by Kelly deVos
He’s even had his hair cut.
Charles is all I have left.
What am I going to tell him about Mom?
I squeeze him again, hard, and sob into his shoulder.
“Jinx, you’re getting my shirt all wet,” he says. But he hugs me back, tight.
Apart from Amelia fussing around, the room has fallen silent. I glance up to see Annika standing there like she’s in a trance. She finally says, “Dad?”
“Hello, dear,” he says in that gravelly voice that’s become way too familiar. Carver pushes the cereal bowl and book into the center of the table.
The man who rules the world eats his oatmeal with thin banana slices.
The instant I let Charles go my brother runs over to hug Navarro and Toby. “See,” he says to Carver. “I told you my sister would come.”
Carver smiles. Fatherly. Benevolently. “So you did, son. So you did.” He glances at Amelia, who lowers her camera and turns it off. Then he tugs at the sleeve of his red, plaid shirt, revealing an oversize gold watch. “A bit later than expected though.”
Annika taps her booted foot on the wood floor. I know exactly what she’s feeling inside. Carver is a lot like my own dad was, always involved in some big master plan, when what I needed was a hug.
Charles grins. “Miss Annika! You made it. I was hoping that you would.”
That’s an oddly cryptic comment.
Before I can think much about that, I notice a bowl of brown sugar and a jug of maple syrup on the table. “Charles are you eating that? What’s your number?” I demand.
He can’t answer right away. He’s wrapped in Annika’s arms, and she’s smooshing his face into her shoulder. “I don’t need to worry about that anymore.” He lifts up his shirt to reveal a small surgical scar on his pale abdomen.
“You got a SNAP?” I say in disbelief.
Charles has type 1 diabetes and, for as long as I can remember, he’s been on the waiting list for an artificial pancreas. But since The Spark nationalized the medical industry, wait times went on indefinitely.
He nods. “Mom got it for me.”
Mom.
I’m relieved when he doesn’t ask about her.
Instead.
Carver clears his throat. “No doubt you’re eager to get on the road,” he says to no one in particular. He strokes his silver beard in a way that reminds me again of my father. He stares directly at me when he says, “Charles, why don’t you get your bags ready, son? I have a few things I’d like to discuss with your sister.”
Carver gestures for me to take the seat across from him at the round table, where my brother was just a moment before.
Navarro shakes his head. He’s still got his weapon out, which is smart. I probably shouldn’t have put my gun away. Navarro is always running the drill. He opens his mouth to speak, but Carver raises a hand to silence him.
“Young man, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” Carver says in a cold, firm tone. “I need to speak to Miss Marshall. She has a weapon. I don’t. Whatever else happens, you’ll leave here alive. You have my word. And I always keep my word.”
I wrap my arms around myself to keep from shivering.
It’s Annika who sighs and takes Navarro by the elbow and then leads both him and Charles out of the small kitchen. I remember that morning when we were on the run. When I still hoped that everything was a big mistake. Dad came to our makeshift camp in the desert to tell us our old lives were over. It had felt so useless to argue with him. All those same emotions live in the slump of Annika’s shoulders. Toby follows behind her with a shocked expression on his face.
Carver gestures again at the empty chair, and I take it.
“What happened to your eye?” Charles asks Navarro as they leave.
“It’s a long, thrilling tale,” Navarro says with a weak smile. “As always, it involves your sister and a high-speed car chase...” The conversation trails off as everyone disappears into the house.
Here I am.
Alone.
With Ammon Carver.
Carver and my gun.
I should do it now.
I’ve got the Beretta M9. It’s probably from some military surplus that The Spark was supposed to destroy but didn’t. The metal of the gun almost burns a hole in the pocket of my silly fake forestry jacket. When I tuck my hand into the pocket, the edges of my fingertips graze the synthetic grip. If Ammon Carver carries the world on his shoulders, can I knock it off? Can I force him to shrug and make everything right again?
I could.
One shot and it will all be over.
Back when I was trying to save MacKenna from that mercenary in the casino, I killed a man. Even though he was trying to kill us, I still thought I’d never be myself again. Never be good or decent again.
I can’t do it again. I can’t kill someone unless I absolutely have to. And more than that, I know I can’t kill Carver specifically. There is something about him that won’t die. Like my father. His memory would live on and become a force that would be impossible to ever fully reckon with.
Carver gets up and moves around the small kitchen, then returns to the table with a pot of coffee. He drops a cheerful yellow mug with a happy face on the table in front of me. “Care for a cup?” he asks.
No.
No, I do not want to drink coffee with the man who destroyed half of California.
When I don’t answer, he shrugs good-naturedly. “Suit yourself,” he says and returns to his seat, refilling his own mug. “So, as a matter of housekeeping, can I assume that Harlan Copeland is dead?”
“Yes,” I say flatly.
“Right,” Carver says as he stirs a lump of sugar into his coffee. “Probably for the best. There was never going to be an expedient way to explain the general’s complicated relationship with Marshall. Or the need for him to infiltrate Rosenthal’s inner circle.” He gives me another benign, almost charming smile. “Saves me the disagreeable task of having the poor fellow publicly executed.”
