The international response to what officials first termed "the data-storage software glitch," then "broad degradation of socio-civil structures due to rapidly-spreading infrastructure weakness," and finally just "the Anarchy" was slow. At the U.N., Russia and China blocked resolutions calling for a coordinated worldwide response, unwilling to devote resources to what they saw as the West's problem. For their part, Western nations hesitated sharing intel with those it feared might use it against them. Across all levels of society, trust was low.

At last, the Security Council agreed to convene an exploratory commission. The Copenhagen-based group took five months releasing its report, which contained the following conclusions:

1. The Anarchy began in the United States, triggered by the internet-based group known as The Blind Mice.

2. The Anarchy is worsening.

3. Greater transparency and regulation might have prevented the Anarchy.

NASDAQ lost two weeks of trading due to "irreconcilable packet loss." Thousands of dollars in meat, fish, and temp-sensitive medicines spoiled when Port Newark's container refrigeration algorithm failed. The loss of electronic deeds plunged several municipalities into territorial legal fights. Banks, desperate to shield deposit records against the wave of disappearing data, retained paper backups. Soon these physical sites became targets. How much the Mice directed versus merely inspired was unclear.

Capital markets ran dry in March. Nobody, neither lenders nor borrowers, had faith in institutions' ability to enforce future obligations. Building projects from Tuscon to Vladivostok stopped. Vital maintenance stopped. A bridge span crumbled spectacularly in Jakarta. The Suez Canal fell into disrepair; a commercial fishing trawler tried one last run and ended up aground fifteen miles into Egypt, sunk in the sand, blue-fin tuna rotting on deck.

News devolved to a kind of pointillist, unreliable info-cloud. Depending on which blog you read, you might believe any one of a dizzying array of fact-sets: that over-protection of civil liberties was sustaining the Anarchy, that a school of dolphins in the Red Sea carried all the world's data in embedded microchips, that Kim Jong Un was in cahoots with evil corporations, that the richest one percent were being shuttled in batches to moon colonies via Richard Branson's personal spaceship...

A bad time to be mayor of New York City.

"No. No, that is patently false," Sergio Diaz said into the phone, pacing about his office.

The reporter on speaker pressed, "A number of city employees have gone on record saying their paychecks bounced. Is this true? Is the government insolvent?"

"I assure you, we're paying our people," the mayor said. "Everyone is struggling with logistics now. These kinks will get ironed—"

"Has NYPD ceded parts of Staten Island and the Bronx to motorcycle gangs?"

"What?"

"There are multiple reports Hell's Angels and the Bandidos effectively control the outer boroughs—can you confirm or deny?"

Sergio walked to his mahogany sideboard, bracing himself by a carved elephant tusk. "Crime continues to be a challenge. My office makes no secret of that."

"What about the plume of smoke coming from the Waldorf Astoria? Has the source been ID'ed? Is the building being evacuated?"

Sergio found a pen and jotted Waldorf fire? on a Post-it. He'd ask Ingrid to make some calls.

"All these issues are being addressed. We're doing the best we can with the resources at our disposal."

The reporter asked, "Is there a plan for getting the data back? What's the expected return date?"

Sergio dug a hand back through his jet-black hair. He would've given anything to blow off steam tonight with a late-night tour. His security czar no longer allowed him anywhere unaccompanied by a full SWAT team, though, and the heinous crime-scene photos streaming across his desk had long ago dissuaded him from defying the order.

"I am told it's like Christmas lights," he said now. "One bad bulb ruins the string. You have to hunt through and find it, but once you do, the rest blink on."

The mayor delivered this metaphor by rote—he'd been using it for months, and the words leaving his mouth no longer registered in his brain. The reporter's guffaw was audible over the line.

Ten minutes later, Sergio received a visit from Bruce Delaney of Forceworthy Services. Bruce, Forceworthy's next man up after Todd Finley, had talked his way past Ingrid a half-dozen times for some high-pressure pitch, but today was different. The mayor had requested today's meeting.

"Glad to see y'come around," Bruce said as they shook. "New York City is the beacon of civilization, and Forceworthy wants to be a part of its preservation."

"We are only talking," Sergio said. "I still have faith in my police, and Albany is promising national guard help soon."

Bruce Delaney unfastened his briefcase, spread out his materials. "Saw the plywood on my way in. Not real confidence-inspiring, City Hall can't manage to keep glass in its windows."

