The Twelve

43


The route to Hollis was more circuitous than Peter had anticipated. The trail had taken them first to a friend of Lore’s, who knew someone who knew someone else; always they seemed to be one step away, only to find that the target had moved.

Their last lead directed them to a Quonset hut where an illegal gambling hall operated. It was after midnight when they found themselves walking down a dark, trash-strewn alley in H-town. Curfew had long passed, but from everywhere around them came little bits of noise—barking voices, the crash of glass, the tinkling of a piano.

“Quite a place,” Peter said.

“You haven’t been here much, have you?” said Michael.

“Not really. Well, never, actually.”

A shadowy figure stepped from a doorway into their path. A woman.

“Oye, mi soldadito. ¿Tienes planes esta noche?”

She moved forward from the shadows. Neither young nor old, her body so thin it was nearly boyish, yet the sensual confidence of her voice and the way she stood—shifting from one foot to the other, her pelvis pushing gently against her tiny skirt—combined with the heavy-lidded declivity of her eyes, as they trolled the length of Peter’s body, to give her an undeniable sexual force.

“¿Cómo te puedo ayudar, Teniente?”

Peter swallowed; his face felt warm. “We’re looking for Cousin’s place.”

The woman smiled a row of silk-stained teeth. “Everybody’s somebody’s cousin. I can be your cousin if you want.” Her eyes drifted to Lore, then Michael. “And what about you, handsome? I can get a friend. Your girlfriend can come if she wants, too. Maybe she’d like to watch.”

Lore gripped Michael by the arm. “He’s not interested.”

“We’re really just looking for someone,” Peter said. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

She gave a dark laugh. “Oh, it’s no trouble. You change your mind, you know where to find me, Teniente.”

They moved along. “Nice fellow,” Michael said.

Peter glanced back down the alley. The woman, or what he’d assumed was a woman, had faded back into the doorway.

“I’ll be damned. Are you sure?”

Michael chuckled ruefully, shaking his head. “You really have to get out more often, hombre.”

Ahead they saw the Quonset hut. Blades of light leaked from the edges of the door, where a pair of beefy men stood guard. The three of them paused in the shelter of an overflowing trash bin.

“Better let me do the talking,” Lore said.

Peter shook his head. “This was my idea. I should be the one to go.”

“In that uniform? Don’t be ridiculous. Stay with Michael. And the two of you, try not to get picked up by any trannies.”

They watched her march up to the door. “Is this such a good idea?” Peter asked quietly.

Michael held up a hand. “Just wait.”

At Lore’s approach the two men tensed, moving closer together to bar her entry. A brief conversation ensued, beyond Peter’s hearing; then she returned.

“Okay, we’re in.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That the two of you just got paid. And you’re drunk. So try to act it.”

The hut was crowded and loud, the space partitioned by large, hexagonal tables where cards were being dealt. Clouds of silk smoke choked the air, consorting with the sour-sweet aroma of mash; there was a still nearby. Half-dressed women—at least Peter took them to be women—were seated on stools at the periphery of the room. The youngest couldn’t have been a day over sixteen, the oldest nearly fifty, haggish in her clownish makeup. More were moving in and out of a curtain at the back, usually in the arm-draped company of a visibly intoxicated man. As Peter understood it, the whole idea of H-town was to overlook a certain amount of illegal vice but to cordon it off within a specific area. He could see the logic—people were people—but staring it in the face was a different matter. He wondered if Michael was right about him. How had he gotten so prim?

“Not go-to they’re playing, is it?” he asked Michael.

“Texas hold ’em, twenty-dollar ante from the looks of it. A bit rich for my blood.” His eyes, like Peter’s, were patrolling the room for Hollis. “We should try to blend in. How much scrip do you have?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I gave it all to Sister Peg.”

Michael sighed. “Of course you did. You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”

“The two of you,” Lore said. “What a couple of pussies. Watch and learn, my friends.”

She strode up to the closest table and took a chair. From the pocket of her jeans she withdrew a wad of bills, peeled off two, and tossed them into the pot. A third bill produced a shot glass, the contents of which she downed with a toss of her sun-bleached hair. The dealer laid out two cards for each player; then the betting began. For the first four hands Lore seemed to take very little interest in her cards, chatting with the other players, folding quickly with a roll of her eyes. Then, on the fifth, with no discernible change in her demeanor, she began to drive up the bet. The pile on the table grew; Peter guessed there were at least three hundred Austins sitting there for the taking. One by one the others dropped out until just a single player remained, a skinny man with pockmarked cheeks who was wearing a hydro’s jumpsuit. The last card was dealt; stone-faced, Lore put down five more bills. The man shook his head and folded his cards.

“Okay, I’m impressed,” said Peter, as Lore raked in the pot. They were standing off to the side, close enough to watch without seeming to. “How did she do that?”

“She cheats.”

“Really? I don’t see how.”

“It’s pretty simple, actually. The cards are all marked. It’s subtle, but you can figure it out. One player at the table is playing for the house so it always comes out ahead. She used the first few hands to figure out who it was and how to read the cards. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s a woman. In here, no one’s taking her seriously. They assume she’ll bet when she has good cards, that she’ll fold when she doesn’t. Three-quarters of the time she’s bluffing.”

“What happens when they realize what she’s doing?”

“They won’t, not right away. She’ll throw a hand or two.”

“And then?”

“Then it’s time to leave.”

