“Mind some company?” he asked.
“Sit if you want.”
He took a place beside her on the ground. Now he could feel it. The air around her seemed to prickle with barely contained rage. It flowed off her like an electric current.
“That’s some knife.”
She had resumed her patient sharpening. “Eustace gave it to me.”
“You think it’s sharp enough?”
“Just keeping my hands busy.”
He groped for the next thing to say but couldn’t find it. Where have you gone, Lish?
“I should be angry with you,” he said. “You could have told me what your orders were.”
“And then what would you have done? Follow me?”
“I’m AWOL as it is. A few more days wouldn’t have made any difference.”
She blew on the tip of the knife. “They weren’t your orders, Peter. Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad to see you. I’m not even that surprised. In a weird way, it makes sense you’d be here. You’re a good officer, and we’ll need you. But we all have our jobs to do.”
He was taken aback. A good officer? Was that all he was to her? “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“It doesn’t matter how it sounds. That’s just how it is. Maybe it’s time somebody said it.”
He didn’t know how to respond. This wasn’t the Alicia he knew. Whatever had happened to her in that cell, it had driven her so far inside herself it was as if she wasn’t there at all.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Well, don’t be.”
“I mean it, Lish. There’s something wrong. You can tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell, Peter.” She looked him in the eye. “Maybe I’m just… waking up. Facing reality. You should, too. This isn’t going to be easy.”
He felt stung. He searched her face, hunting for any scrap of warmth, finding none. Peter was the first to turn away.
“What do you think’s happening to her?” he asked.
He didn’t have to be any more specific; Alicia knew whom he was referring to.
“I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Why did you let her go?”
“I didn’t let her do anything, Peter. It wasn’t up to me.”
A chilly silence fell.
“I could really use a drink,” Peter said.
She gave a quiet laugh. “Now, that’s new. Those aren’t words I believe I’ve ever heard you say before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Then: “Do you remember that night in the bunker in Twentynine Palms when we found the whiskey?”
The bottle had been in a desk drawer. To celebrate the repair of the Humvees and their impending departure from the bunker, they’d passed it around, toasting the great adventure that awaited them on their journey east to Colorado.
Alicia said, “God, we all got so drunk. Michael was the worst. He never could hold his lick.”
“No, I think it was Hightop. Remember how he broke open one of the light sticks and smeared that goo all over his face? ‘Look at me, look at me, I’m a viral!’ That kid was hilarious.”
His mistake was instantly evident. Five years later, the boy’s death was still a raw wound; in all that time, Peter had never heard Alicia so much as speak his name.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
A bright light flashed over the horizon. Lightning? In winter? Moments later they heard the boom, muted but unmistakable.
Eustace appeared at the foot of the steps. “I heard it too. Which direction?”
It had come from the south. It was hard to gauge the distance, but they guessed five miles.
“Well,” Eustace said, nodding to himself, “I guess we’ll know more in the morning.”
Shortly after dawn, a messenger arrived, sent by Nina. The explosives at their hideout had done their work; their ruse had been successful. Minister Suresh, whom Guilder had sent to personally oversee their capture, was rumored to be among the dead. A taste, everyone hoped, of things to come.
But it was the second part of the message that offered the most promise. A semitruck had been parked outside the Project since the prior evening. It was guarded by a large security detachment, twenty men at least. The last piece had fallen into place; the virals were on the move. Guilder had tipped his hand.
Everybody knew the implications of what they were attempting. The plan seemed sound, but the odds were long. Guilder’s orders to move the population to the stadium implied that the rest of the city would be only lightly protected, and if everything proceeded according to design, the insurgency would accomplish in one stroke a beheading of virtually every aspect of the regime. But timing would be critical; with so many elements of the resistance acting independently, and lacking the ability to communicate with one another once the siege was under way, it wouldn’t take much for things to fall apart. Any variable could throw the operation into chaos.
The greatest variable was Sara. Assuming she was in the basement of the Dome, staging a rescue operation would be strategically cumbersome, and nobody knew where her daughter was. She could be in the Dome, or she could be someplace else entirely. Once they stormed the building and the shooting started, distinguishing between friend and foe would be nearly impossible. The decision they came to was that Hollis and Michael would lead an advance team to the basement. Five minutes would be all they’d have. After that, the building and all its inhabitants would be fair game.
Eustace would head up the operation against the stadium itself. The contents of the explosives package, a form of nitroglycerin, had been stolen from the Project site during construction and subsequently modified to their purpose, making it more potent but also highly unstable. It was of the same type that had been delivered to Sara in the Dome and was now presumed lost. Despite its power, the only way to guarantee the outcome was to deliver it to the eleven virals, as Eustace said, “in person, a bomb with legs.” Peter failed to understand this at first; then the meaning came. The legs would be Eustace’s.
Their teams would enter the city at four locations, all branched to the main storm pipe. Eustace’s team, which included Peter, Alicia, Tifty, Lore, and Greer, would use the confusion at the stadium to infiltrate the crowd; elements of the insurgency under Nina’s command would already be in position in the bleachers to seize control when the moment came. Weapons had been concealed in the lavatories and under the stairs to the upper bleachers. Eustace’s appearance on the field would be the signal to attack.
