by Marcus Sakey
“The tests at the airfield turned out okay?”
“Viral influenza is destroyed between seventy-five and one hundred degrees Celsius. Liquid hydrogen burns above two thousand degrees.”
“But no traces were found? Nothing spattered in the explosions, survived on the ground?”
“The airfield was quarantined and incinerated. No evidence the virus escaped.”
It was a relief. In the moment, there had been nothing to do but take the chance, but Cooper had been haunted since by the idea that they might have accidentally done Smith’s work for him. “And now you’re a celebrity, on your way to a summit with the president. How does it feel to be a public figure?”
The abnorm grimaced. “I like people.”
“I know, Erik. I know.” He smiled. “What’s your take on Ramirez?”
“She operates with significant efficiency.”
“Wow,” Cooper said. “High praise. Is the deal finalized?”
“Broad strokes. Dotting and crossing remain.” The terms of it were all over the newsfeeds. Besides sharing Ethan’s work, the NCH agreed to remove all software backdoors from all computer systems, to obey laws both state and federal, and to relinquish all attempts at sovereignty. The Holdfast was American territory, and would remain so. In addition, Epstein had pledged half his fortune to reparations for the families of those killed by his Proteus virus.
For her part, the president had agreed to dismantle the Monitoring Oversight Initiative to microchip brilliants. The “abnorm refuges” like Haven in Madison Square Garden were dissolved, all residents free to go. Ramirez was also expected to issue executive orders extending nondiscrimination coverage to the gifted. Technically the Fourteenth Amendment covered that already, but given the last few years, the reminder was welcome.
There were a thousand questions yet to be answered—the functioning of the academies, the future of the DAR, war crimes trials, questions of copyright violation and cybercrime, access to Ethan’s work, on and on and on. Each of them was a potential public policy nightmare, a flashpoint for civil unrest. No battle, no speech, kept the world from turning. But in theory, gifted and normals would have to deal with one another as American citizens, equal in the eyes of the law. It was something.
“What about December 1st? The troops, and the White House?”
Erik looked down. “I had no choice.”
“You could have surrendered then.”
“Statistically—” He broke off. “Perhaps.”
“Those were American soldiers. Our president. Our history. It’s nice that you’re giving a couple hundred billion dollars, and forgive and forget is a pleasant sales pitch. But no one is buying. Me included.”
“Each side bears blame. ‘Both normals and gifted are staring into the abyss.’ Your words. The abyss is frightening. It might be enough. To bring change.”
“I hope so,” Cooper said. He rose from his seat. Held out his hand. “To change.”
Epstein took it. “To change.”
“You’re heading to DC tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
“Luck is an imprecise idiom. And you? Where are you going?”
“Long term? I’m not sure,” Cooper said. “But right now, I’m going to go see my kids. And have a conversation I’m dreading.”
Erik smiled. “Good luck.”
CHAPTER 47
“Daddy!” Kate squealed as she threw herself at him. Cooper hoisted her up, her little-girl bottom resting on his forearm, her face jammed into his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck and squeezing. She smelled like shampoo and cereal bars, and immediately began a nonstop monologue, how she’d missed him, even though he’d been here yesterday, how all the kids wanted to be her friends now that he was famous and how she was staying friends with the ones who had been her friends before and . . .
“Hey, Dad,” Todd said. He was trying a grown-up voice that didn’t match his goofy grin. He held out a hand to shake, and Cooper grabbed it, yanked his son into the embrace.
This is what you fought for. Not ideals, not compromise, not some vague notion of tomorrow. These two people right here.
“Hey, you,” Natalie said. There were dark circles under her eyes, but her smile was warm.
Three people.
“Hey, you,” he said, and gestured her to join them in a family hug. They all held on for a long time. Finally, he said, “This is probably a long shot.”
“What?”
“No, I feel silly.”
“Daddy, what?”
“Well, I was just wondering, is there any chance, and it’s okay to say no, but is there any chance that you guys would be interested in burgers and milkshakes?”
The kids ran about gathering their stuff, Todd’s coat and hat and d-pad, Kate’s worn lovey and new book and wasn’t her scarf cool? Cooper let them go, lapping up the warmth of it, answering questions, rifling their hair. Natalie seemed far away, and he glanced sideways at her, almost asked if she was okay, decided against it. Reached out for her hand instead and squeezed it.
The morning after the attack, the two of them had put on a brave face for the kids, saying that things hadn’t been that bad, never mind the burned-out buildings, the uniformed soldiers arriving in heavy trucks, the bodies still being collected, the smell of smoke and blood. It wasn’t until after the kids were in bed that they’d gotten a chance to talk.
Natalie had told him about the siege, calmly at first, then her eyes drifting away, her fingers tracing coffee rings on the table, her voice growing hollow as she described the day and the night. The things she had seen. The things she had done. That she wasn’t sure how many people she had killed but knew it was quite a few. That she had aimed her rifle and pressed the trigger and then done it again and again and again and again and again. That she had thrown flaming gasoline on living men, had heard their screams, smelled their hair scorching away, and then shot their comrades by the light of their burning flesh.