Ruefully, the mayor began flipping through pamphlets. The Forceworthy rep pitched three security bundles. "Up and down the force spectrum, whatever your needs." The Eliminator package was available at $80 million per day. MuniShield, which counted fence-line drones among its deterrents, was still extremely reasonable at $190 million; and, lastly, the top-of-the-line Poodle Skirt ran an even $500 million.

"Poodle Skirt?" Sergio repeated.

"Right, 1950s," Delaney said. "We turn the clock back. Pies cooling in every window, leave your doors unlocked. Forceworthy brings overwhelming force to bear and gives you back your city."

He delivered the slogan with a pearly grin.

Sergio said, "Five-hundred million? The city doesn't spend that much across all services in one day."

"Which is why I'm flexible. We can slice and dice between MuniShield and Poodle, get y'a custom package, get us into a price point where everyone's happy."

When the mayor didn't respond, his head foggy at all those zeroes, Delaney went on, "Look, in these dark times, Forceworthy is the light. All the success stories, all the cities that're managing to beat off this awful, savage thing—they have one thing in common. And that's us. Forceworthy Services.

"Let's speak frankly, shall we? NYPD controls most bridges and tunnels, and major thoroughfares in Manhattan and Brooklyn—and not a helluva lot else. Our research indicates a thirty to thirty-five percent loss of territory. Forceworthy can give you the tools to regain that land."

The mayor turned from Delaney to hide his ashen face. He'd expected to hear a big number, but the figures Delaney was floating were staggering. He couldn't have afforded these expenditures on a pre-Anarchy budget, when sales and real-estate taxes were being regularly collected. The cash flows they operated off now were down ninety percent.

"I—I can't," Sergio said. "The fees are a nonstarter. Who can afford this? Who's paying you?"

"Different municipalities are handling the expense in different ways. Forceworthy understands credit is tough right now, and we've designed some innovative financial structures with this in mind. The one I'm thinking could work here is called EquitySecure—it requires zero up-front cash."

Sergio narrowed his cocoa eyes.

"Fantastic deal," Delaney continued, rubbing his hands together like he was making fire. "Super simple. Rather than pay us outright, you grant Forceworthy an equity stake in your city or town." He flung an arm toward the window, the far-off skyline. "Obviously city in this case. Then we come in, as primary stakeholders now, and determine a security package appropriate to your anarchy-suppressing needs. Win-win all the way."

"An equity stake?" Sergio felt the floor swaying under his wingtips. "As in, Forceworthy Services owns a piece of New York City?"

Bruce Delaney laughed out loud, smacking the thigh of his suitpants a little too grandly. "'Owns' is a strong word. The arrangement is loose. Your citizens keep the lion's share of rights. I believe there're provisions for votes on certain points of policy—puffing his cheeks dismissively—"but we'd have to drag the lawyers in to understand all that. Nobody wants that, am I right?

"Bottom line, EquitySecure is helping mayors and governors in all fifty states. Nebraska has seen phenomenal results, reclaimed ninety-seven percent of its territorial integrity. Charlotte, great story—Charlotte restored its entire shoreline back to the rightful owners. We installed our satellite-based HotShield patrols, unmanned drones? Pirate scum didn't stand a chance."

The pitch continued another few minutes. As Delaney spoke, Sergio Diaz paced a slow circle around his office. He'd had hundreds of awful meetings here since the Anarchy had taken hold, but none quite so depressing as this.

He had heard from other mayors—Carol Carruthers in L.A., Dick Madsen in Houston—that Forceworthy was the surest way to govern your city. The new threats couldn't be contained internally—you needed help, you needed firepower, and Forceworthy had it.

But good God, the price. Had Carol and Dick surrendered their sovereignty in this EquityShare program? Had Forceworthy recently spiked its prices? Or had they just given him a high quote, knowing he was in desperate straits?

Sergio found that his head was shaking.

"This is not happening." He walked to the door and twisted its knob. "I won't be the mayor who sold off New York City."

A sly expression came over the Forceworthy rep's face. "You won't be the mayor period, if you can't maintain some semblance of order."

"Perhaps," Sergio said, though his people were telling him he was likely to stay in office past November—there was no way to conduct an election under the current conditions.

Bruce Delaney tapped his pamphlets into a stack, replaced them in his briefcase, and left—thanking the mayor and assuring him he'd be just a phone call away if he did have a change of heart.

Sergio went to the sideboard and poured himself a scotch. The liquor singed going down but did not deliver its usual relaxing after-effect. He poured a second. He was staring hard into the sideboard's gilt-edged mirror, wishing for Providence or at least the distracting company of Quaid Rafferty, when he spotted something awry at his left temple.

A gray hair.