At the first touch of darkness, they set out. There was no point in concealing their tracks; one way or the other, they would never be returning. The night was clear, the sky wide and starlit, a vast indifferent presence gazing down. Well, Peter thought, maybe not so indifferent. He certainly hoped that someone up there cared, as Greer had said. It was hard to believe only a few weeks had passed since their conversation in the stockade. They reached the pipe and began to walk. Peter found himself thinking not only of Amy but Sister Lacey, too. Amy was one thing; she was another. The woman had faced Babcock with absolute fearlessness, a pure acceptance of the outcome. Peter hoped he would prove as worthy.
At the base of the manhole closest to the stadium, the group exchanged final words. The other teams, moving to locations throughout the Homeland, would remain concealed belowground until they heard the detonation in the stadium, which would serve as the signal to commence their assaults. Only Hollis and Michael would move sooner. There was no way to predict the moment to act; they would have to follow their instincts.
“Good luck,” Peter said. The three men shook hands, then, when this seemed inadequate, embraced. Lore rose on tiptoes to kiss Hollis on his bearded cheek.
“Remember what I said,” she told him. “She’s waiting for you. You’ll find her, I know it.”
Hollis and Michael made their way down the tunnel, their images fading, then gone. With handshakes all around and wishes for luck, the other groups departed behind them. Peter and th
e others waited. The cold was numbing; all of them had wet feet, their shoes soaked by the fetid waters. Eustace was wearing an olive jacket, the deadly cargo concealed beneath. Nobody spoke, but the silence that encased the man ran deeper. In a private moment, Eustace had assured Peter that there was simply no other way. He was glad to do it, in fact. Many people had been sent to their deaths at his orders. It was only right that his turn should come.
It was a little after 1700 hours when, from the top of the ladder, Tifty said, “It’s starting. We need to move.”
They would exit one at a time at one-minute intervals. The opening lay beneath a pickup truck that a member of Nina’s team had left in place on the south side of the stadium. Sooner or later it would be noticed and remarked on—What’s that doing there?—but so far it had escaped attention. From the manhole each of them would make their way into the lines of people flowing into the stadium. A tricky moment, but only the first of many.
Eustace went first. Greer watched from the top of the ladder. “Okay,” he said, “I think he made it.”
Lore and Greer followed. Once inside, they would rendezvous at specific points within the structure. Alicia would be the next to last; Tifty would bring up the rear. Peter got into position at the base of the ladder. Alicia was standing behind him. Like all of them, she was disguised in a flatlander’s scratchy tunic and trousers.
“Sorry about your arm,” he said, for the hundredth time.
Alicia smiled in her knowing way. It was the first smile he’d seen in days. “Hell, it was probably about time one of us shot the other. We’ve practically done everything else. I’m just glad your aim is so bad.”
“This is a touching scene,” Tifty said dryly, “but we really have to go.”
Peter hesitated; he didn’t want those words to be the last thing the two of them ever said to each other.
“I told you you’d get your chance, didn’t I?” Alicia hugged him quickly. “You heard the man—get moving. I’ll see you when the dust settles.”
And yet she did not look at him when she spoke, averting her glance with misted eyes.
The question before him was this: what the hell should he wear?
The era of suits and ties had come to an end for Horace Guilder. That part of his life was over. A suit was the outfit of a government official, not the high priest of the Temple of Life Everlasting.
It was all a little nerve-racking. He’d never been to church much, even as a kid. His mother took him once in a while, but his father never went. But as Guilder recalled it, some kind of robe was standard. Something along the lines of a dress.
“Suresh!”
The man limped into the bedroom. What a sight he was. His face was swollen and pink; his brows and lashes had been scorched away, giving his eyes a startled appearance. He had cuts and bruises all over, puckered and raw-looking. It would all pass in a few days, but in the meantime the man looked like a cross between an Easter ham and the loser of a lopsided boxing match.
“Get me an attendant’s robe.”
“What for?”
Guilder waved him toward the door. “Just get it. A big one.”
The summoned article was produced. Suresh lingered, evidently hoping for some explanation for Guilder’s curious request, or perhaps just looking forward to the sight of Guilder wriggling into the thing.
“Don’t you have someplace to be?”
“I thought you wanted me to stay here.”
“Jesus, don’t be dense. Go see about the car.”
