by Platt, Sean
Piper went for the window. Cameron stayed on the bed where he was, and Piper looked back at him as if he were stubborn or stupid or an idiot.
“Let’s go! There’s a trellis!” Cameron could see beyond her. The streets were clear, at least as far as he could see. No visible Reptars, Titans, or shuttles. No purrs. Only the sounds of cracking and breaking below, of hard soles on hard wood.
“Wait.” He crossed the room. Picked up the rock.
“Cameron! We have to go! Now!”
“Where?”
“To the Apex!”
That was a joke. They’d been watching the Apex. Something had definitely leaked because everyone in Heaven’s Veil was suddenly interested in the usually silent Apex. But her eyes said that this was no joke; people were coming, and they needed to run.
He shook his head.
“Cameron!”
He held up the rock then turned it to show her the words in big, bold letters. Overly done, really, practically with serifs on the tops and bottoms of each stroke.
“Close the window.”
She stared, one leg already out below the shattered pane.
“Piper,” he said, again displaying the rock. “It’s Christopher’s handwriting.”
Piper didn’t come fully back into the room, but she stopped moving out of it. She looked at the rock. Cameron watched her think, her expression halfway between terrified and brave.
There was nothing to do. Staying was the wrong answer given their reason for coming, but Cameron trusted Christopher. He had no choice but to trust Captain Jons, who’d been with Chris the last time they’d seen him, who’d ferried them to safety at his grandmother’s house. And Grandma Mary, if she was as involved in any of this as she was in the underground movement, had already helped save Piper once.
Cameron felt heavy breath in his chest. Boots tromped up the stairs. Among the coming voices, he could hear Raj.
Two breaths. Three.
The door burst open — more kicked than opened. That was Raj for you; he hadn’t even bothered to try the knob. And yet it had been open, and now Mary’s door frame was kindling.
Raj came forward. He tossed a glance at Cameron but detoured to the more apparently immediate flight risk, taking Piper roughly by the wrist. Guns filled the room, but there were no Titans or purring Reptars with their needlelike teeth. Not that there was any longer a difference between them in Cameron’s mind.
Christopher, despite seeming to have authored the rock through the window, was missing.
Raj yanked Piper away from the broken window. He turned her around, placing her in unnecessary cuffs. Piper kept her eyes on Cameron. Raj looked at Jons, who was sliding restraints onto Cameron’s wrists, behind his back.
“He wasn’t lying,” Raj said. “I guess I owe you a Coke.”
Cameron felt the band on his wrists tighten. He looked up at Jons but saw only a grim little frown. It could mean anything.
But when Raj moved far enough toward the door with Piper, Jons chanced a whisper.
“You and Chris owe my grandmama a new door,” he said.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Heart beating hard, Lila climbed the steps to the fourth floor. She felt disoriented and out of time. She might have been speaking with her father for two minutes, but it seemed equally possible that she’d been in his office for a half hour. Or an hour. Or for her entire life.
Something about his demeanor unnerved her. To put things simply, he was too nice. Too calm. The city was still eating itself; she could see it through the windows along the main staircase. The Apex’s pulsing had brightened. Now, she could see it in the daytime. It had flashed again a time or two, and all of that oddity didn’t even consider the second mothership that had established some sort of energy beam between itself and the ground.
Beyond the mansion, Heaven’s Veil looked like the kind of place where citizens never came outside, preferring to huddle indoors lest the police carry them away for existing. There were human cops, all kinds of Astrals and their spherical vehicles, and even house guard who’d stopped tending the estate to knock heads in the streets.
And just a minute ago, Lila thought she’d seen her mother leaving the grounds, headed out into the thick of it. Again. Why did nobody put a leash on the woman? Last time, she’d nearly got herself and Dad killed.
Lila made the third floor. With a guilty glance around, she climbed toward the fourth.