When she had cried, he had held her and whispered that it was okay, though they both knew that was a lie. He was a soldier, always had been, and it wasn’t the killing that wounded him so deeply, it was the idea of Natalie doing it.
“You didn’t have a choice,” he’d said, and she had nodded into his chest.
“I know.”
She wasn’t going to have a nervous breakdown, wasn’t going to question the reasons for her actions. She was fully aware of them. But he could see the change in her, see that her world had become a darker place, and he knew that she would probably carry that forever. Not every moment, not even most. But the weight would never really vanish.
You owe her everything. Every pure thing in your life has flowed from Natalie.
And you have given her nothing but fear and pain. You owe her more.
The things we do for our children, he thought. She had said that to him almost a year ago. He squeezed her hand again, and she blinked and smiled at him.
The diner was a madhouse, full to bursting with construction crews and research scientists and United States marines. But when the hostess saw him, she lit up like a forest fire, said, “Right this way, Mr. Cooper. We’ll make space.” Her voice was louder than he would have liked, and half the restaurant turned to look, pointing and shooting him nods and thumbs-up.
“Ohmygawwwd,” Natalie said. “Is that really you, Mr. Cooper? Can I have your autograph? Please, please, oh pretty please?”
He gave her the finger.
The food was greasy goodness, fries cooked crisp, burgers that tasted the way he remembered from when he was a kid, washed down by rich chocolate milkshakes. The four of them laughed and joked, falling easily into the long-held rhythms of a happy family. It was good; it was more than good.
Afterward, they went for a walk. Columns of dust rose into the cold blue sky in all directions as construction crews demoed damaged buildings. Pillars of dust were an improvement on pillars of smoke, he figured. They stayed near the ci
ty center, which was largely undamaged. When they happened on a playground, both kids flashed questioning looks, then raced off to join the other children in a free-form game of tag that operated under elaborate rules he couldn’t parse. Cooper and Natalie took a bench in the sun, sitting close.
“Would you look at that?” She smiled. “I know it’s just a playground. But still. They’re all playing together.”
“Do you think it will last?”
“We can hope, right?”
They sat together, bellies full, watching children play. A simple pleasure, one of the everyday joys that Cooper rarely got enough of, and he could have sat there forever in pleasant, companionable silence. Instead he said, “I spoke to the president today.”
“Ramirez? Really?”
He nodded. “She wants me to join the government.”
“Savvy PR move.”
“Yeah, but I get the sense she’s sincere. Made it clear I could pretty much write my ticket, be an ambassador, an advisor. Though she did have a suggestion.” He paused. “She asked me to come back to the DAR.”
“As an agent?” Natalie’s voice was incredulous.
“No,” Cooper said. “As the director.”
She whistled.
“I told her that I didn’t think there was a place for the old DAR now. She agreed. She wants to completely re-envision it, change it from a monitoring agency to, well, something new. Ethan’s formula is under wraps, but now that everyone knows it exists, there will need to be some sort of policy. Plus, there are still plenty of terrorist organizations out there, and hate groups on both sides. The president said she saw the new DAR not being solely about watching abnorms, but more about the intersection between . . .” He looked at her and trailed off.
Natalie’s spine was tight, shoulders bunched, her hands folded in her lap. One of her surest tells, one his gift had patterned long ago. It meant that she was thinking about their relationship and was about to bring it up.
It was a moment he’d dreaded, because though he loved her, would always love her, he was going to have to tell her that he wanted to be with another woman.
“Listen,” he said, at the same time that she said, “I’m sorry.”
They stopped awkwardly. “Go ahead.”
“I have to apologize. I don’t think I . . .” Natalie sighed. Rubbed her hands together. “Look. I never liked what you did, even though I understood. But it just kept getting harder. While we were together, and even after we split up. I was scared all the time. I’d be sitting in a meeting, or, I don’t know, folding Kate’s pajamas, and my imagination would just serve up these pictures, these vivid little daymares of things that could be happening to you. Ways you could be getting hurt, or . . .”
She sighed. “Anyway. Then you left the department and started working for President Clay. You were still trying to make things better, but you were safe. And maybe it was the worry, or maybe it was that I thought the worry was over, but somewhere in there, I started to wonder if we’d given up too easily.”
“Natalie, I—”
“Just let me do this, okay?” She stared straight ahead. “We’ve loved each other forever. And you’re a great dad, and . . . We were good together. Really good.”
He nodded.
“I thought I knew what your world was like. But I didn’t, not really. I’d been a tourist. The other night I lived there. All on my own. I did what I had to do. To protect the kids, same as you. But I hated it. I can’t live like that. I won’t.”
From the playfield, Kate waved, and Natalie waved back. “I know you’ve always thought your gift was our problem. But mostly it’s the world you live in. When you joined Clay, I pretended that you were leaving that life. But you haven’t. And now I understand that you can’t.” She turned to face him. “You can’t, babe. You’re too good at it. We need you. They need you. The next John Smith is out there somewhere.”