Suresh hobbled away. Guilder positioned himself in front of the full-length mirror with the gown held before him. For the love of God, he was going to look like a clown in this thing. But the clock was ticking; HR would be bringing the flatlanders into the stadium any minute. A little delay wasn’t necessarily bad—it would ramp up the anticipation—but crowd control would get to be an issue if he dawdled for too long. Best to face the music; over his head went the robe. The image in the mirror wasn’t a clown after all, more like the bride at an Amish wedding. The thing was utterly shapeless. He removed a pair of neckties from the rack in his closet, knotted them together, and cinched the waist. A definite improvement, but something was missing. The priests he recalled from his boyhood brushes with religion had always worn some kind of shawl. Guilder went to the window. The drapes were held against the window frame by heavy golden ropes with tassels at the ends. He unhooked them and balanced them over his shoulders, the tassels swaying at his waist, and returned to the mirror. Not bad for somebody who knew absolutely nothing about religion or, for that matter, fashion. What a shock it would be to historians of the future to learn that Horace Guilder, High Priest of the Temple of Life Everlasting, Rebuilder of Civilization, Shepherd of the Dawn of the New Age of Cooperation Between Human and Viral, had sanctified himself with a pair of curtain tiebacks.
He opened the door to find Suresh waiting for him. The man’s bald eyes widened.
“Don’t say a word.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Well, don’t.”
They rode the elevator to the lobby. The building was strikingly silent; Guilder had sent most of his personal detachment to the stadium. This spread the cols and redeyes thin, but keeping the stadium under control was paramount. The vehicles were waiting, chuffing exhaust into the cold: Guilder’s car, the semi with its magnificent cargo, a pair of escort trucks, and a security van. He walked briskly to the van, where two cols were standing at the rear. One thing about a priest’s vestment: it didn’t offer much warmth on a winter night. He should have brought a coat.
“Open it.”
It was hard to believe that the figure seated before him on the bench had been the source of so much trouble. She might have been considered pretty, if Guilder’s thoughts ran in that direction. Not that she was dainty—she wasn’t. Underneath the swelling and discoloration, she was obviously a solid specimen. Deep-set eyes, strong features, a taut, muscular frame that was nonetheless feminine. But in Guilder’s imagination, Sergio had always been a man, and not just any man; the mental portrait he’d concocted was a knockoff of Che Guevara, some banana republic revolutionary with eyes like pinpricks and a scraggly beard. This was Joan of Arc.
“Anything to say for yourself?” Guilder couldn’t have cared less; the question was just for fun.
Her wrists and ankles were shackled. Her split and swollen lips gave her voice a thickened quality, as if she had a bad cold. “I’d like to say I’m sorry.”
Guilder laughed. Sergio was sorry! “Tell me, what are you sorry for?”
“For what’s about to happen to you.”
So, defiant to the end. Guilder supposed it came with the territory, but it was nonetheless irritating. He wouldn’t have minded banging her around a little more.
“Last chance,” the woman said.
“You have an interesting point of view,” Guilder replied. He stepped back from the open door. “Seal her up.”
For a long time, perched on the edge of the bed, Lila watched her. Slants of light from the window fell across the child’s sleeping face, blond curls flowing over the pillow. For days she had been beyond the reach of comfort, alternating between hours of sullen refusal to speak and explosive, toy-throwing tantrums, but in sleep her defenses dissolved and she became a child again: trusting, at peace.
What is your name? Lila thought. Who are you dreaming of?
She reached out to touch the little girl’s hair but stopped herself. The child wouldn’t awaken; that wasn’t the reason. It was the unworthiness of Lila’s hand. So many Evas over the years. And yet there had only ever been one.
I’m sorry, little girl. You didn’t deserve this; none of them did. I am the most selfish woman in the world. What I did, I did for love. I hope you can forgive me.
The child stirred, tightening the covers around herself, and pivoted her face toward Lila’s. Her jaw flexed; she made a little moan. Would she awaken? But no. Her palm slid under the curve of her cheek, one drea
m passed into the next, and the moment slipped away.
Better that way, thought Lila. Better that I should simply fade into darkness. She rose gingerly from the bed. At the door she turned for one last look, bathed in memory: of a time when she had stood at the nursery door with Brad, in the house they had made together with their love, to watch their little girl, this swaddled newborn bundle, this miracle upon the earth, sleeping in her crib. How Lila wished she herself had died, all those years ago. If heaven were a place of dreams, that’s the dream she would have passed eternity inside.
Farewell, she thought. Farewell to you, somebody’s child.
The scene outside the stadium was one of ordered chaos, a human vastness on the move. Peter slid into the stream. Nobody even looked at him; he was one more anonymous face, one more shorn head and filthy body in rags.
“Keep it moving, keep it moving!”
In four lines they flowed up a ramp and passed through an iron gate into the stadium. To Peter’s left, a series of concrete staircases ascended to lettered gates; ahead, a longer flight climbed to the upper decks. The crowd was being divided—two lines to the lower stands, two up the stairs. The field was brilliantly lit; light poured through the gates. Peter tried to catch a glimpse of Lore or Eustace, but they were too far ahead of him. Maybe they’d already broken away. The letters ascended. P, Q, R, then: S.
Peter dropped to one knee, pretending to tie his shoelaces. His successor in line bumped him, grunting in surprise. Whatever you did, you didn’t stop.
“Sorry, go ahead.”
The line bunched as it flowed around him. Through shuffling legs he glimpsed the nearest guard. He was gazing vaguely in Peter’s direction from a distance of ten yards—probably attempting to discern the source of the interruption. Look away, thought Peter.
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