There was no reason she couldn’t go where she was headed. No reason at all. She couldn’t be caught because she wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was her damned house. Never mind that there was nothing of interest to her on the fourth floor. Never mind that the last time she’d gone up here, she’d walked in on a standoff — then watched her father shoot her husband in the chest, heralding the start of this seemingly in-progress end.
Was Meyer better now? Or was he worse? He’d been acting like people do just before they kill themselves. Or, in Lila’s mind, when they’re about to do something rash or regrettable. Lila believed people could and did change, but these things were supposed to be gradual. She loved her father dearly, but he’d been such a hardass lately. Even before Vail became Heaven’s Veil, he’d been a hardass. For most of her life, he’d been a hardass. You didn’t precisely live with Meyer Dempsey. Life was more like one long audition.
His kindness, simply because it was so out of character, was frightening. It made Lila wonder what had happened to change him. Made her wonder what might be coming. Somehow added troubling context to the changes in the city, the sky, and the big blue pyramid — or somehow drew context from it.
She reached the fourth floor, again looking around. Raj should still be out there somewhere; that had been Christopher’s point. The only person Raj would delight in bringing to justice more than Cameron Bannister and Piper Dempsey was Christopher himself. But Chris was protected from Raj, safe in his cell. Cameron and Piper would be soon. Which was also the point.
It’s the only way to protect them, Lila.
As usual, there was too much unsaid. And as usual, no one told Lila more than what she strictly needed to know. She didn’t understand why Piper and Cameron had returned given their narrow escape or why, now, that they had returned and found a hiding place — granted in part by Chris, no less — it suddenly made sense to protect them behind bars. So they wanted the Apex. Could they leave without accessing it, if it was so damn important?
Maybe Dad could get them into the Apex, Lila thought.
The idea lasted only a second. Lila was reaching. Ever since this had all began — way back to the day she’d skipped school to join Raj in the park, discussing the little problem that grew into Clara — Lila had been one step above luggage. Dragged here and there — first by her father, then by Raj. She wanted to do something, not have it all done to her for a change. But trying to get favors from her father, the way he’d seemed just now, was a giant mistake.
Dad shot Raj. He’s on their side.
But the reminder that there were sides only made her trepidation worse. She’d played right into her role as luggage, because dammit if she hadn’t simply accepted it all. She’d been barefoot and pregnant when her father had told her that the Dempseys would be treated special, and despite their firm establishment in the bad guys’ camp, she’d gone along with it because it meant safety for her baby. It was understandable. But it sure made the notion of revolt hard to stomach now.
Because even if there was a way to help the rebel cause, she’d be shooting herself in the foot. And really … what would happen with Clara? Lila wasn’t just responsible for herself. She had a daughter to think about, too.
And yet here she was, crossing to the network center.
There were only three guards: one Titan and a pair of humans. Even the two humans looked exhausted and exasperated. They seemed tired, likely because Raj didn’t think of simple things like letting his people sleep and eat. And judging by their glance at Lila and the working form of Terrence’s back
as she approached, they clearly thought this was a fool’s job anyway. Terrence was one guy, unarmed. And from all Lila had heard, he was twiddling his thumbs up here anyway. The damage was done. The network couldn’t be debugged. It would need to be rebuilt, at least inside the city.
But that was Raj: beating a dead horse because his fragile pride insisted he not appear weak.
Which, in Lila’s disgusted opinion, made him look weaker than ever.
Lila nodded to the Titan, who, true to protocol, nodded politely back. Then she did the same to the human guards, whose body language all but declared, Do whatever the fuck you want; we couldn’t care less.
She crossed to Terrence.
“Christopher told me to suggest that you—” Lila began, keeping her voice low.
“I don’t need Chris’s suggestions to look for shit like encoded RF signals,” Terrence cut her off, as if he’d been waiting to deliver a line.
Lila sat beside him. Again, she chanced a look at the exhausted-looking guards. You couldn’t stay vigilant forever without anything happening. The way Christopher had described the situation on the fourth floor, it was more like an endurance contest than a repair job. The only question was whose will would break first: Terrence’s, or Raj’s?
