“Should we nuke them?” asked the representative from America, not for the first time. He was some kind of admiral and wore a military uniform with a bunch of awards on it. Dad would have known what they all meant, but Cassandra wasn’t even clear on which branch of the military he was from – only that he’d been sent by the Pentagon.

From what Cassandra could tell, the Pentagon was running the show in America these days. No one even mentioned the president except to say that he was safe and secure inside a secret bunker.

In the center of the room was a table with a map depicting what everyone was calling the “Montana Situation.” Around it were the Masters, several of Nessassa’s black robed scribes, and the Pentagon-guy’s entourage. A couple of Canadian diplomats had also been invited – given that the Montana Situation protruded inconveniently into their country. So far, they had been too polite to speak.

Nessassa waved her hand over Montana, causing a small nuclear explosion. Cassandra swallowed and reached for her cider cup – but it wasn’t there. She was trying to cut back.

“The problem with nukes,” said Nessassa, “is that, according to our intel, the Johnson property conceals a vast subterranean cache of map pebbles.”

The Pentagon-guy muttered something to a secretary who angled a clipboard in his direction. “Map pebbles are the ones that…” He adjusted his bifocals. “Affect matter.”

“Technically they all do that,” said Nessassa, patiently. “But map pebbles are optimized for large-scale, high-energy manipulations.” She waved her hand, freezing the mushroom cloud and revealing what lay beneath the surface of the Johnson property. “A network of caves around the bunker have been filled with them.”

“Several million, by my scribes’ estimations,” said the Master of Maps.

The Pentagon-guy was nodding, brow furrowed. Casssandra could almost hear the machinery in his mind crunching on the question of why they couldn’t nuke Montana. Pebbles and all.

“Let me put it this way,” said Nessassa. “They’ve already embarrassed you once. A few million pebbles is enough to do it again – no matter what you throw at them.”

The secretaries of the Pentagon-guy scribbled and typed furiously. One of them pulled him aside and whispered in his ear. When he came back, he said, “Just for the sake of completeness here, can you outline the worst case scenario?”

Nessassa nodded to the Master of Maps, who waved his giant hands over the map simulation, causing the mushroom cloud to shrink, rewinding back to the moment before detonation. Then, with another gesture, he zoomed in on a missile frozen in time just above a small village that Cassandra hardly recognized. White stone buildings lay nestled amidst a sprawling orchard, a castle being built in the middle of it all. The only thing that marked it as her home was its geographical location – the river to the west, the road to the south she had once taken to her first day of school.

She leaned in close, hoping to catch a glimpse of Orion, but there were no people. It was just a map.

“With that many map pebbles beneath the ground,” said the Master of Maps, “they could contain the blast wave, thermal radiation, and even the electromagnetic pulse.” The missile exploded, but instead of becoming a mushroom cloud, it became a white hot sphere. “Depending on what protocols the pebbles are flashed with, they could do anything from stifle the blast to absorb it for later use. They could channel it wherever they please. Whenever they please.”

“Across what radius?” said the Pentagon-guy.

The Master of Maps sighed – as best a man of boulders could – and said, “You understand that map magic’s original purpose was the creation of entire planets, right?” He pointed to the Map Stone embedded in his forehead. “This stone alone could destroy and recreate the Earth several times over. Map pebbles are less powerful – more suitable tools for human use. But a few million in one place? Your nukes and missiles might as well be squirt guns and toothpicks.”

The Pentagon-guy was rubbing his temples, his hopes of a nuclear solution rapidly fading. “Is there anything you can do?”

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“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Nessassa. “But I need you to promise me – no more unauthorized maneuvers. The world is in a delicate place right now. Earlier today, I met with the Russian and Chinese delegations, and…”

She trailed off and shook her head grimly. Cassandra had seen her do this before – a maneuver that invariably made people lean forward in anticipation, as the Pentagon-guy was doing now. “What?” he said. “It’s imperative that you share any and all geopolitical intelligence with me.”