There will always be casualties.
The dread inside me continues to build. “So did my mom—”
Carver taps his metal spoon against his mug. “Tell me about bringing your brother here? Oh heavens no. I believe she thought she was stashing little Charles in the last place I might look. Of course, I’ve been monitoring this situation very carefully.” He pauses and gazes thoughtfully into his mug. “She was a true believer, you know. You can take heart in that. She and Max truly believed they could save the world from itself.”
He sighs. “But I don’t think they ever really understood that we would need to destroy the house before rebuilding. The foundation was rotten. It had to be replaced.”
“By killing everybody?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“If necessary,” Carver says.
He takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. “More than two thousand years ago, Julius Caesar got dressed and left his house, heading for the Roman Senate, where he was assassinated by an odd coalition of men who had only one thing in common. They all wanted Caesar’s power. The previous night, his wife, Calpurnia, had a nightmare that her husband was killed. Of course, Caesar must have known that his adversaries wanted to move against him, and yet he dismissed his bodyguard and went alone. Why did he do that?”
I shrug. Why, indeed? And why did it matter?
“I read once in a book that Caesar was a risk taker. Or that he needed to prove he hadn’t lost his edge. But that isn’t why,” Carver says.
“Um. Okay. But—”
Carver shakes his head. “He went because he had to. Because the confrontation was inevitable. The question of whether Rome was a republic or an empire had to be answered. Susan, we can’t escape our destinies. We can’t outrun them.”
A chilly breeze travels through the kitchen. “Maybe I’m faster than yo
u are.”
Carver actually has the gall to laugh. “I believe, my dear, the fact that I was sitting here eating breakfast with your brother when you arrived means you are not.”
I hate him more than anything right now. “So, what now? You’re going to just let us walk out of here with the expectation that we’ll voluntarily go to AIRSTA? Where you plan to have us killed?”
He holds his hands on the table in front of him, creating an arch with his fingers. “Neither of us knows what the outcome of this struggle will be. We haven’t been informed of our own fates. If there’s one thing I learned from your father, it is that people with resources can always find a way to survive.” Carver leans forward and, for a moment, seems to be lost in his own thoughts. “Max and I started this together. He tried to run. To forget about the past. It didn’t work. Because we have to finish it. Together.”
Carver smiles again. “Susan, if you run, the next thing your brother will need to be saved from is you.”
I dig my fingers into the palms of my hands. I have to get Charles and get out of here. But part of me understands what Carver is saying. Dad helped to set something terrible in motion. We won’t be able to hide from it forever. If I try, I’ll be forced into making the same desperate decisions that Dad did. The ones that led to his death. And put us here.
“I have to go,” I say, getting up from the table.
For some reason, I push in my chair. Like it’s somehow important to keep that tiny kitchen in order.
“Yes, you do,” Carver says. He returns his attention to his book as I leave the kitchen.
Even though it’s a chilly day, beads of sweat form on my forehead, and my hands are sticky and clammy. I push myself farther into the house. The inside is in much better shape than the outside. The hardwood floors have been freshly waxed and polished. I move through a spacious entryway, taking in its staircase with an ornate carved-wood railing opposite a tall front door, and come into a plush furnished sitting area with cozy, cream-colored armchairs.
Navarro is sitting in an oversize armchair staring into space while Charles is busy giving Annika a rundown of the state of plant life in Oregon. “One interesting thing about the rising sea level has been its effect on the various types of grasses on the coast,” my brother says. “I don’t know if you noticed, but the grass along the beach is much taller and denser than what one would have expected in...”
Annika doesn’t appear to really be listening to him. She looks up when I enter the room. “Did he ask for me?”
I shake my head, unsure what to say.
Toby sits next to her on the sofa and pats her hand. “It’s probably for the best. We need to go.”
Annika’s stricken expression fades away. “It is for the best,” she says. “When I leave here today, I won’t be Ammon Carver’s daughter. I’ll be Annika. I’ll be whoever I decide to be.”
Amelia sits on a stool in the corner farthest from the door with a computer in her lap. She regards Annika with a thoughtful look.
I finally get a good look at my brother. It seems like Mom was honest. Charles has been warm and comfortable. He’s gotten good medical care. He had more food than most people.
He’s even wearing a cardigan and a bow tie.
Navarro stands up.
I suck in a deep breath. “We should rebandage your eye,” I tell him, even though I know he won’t let me do it.
“What did Carver tell you?” he asks.
Annika’s deep blue eyes point in my direction as well. She clutches a little pillow with cats and the saying Meow or Never cross-stitched on it.
“We should take the car,” Toby says, almost to himself. “Go as far south as we can.”
“Carver said we have to go to AIRSTA,” I say, rubbing my sweaty palms on my forest ranger pants.
“That’s what I keep telling you,” Amelia mutters.
The small spot of blood on Navarro’s eye bandage has grown larger. He gives me an electric look. “We don’t have to do anything. We got what we came for.”