“That what he told you, Lila?” Terrence asked.
Lila nodded.
Terrence sneaked a peek. When it seemed that the guards wouldn’t flinch, he whispered, “There’s a small stealth drone overhead. It keeps circling and circling. That mean anything to you?”
Lila shook her head. It only raised more questions.
“Near as I can tell without better equipment, there’s a group outside the fence in the east quarter. I doubt the shuttles have seen them because for some reason all of their activity has moved to the Apex.”
“Who’s the group?”
“No way to tell. But they’re not smashing in. So either it’s someone who can’t smash in or someone who means to get in quietly to establish positions without being noticed, like arranging pieces on a chess board.”
Lila turned the revelation over in her mind. Christopher had told her to ask Terrence about this specifically, before Raj returned from his fruitful arrest. Now, Terrence had found something. But she couldn’t see what help any of it was, for any of them. The group, whoever they were and whatever their intentions, would only be useful inside. But they hadn’t entered. Maybe they couldn’t.
“What do you want me to tell Christopher?”
Terrence exhaled then rubbed his eyes. “I have no idea. Tell them they’re there, I guess, if you can. But I have no idea what good that will do. If they don’t have enough force to gate crash, they’re irrelevant. And if they have the force but haven’t done it, that either means they’re waiting for the right moment (which I doubt, seeing as the streets are getting more overrun with Astrals every hour now that the second mothership seems to be sending its own shuttles down) or they need a helping hand to get inside without attracting attention.”
Lila swallowed, finding a decision.
“I’ll do it.”
“You’ll do what?”
“I’ll help them.”
Terrence laughed then put a hand on Lila’s back. It was affectionate, not patronizing — the tired touch of a man who sees his own inevitable end yet still wants to comfort the silly girl who yearns to do the impossible and save them all.
“It’s noble, Lila, but look out the window. It’s a police state out there. Sure, that’s a low-priority section of the fence, but there are sensors around it, with battery power and none needing the network to sound their alarm. Even if you could open the fence, which you can’t, how the hell you gonna get there unseen with all the new patrols?”
Lila slumped.
“Chris says Jons can be trusted. So there’s something else important you can do: Get him a message for me. About the Apex.”
“What about it?”
“Did Chris tell you it’s like a big antenna?”
Lila nodded.
“From what I see here,” Terrence said, indicating his monitor, “it’s cycling up to broadcast.”
“Broadcast what?”
Terrence’s face formed a grim line.
“Something big,” he said.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Meyer stopped.
His fists, newly bloodied, dripped on the floor. In the quiet corridor, he could actually hear each droplet striking the sealed stone.
There was a voice behind him. It was Beta. But then it wasn’t because Meyer didn’t know anyone named Beta. He only knew four white walls, a floor, a ceiling, and an immersion to keep him busy. The voice was Mo Weir.
“Meyer?”
Meyer turned and gave Mo his patient face. But Mo’s attention was drawn to his fists.
“Jesus. What was it this time? Raj again?” Then quieter, with a sideways smile that had no real warmth: “Did you kill him?”
“It wasn’t Raj.”
“Then how did you do this?” Mo picked up Meyer’s left hand at the forearm, keeping his hands away from all the blood as if it was infected. Which, Meyer was beginning to suspect, it might be, in its own way.
“I had an accident in my office.”
“What kind of accident?”
“It will need to be cleaned up.”
Mo looked at Meyer with an unreadable expression. “What’s going on with you, Meyer?”
“Trevor is dead.”
Mo’s mouth fell open. There was a long moment where the aide didn’t seem to have any idea what to say. Sympathy was the predictable response, but Meyer had just beaten Mo over the head with surprising information. There was no decorum. No slow reveal. No tears, nothing at all. Just a bland face that barely felt like more than a prop, put on for show.
“What … how? What are you talking about?”