Cassandra had to stifle a laugh. Of all the diplomatic delegations she’d seen today, the Americans were the least polite – and the most out-of-touch. They made demands as if the country wasn’t currently infested with three different invasive phenomena, as if they hadn’t been forced to deploy the majority of their ground forces to their own major cities just to keep the peace. By contrast, the Russians and Chinese delegations had listened quite politely to Nessassa, eagerly agreeing to whatever she suggested in exchange for pebbles they could bring back for further study.

Of all the warships anchored within a twenty-mile radius of the Fortress’s island, the American aircraft carrier off the eastern coast was the only one that had refused to relax its military posture, as if there were hypothetical circumstances under which they might try nuking the island.

“They’re considering the establishment of a joint security zone in the Pacific,” said Nessassa. “The English translation of their plan is, I believe, ‘Extended Maritime Sovereignty.’ Among other things, it would involve the positioning of warships within two to three hundred nautical miles of the American coast.”

The Pentagon-guy came as close as anyone Cassandra had ever seen to being “flabbergasted” – one of her favorite words, but not one she had encountered in the wild very often. Face red, jaw open, unable to form words.

Nessassa slid into the silence with, “Don’t worry. I managed to talk them out of it. But you need to remember that the American geopolitical position is precarious. As the epicenter of the apocalypse, North America will be the first to undergo very deep changes. If you survive, we can help you use your head start to your advantage. If you don’t survive… well, I’ll give your time slot to the next country in line.”

The Pentagon-guy’s shoulders slumped. He gave a curt nod.

The Master of Maps proceeded to give the Pentagon delegation a report while the American secretaries and analysts pointed audio recorders in their directions, typed at lightning speed into laptops, and scribbled on clipboards. He described what he called the “urban/rural dichotomy”: the invasive phenomena were remaking the rural parts of the country more quickly than the urban ones, an imbalance whose inevitable result would be the conversion of American cities into isolated bastions surrounded by “increasingly hostile wilderness.”

At this, the Master of Life’s scribes began laying various jars on the table – one containing bioluminescent flowers that writhed like snakes, one full of two-headed worms squirming in dirt, and one containing a sample of tree bark with a tiny but unmistakable life pebble embedded in its surface. “These,” explained one of the Master’s mouths, “are some of the specimens my scribes have brought back from the American countryside in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Brought back,” said the Pentagon-guy, referencing his notes. “Through your – ‘ancient portal network.’”

“Quite right!” sang several of the Master of Life’s mouths.

Prior to the discussion turning to nukes, the Pentagon-guy had tried to convince Nessassa to permit military use of the Fortress portal network – to which she had said “I’ll think about it.” He looked at her now. Receiving only a placid smile in return, he said, “What I don’t understand is… you have the ability to move freely through the hostile American countryside… and, allegedly, you have stones that can –” He made air quotes. “– ‘destroy the planet several times over.’” He trailed off and looked at Nessassa over the top of his bifocals.

“You’re wondering why we won’t just handle the situation ourselves?” said Nessassa.

“No, that much is obvious,” snapped the Pentagon-guy. “I’ve been gaming out geopolitical apocalypse situations since the Cold War. When one side has weapons they won’t use, it always means the same thing.” Everyone from his delegation seemed to be holding their breath, as if they could sense that he was performing a diplomatically risky maneuver. “It means the other side has the same weapons. Or better.”

Nessassa inclined her head ever so slightly. “What’s your point?”

“Look, I’m just wondering if we’re at the table with the right people,” he said. He pointed at the map of the Montana Situation. “I’m inclined to agree that attacking them was a mistake on the Pentagon’s part. But if nuking them is an even bigger mistake, then I gotta ask… Why aren’t we getting their two cents?”

The Canadians shifted uncomfortably. Nessassa waved everyone out. Scribes vacated the room through one door, following the Masters; the Canadian and Pentagon delegations left through another door. Only Nessassa, the Master of Language, and the Pentagon-guy remained. Cassandra hesitated at the door.

“Also, while we’re asking obvious questions, why is there a kid here?” said the Pentagon-guy.

“She was just leaving,” said Nessassa, giving Cassandra a look that propelled her out the door and into the hallway into the tentacles of the Master of Life.

“You look hungry, Cassandra!” said several mouths. “Let’s get you some food.”