declarations were official, nothing was pressing, and it felt as if pressure was rightly suspended for a spell. A smiling Gwyn ap Lugh agreed there was a parenthesis of sorts, and a moment later one of the news feeds told me that the Paramount Tipi's smoke-cycle of states had been suspended, but the two declared states were hanging there in green, properly positioned. I raised eyebrows at ap Lugh, who was still smiling.
"It is nothing to do with me, Mercedes Elf-friend. Edythe decided to amuse herself, and others."
"Oh?" My eyebrow were still up. "Any particular reason, Gwyn ap Lugh?"
"Only admiration and laughter, as far as I am aware, Mercedes."
And pigs might fly, but it was the Fae's glamour to begin with and Edythe not a Gray Lord to argue with even if I wanted to. There was also a distraction, as while I'm not sure Thor quite grokked elections he found Edythe's decision interesting.
"It seems proper that Gwyn ap Lugh's parenthesis be respected, Mercedes Troll-friend, as when one awaits the judgement of any authority." He was also coming to appreciate Benny's miracle pies, and grinned at me around a slice of his own Presidential. "Loki forgot that one time, and wished he hadn't."
There followed a long and entirely outrageous story involving a stolen prize boar, a fractious kitten, an angry giantess, a worried king, an increasingly irritated Odin, two thunderbolts, and a very rude joke that had Adam staring, me mildly appalled, and Coyote laughing so hard he had to lie down. Leaving Thor to it I shifted seats and caught up a little with Stefan. Our friendship had never fully recovered from my outing vamps, or perhaps the shock of my being able to dismiss Bonarata, but he did appreciate daywalking by night and the wider changes I'd precipitated.
"So does Wulfe, Mercy, for all he spent a year sulking about the witchcraft you unravelled." I got an austere smile. "I don't know that I'd call him any saner, but he is … less tense."
"Huh. So are wolves, Stefan, which is mostly because they're getting less public hassle. Ease all round, it seems."
"Oh yes. You will have had the vampire and sheep votes, Mercy, and in good heart."
Thomas Hao wryly agreed and I stashed that one away to ponder while the hours ticked round, miracle pies came and went, and my tally of called states jumped to eight, then eleven, cuts to a White House camera showing their glamoured green addition to a stable smoke-US that was distinctly larger than usual and becoming so bright as night fell in the east that the Paramount Tipi, totem-pole, and grounds were bathed in my electoral green. The effect trebled at 5 p.m. as another eighteen states plus DC, including Illinois and Texas, came on-board, which would give me an electoral college majority by a way. As all the exit polls indicated margins way too large to be in doubt Adam broke out champagne, after toasting me and Frank with a glass the Boss hit the stage, and things revved up smartly with some proper rock 'n' roll. I let my fingers do some drumming, but one thing about certain victory is that there isn't any suspense, and nothing of the roiling uncertainties and hollowness I'd felt four years ago. It was almost disappointing, except that was absurd, even for me, and any brooding was firmly disallowed by Frank, rightly proud, then by my Mom with a breathtaking hug and bright-eyed whisper that having a daughter re-elected president made her so proud she might burst, and finally by Skuffles, who said she was going to dance even if I wasn't and bounced onto the stage to mind-sing along with The Boss to 'Bad Mouthful', starring herself, to much cheering and laughter. Then lots of people joined the chorus to his Excalibur ballad, and the sword itself warmed where it rested against my leg, happy in its renewed fame. Another hour took my tally to thirty-nine states, solid green blocking everything east of the Rockies except late-closing Iowa, which filled in at 7 p.m. with four more, including Arizona where a bobcat avatar was in and an obstructive state senator out, and the green glow over DC brightened and enlarged yet more, crowds staring up at it and partying despite the DC cold. Some eastern declarations had come in as well, and real numbers built while there was a charming interlude with Kyle's jug-band friends, astonished but very happy that the Boss had invited them to join him for a Tri-Cities reunion before the Dead joined them both onstage and the real jamming began.
At 8 p.m. I had forty-nine states, including Washington, where Warren was now a two-term state senator with an increased majority, and the still growing crowd cheered me, or itself, very loudly, and began to chant my name. I wouldn't have minded appearing but shorting Alaska seemed rude until a grinning Adam passed me his phone, vid-link running, and Alaska herself told me not to fret and give the good people what they wanted. We let the musicians know, and the Rhythm Devils had a fine time drum-rolling on Triple Troll, while Bob Weir invited Purity to dance onstage rather than before it, and then called out Frank and Rachel, with Andrea, and finally Adam and me with Skuffles and Jesse. On the big screens the Lower 48 with DC and Hawaii were a solid block of green hanging over the White House, Hawaii hanging by itself to one side, and the cheering only died at all when the musicians hit some power chords and a grinning Bob Weir told us they had a re-election present for me, in the shape of a swing-tune Phil Lesh had somehow transposed into 11/8 time but left seriously danceable. I had to let Jesse take Excalibur and its belt, with Manannán's Bane, but kept the cloak, which knew all about twirling, and after a quick mental exchange with Adam, in which he nixed any high throws despite my look, we did a paramount presidential lindy-hop in high style, gracefully complemented by Purity's undulations and horn-arabesques. The noise afterwards was too great to do anything except smile and offer them all a curtsey and a bow, but Skuffles told the musicians how glad we were and we left them and Triple Troll to hit another maximally funky 'Scarlet Begonias' which this time did segue into 'Fire on the Mountain', as it ought, and went back to the secure presidential table to eat more miracle pies.
A while later Alaska completed my second clean sweep, and when it appeared over the White House, rising swiftly into proper station, the whole enlarged yet again, pulsing rose-colours limned the national borders, and for a moment the Elder Spirits circling on the Paramount Tipi looked up smiling, before Skuffles and I appeared, both grinning as we offered a curtsey and a coyote bow, the whole slowly faded, and the usual smoke-state cycle restarted. Amid a great deal more cheering Gwyn ap Lugh raised a glass to me.
"Our warmest congratulations, Mercedes Elf-friend and Troll-friend, on a result that makes us very glad. Both peace and honour are well-served this night."
That was a calculus I could understand, though a conversation with Edythe would be in order, but for now I simply asked ap Lugh to convey my gladness to her and got back to relaxing with very happy friends. It wouldn't last but I enjoyed it while it did, wondering what joys and troubles a second term would bring, besides a second Inauguration, yet another State of the Union, Jesse's graduation, and two babies. Who knew? except that there would be hair-tearing enough, as there always was, but as I told a laughing Adam there was one real upside, because I couldn't be re-elected again. Tomorrow I'd have to go back to running the country for another four years, but for tonight we could just be grateful for term limits and kick back, while others turned the music up. There was only one surprise, when Bob Weir shifted the lyric of 'Truckin'' to declare what a long strange trip it's still being, and that was both true and just fine by me.