“Nathan Andreus told me.”
“Andreus?” Then: “Did he do it? Was that what he came here to tell you?”
“It was the Astrals. Trevor was with the rebel group that caught them with their pants down.”
“He could be lying, Meyer. Trying to twist you into—”
“He was telling the truth.”
About Trevor.
About the fact that the Astrals did it.
And, perhaps most importantly, that Andreus was sorry. Meyer didn’t know why that was important, but it was. Meyer was definitely sorry — a hollow feeling that left him feeling like a shell. He could feel the Astral reaction by contrast; its bland lack of emotion was comparatively stark. Sensing it, Meyer felt a strange duality: He almost wanted to join the Astral perception, to see it as they did. He’d known the truth as Andreus had said it because something had unhitched and in a way, Meyer could see Trevor die through Divinity’s eye. He’d been split down the middle. Part of him saw it as information. The other half had caused what he’d done to his own fists, as if that had made sense.
“Wh …” Mo stuttered, seeming to know he should ask more but unsure which W word to begin with. Finally, he settled on, “Was it an accident?” Then, after a small pause: “When were they going to tell you?”
No, it wasn’t an accident. In fact, the Reptars responsible, Meyer could sense, had felt a rather inappropriate sense of delighted anger. They weren’t supposed to relish their kills. It was all business, another rebel necessarily eradicated. But they had. Just as the Titans, when they’d discovered the rebels had played them for fools, had taken it personally.
Meyer’s fist clenched. The pain was a pleasant distraction. That’s why he’d kept going, alone in his office. The more it hurt, the less he had to focus inward. Pain was the ultimate bright and shiny object. Keep your eye on the agony, and you wouldn’t have to experience anything else. God knew the Astrals weren’t sharing more than the tip of their collective mind with him, like they used to in a long-ago time that Meyer Dempsey had no business remembering.
“Not an accident. And they—”
(Red-hot fury, roiling lik
e a storm; Meyer wanted to hit Mo too, just to break his clotted fingers open)
“Weren’t going to tell me.”
“Why the hell not?” Mo looked indignant. Good. Angry on Meyer’s behalf. He knew how the Astrals thought, as one giant hive mind. A mind that didn’t include Meyer because he was human. Because he’d been pinched out. Because he’d stopped mattering the moment he’d been … Well, what had he been? It was all so unclear, so distant.
Humans could be a hive mind, too. Here he was, with Mo angry for Meyer, claiming his rage as if it were his.
Meyer said nothing.
“Does Heather know? Does Lila?”
“No.”
“Are you …” Mo paused, seeming to sense something dire and unpleasant in the works. “Were you on your way to tell them?”
“No. I don’t want them to know.”
“What? Meyer, they have to know.”
“It will hurt them.”
“But Meyer, seriously, they have to—”
Meyer resumed walking. Where had he been going? It was irrelevant. He’d been in his office. Now he was in this hallway. And yet somehow, he’d also always been in that white place. Four walls. A ceiling and a floor. And an immersion like TV that kept him alive. Healthy and strong, but hollow inside.
“Meyer!”
“Please have someone mop up the blood in the hallway.”
“Where the hell are you going?”
“And my office. If you could have it tidied.”
“Meyer, shit! Stop, will you?” Mo had his hands on Meyer’s jacket, on his lapels, gripping his arm. Mo’s emotions now worse than Meyer’s. He’d always been able to mute or kill them. Part of being in a group. Nothing was wholly anyone’s, same for responsibility. He’d had that once, but now he’d lost it. Because he’d been forced out. Like the essence he could still feel, more homeless even than himself.
Mo turned him around. Looked into his eyes. This solid, serious, obnoxiously responsible man, coming undone over news that wasn’t even his own. It made Meyer falter. It made him see himself in Mo, knowing how he was supposed to react. Seeing how he, too, was pushing something out, shoving it down. Building more discursive stimuli. Unspooling.