Navarro gestures at where my brother was on the sofa. But Charles is now moving around the living room while Amelia follows him with her camera. He approaches a window seat near the door to the sitting room. Bags of gear and supplies are stacked on top of it. There are boxes of protein bars, self-heating meals and a case of bottled water.
“Mr. Carver is right,” Charles says.
Navarro joins him at the window and opens a black waterproof bag. It contains a laptop and a selection of networking cables.
“What is all that?” I ask, waving my arm at the pile of stuff. “Where did it come from?”
“We have to leave,” Charles says. He’s starting to look so much like our father. “I promised we’d be in place by eleven.”
“He’s right,” Amelia says again.
Navarro scowls at Amelia and says through clenched teeth, “Can someone please remind me why she’s still here?”
I ignore this and remain focused on my brother.
“In place? You promised Ammon Carver that we’d go to AIRSTA?” I ask Charles. What else did the two of them talk about?
“No, no,” Charles says, shaking his head. “I promised Mrs. Healy, when she called here.”
My heart turns icy. “You’ve been talking to Ramona Carver?”
Charles smiles sweetly. “Yes. And we have to go. Now.”
* * *
We waste more time than we should arguing.
And in the end, Charles is right.
We have to go.
As much as I want to run as far as I can, as fast as I can, get my brother out of here, go somewhere—anywhere—else, doing whatever we can to stop The Opposition from detonating one of those bombs is the only thing left we can do. To fight.
To help.
Even if it probably isn’t going to work.
Still. There’s something pretty terrifying about following directions from Ammon Carver’s mother. Charles explains that Ramona will send additional people to help us take AIRSTA. She’s hooked us up with maps and a ton of gear.
And she’s planned a route for us across what was once a state conservation area for salmon and great blue herons. Like everything else around here, it’s been hit hard by climate change, and The Spark had it declared a wasteland. Everything looks wrong. There’s too much water in all the wrong places, and trees that grow out of other trees. The water is a strange reflective green. I can’t imagine that the salmon are happy in there.
“I thought Ramona Carver was like, dead, or something,” Amelia comments.
With all our people and gear, it’s pretty cramped in the forestry vehicle. Like before, Toby drives with Navarro in the passenger seat, leaving me again packed in the backseat with the girls. Charles is in the cargo area, and he sticks his head into the backseat to answer Amelia. “She was in seclusion on a ranch in Arizona.”
I resist the temptation to laugh at an eight-year-old using the expression in seclusion.
In spite of the fact that the whole world is probably doomed, I feel a little lighter. I’ve got Charles back. Finally. I grab his hand and squeeze it.
Even Annika looks less in distress than usual.
But. Also. Mom.
I want to ask if Mom knew Charles was in touch with Ramona. But I don’t want him asking about Mom.
Instead I say, “You haven’t mentioned MacKenna. Do you want to know where she is?”
He shrugs. “I saw her this morning. She’s in New Mexico. With Mrs. Healy.”
“Mac is with Ramona Carver?” Toby asks. He glances at Charles in the rearview mirror.
“Charles,” I say, frowning in confusion. “What do you mean you saw her?”
Charles nods. “We had a video call this morning. Mrs. Healy called early. She didn’t want to have to talk to her son. MacKenna says hi and also sorr
y.”
MacKenna says sorry. Great.
“Oh, and Ramona prefers to go by Mrs. Healy.”
Amelia snorts and murmurs, “If I’d given birth to Ammon Carver, I’d prefer to go by Mrs. Healy too.”
“Where are they?” Navarro asks.
“In New Mexico,” Charles says. “When Jinx has fixed the computers, MacKenna and Mrs. Healy are going to deactivate the bomb at Los Alamos.”
Sure, that sounds like it will work.
We’re following some bonkers old lady into battle.
We are doomed.
But at least we have a plan for how we’re going to die.
Amelia’s head stays buried in her laptop. Toby let her upload her latest movie on the way to Coquille, and she’s checking the stats. “Our number of views on that house thing are through the roof,” she says.
That house thing was the death of our mother.
Toby stops the vehicle in front of a clearing in the forest. There’s a mishmash of different types of grass and patches of wildflowers here and there. He pulls out the map that was in one of the bags that Charles had. “Okay. According to this, there’s another forested area and then we’ll come to the main base. We’re supposed to keep to the trees and meet someone called Volcheck near the rear gate.”
“That sounds right,” Amelia says. “Our intel indicates that there’s a communications building on the east side of the base. We think—”
“No,” I say. I’m using the binoculars from my pack to check around. “My dad wouldn’t put the system that interfaces with these bombs in a communications building. That introduces too many security vulnerabilities. He’d want the systems to be directly connected to the missile without any way in or out.”
“She’s right,” Navarro says. “But we have another problem. Do you see any planes around here? Or even any landing strips on that map?” He’s looking at the electronic map on his phone, scanning the area with his finger.
“No. But so what?” Toby asks.
“So if this cold fusion bomb is an air-launched ballistic missile, where’s the airplane supposed to come from?” Navarro responds from the passenger seat.