“Natalie—”
“I know I made this messy. I reached out to you. I don’t regret it. And I don’t regret”—she almost-smiled—“making love again. But I’m sorry, Nick. I was wrong. I can’t be with you. Not that way. I just can’t.”
He looked at her, at the face he had kissed a million times, the skin he knew every freckle and line of. The woman who had once been the first girl he’d fallen in love with. A woman who still managed to surprise him, despite his gift and their experience.
“Say something,” she said.
“I was just thinking,” he said, “that you’re amazing.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged, smiled. “That’s true.”
Her hand reached for his.
Together they watched the children play.
CHAPTER 48
“One second,” her voice said through the wall. Then, “Stupid freaking lousy pieces of—” The door jerked open.
The device around Shannon’s right thigh was clear plastic filled with glowing green gel, stretching from two inches above her knee to two inches below her groin and bound with weird centipede-looking straps that twitched and burrowed as she moved. No doubt it was the best the Holdfast could offer—he’d never seen anything like it—but the overall effect was a cross between steampunk jewelry and medieval torture device. She saw his expression, said, “What?”
Cooper tried not to laugh. He really did. But that only made it worse. What started as a muffled snort quickly threw off the reins. It was the exasperated, you gotta be kidding me look on her face, that and the notion of the Girl Who Walks Through Walls using crutches, her lissome grace reduced to bumps and lurches.
“Yeah, go ahead and laugh, asshole.”
He made an effort to stop, found that he just couldn’t.
“Enjoy yourself,” she said. “Don’t mind me.”
“Sorry.” He finally managed to lock it down. “Sorry. You look great.”
“Ha-ha.”
“No, really. Where can I get one of those?”
“Keep on like that, you’re gonna find out.”
He stepped in, took her head in his hands, and kissed her. They took their time, a dance of tongues and lips. When they finally broke it, he said, “Hi.”
“Hi.”
He glanced down. “Does it hurt?”
“Not with the pain pills. And according to Epstein’s doc, two weeks wearing the monstrosity, two weeks of physio, I’m good as new. Not bad for a snapped femur.”
“Yaa. Hearing ‘snapped’ and ‘femur’ in the same sentence sends shivers down my spine.”
“Pretty heroic, huh?” She gestured him in. “You know, I survived a spectacular midair collision to save the world.”
“Well, officially, I saved it. It says so on all the channels.”
“Jesus.” Shannon hobbled to the couch and lowered herself down. “You were already cocky. Now you’re going to be insufferable. Beer?”
“Sure.”
She winked. “In the fridge. Grab me one too.”
The kitchen was tiny. There was nothing in the refrigerator but hot sauce, mustard, and beer. It looked a lot like his own. “Should you have this with the pain pills?”
“Definitely.” She accepted it, took a long swallow. Cooper glanced around the apartment, cataloging the gun cleaning kit on the counter, the muted tri-d, the books propped facedown—she’d once told him that when she liked a book she snapped the spine so it could lie flat while she ate—the Murphy bed folded into the wall, the desk in the corner, stacks of junk spread out beneath the leaves of a plastic plant. A place for an un-life, a half-life. A way station for a life lived elsewhere. He smiled. “Remember when we were driving here? Before everything. Our fake passports had us married.”
“Tom and Allison Cappello.”
“Right. We were making up the backstory, how we’d worked together at some desk job. I asked if you’d ever actually had a desk, being a smartass, and you hit it back, said something like, ‘Yeah, it does a good job holding my fake plant.’”
“True story,” she said. “That desk
is a team player.”
“You didn’t mention all the random crap on it.”
“It’s not random. I know where everything is. How’d your call with the prez go?”
“Kind of amazingly.” He filled her in.
“Wow,” she said. “Are you going to take the job?”
“I don’t know yet. I told her I needed a vacation first.”
“Oh? Where are you going?”
“We. Where are we going.” Cooper sat beside her on the couch. “We never got that date. How about we do it somewhere warm? I’m thinking rum drinks and coconut oil and palm trees. No guns. No plots.”
“No one trying to kill us?”
“For a week or two. Of course—” He glanced down at her cast, said, “I was also picturing you in a bikini.”
She laughed, that good deep one he’d always liked. “As soon as I can move my leg, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“I look forward to it, gimpy. In the meantime, there’s something else we should do.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Fold that bed out of the wall and carry you to it.”
“Is that right? Got a thing for the handicapped, Cooper?” Her smile was slow and wicked. “I don’t even know how we’d manage it.”
“Nick,” he said. “You call me Nick. And I bet we can figure it out.”
They did.
EPILOGUE
For the third night in a row he’d gone to bed shivering, his mind on rails, racing on paths he didn’t choose at speeds he didn’t care for. There were sweats and a cough, too, but it wasn’t the cold that was getting him.
When he woke, it was nearly noon, the sun pouring through the window. Some scout of his consciousness, ranging ahead of his waking self, warned him that he was about to feel awful again. He took a breath and lay still.