A sudden commotion drew their attention to the rear of the room. A dark-haired woman, her dress torn from her shoulders, arms crossed over her exposed breasts, burst through the curtain, screaming incoherently. A second later a man emerged, his pants bunched comically around his ankles. He seemed to be floating a foot off the floor—suspended, Peter realized, by a man gripping him from behind. As the first man hurtled through the air, Peter recognized him; it was the young corporal from Satch’s squad who had driven the transport from Camp Vorhees. The second man, mountainous, the lower half of his face buried in a salt-and-pepper beard, was Hollis.

“Aha,” said Michael.

With impressive nonchalance, Hollis hauled the man to his feet by his collar. The woman was shrieking profanities, jabbing a finger at the two of them—Kill this f*cker! I don’t have to put up with this shit! Do you hear me? You’re f*cking dead, you a*shole!—as Hollis half-shoved, half-levitated him toward the exit.

“That’s our cue,” Peter said.

At a quickstep they made their way for the door, Lore coming up behind them as they exited the hut. The corporal, crying desperate apologies, was simultaneously trying to pull up his pants and scamper away. If Hollis was moved by the man’s appeals, he gave no sign. While the two guards looked on, laughing uproariously, Hollis hoisted the corporal by the waistband and propelled him farther down the alley. As he pulled the man upright again, Peter called his name.

“Hollis!”

For a perplexing instant the man seemed not to recognize them. Then he made a small sound of surprise. “Peter. Hola.”

The corporal was still squirming in his grip. “Lieutenant, for God’s sake do something! This monster’s trying to kill me!”

Peter looked at his friend. “Are you?”

The big man shrugged drolly. “I suppose, since he’s one of yours, I could let it go this one time.”

“Exactly! You could let me go and I’ll never come back, I swear it!”

Peter directed his attention to the terrified soldier, whose name, he recalled, was Udall. “Corporal. Where are you supposed to be? Don’t bullshit me.”

“West Barracks, sir.”

“Then get there, soldier.”

“Thank you, sir! You won’t regret it!”

“I already do. Now get out of my sight.”

He scampered away, holding up his pants.

“I wasn’t going to really hurt him,” Hollis said. “Just put a scare into him.”

“What did he do?”

“Tried to kiss her. That’s not allowed.”

The offense seemed minor. Given all Peter had seen, it didn’t seem like an offense at all. “Really?”

“Those are the rules. Pretty much anything goes except for that. It’s mostly up to the women.” He glanced past Peter. “Michael, it’s good to see you. It’s been a while. You’re looking well.”

“Same here. This is Lore.”

Hollis smiled in her direction. “Oh, I know who you are. It’s nice to finally have a proper introduction, though. How were the cards tonight?”

“Not too bad,” Lore replied. “The plant at table three is a real chump. I was just getting started.”

The man’s expression hardened a discernible notch. “Don’t judge me for this, Peter. That’s all I’m asking. Things work here in a certain way, that’s all.”

“You have my word. We all know …” He searched for the words. “Well. What you went through.”

A moment passed. Hollis cleared his throat. “So, I’m thinking this isn’t a social call.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the two doormen, who were making no effort to conceal their eavesdropping.

“Is there someplace we could talk?”


Hollis met them two hours later at his house, a tarpaper shack on the western edge of H-town. Though the outside was anonymously decrepit, the interior possessed a surprising homeyness, with curtains on the windows and sprigs of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. Hollis lit the stove and put on a pan of water for tea while the others waited at the small table.

“I make it with lemon balm,” Hollis remarked as he placed four steaming mugs on the table. “Grow it myself in a little patch out back.”

Peter explained what had happened on the Oil Road and the things Apgar had told him. Hollis listened thoughtfully, stroking his beard between sips.

“So can you take us to him?” Peter asked.

“That’s not the issue. Tifty’s no one you want to mix yourself up with—your CO’s right about that. I can vouch for you, but those guys are nobody to fool with. My say-so will only go so far. Military isn’t exactly welcome.”

“I don’t see a lot of options. If my hunch is right, he may be able to tell us where Amy and Greer went. All of this is connected. That’s what Apgar was telling me.”

“Sounds a bit thin.”

“Maybe. But if Apgar’s right, the same people might be responsible for what happened at Roswell, too.” Peter hated to press, but the next question needed to be asked. “What do you remember?”

A look of sudden pain swept Hollis’s face. “Peter, there’s no use in this, okay? I didn’t see anything. I just grabbed Caleb and ran. Maybe I should have done things differently. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But with the baby …”

“No one’s saying different.”

“Then leave it alone. Please. All I know is that once the gates were open, they just poured in.”

Peter glanced at Michael. Here was something they hadn’t known, a new piece of the puzzle.

“Why were the gates open?”

“I don’t think anyone ever figured that out,” said Hollis. “Whoever gave the order, they must have died in the attack. And I’ve never heard anything about some woman. If she was there, I didn’t see her. Or these trucks of yours.” He took a heavy breath. “The fact is, Sara’s gone. If I allowed myself to think different for one second, I’d go crazy. I’m sorry to say it, believe me. I won’t pretend I’ve made my peace with it. But the best thing to do is accept reality. You too, Michael.”

“She was my sister.”

“And she was going to be my wife.” Hollis looked at Michael’s shocked face. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

“Flyers, Hollis. No, I didn’t.”

“We were going to tell you when you got to Kerrville. She wanted to wait for you. I’m sorry, Circuit.”

No one seemed to know what to say next. As the silence stretched, Peter looked around the room. For the first time he understood what he was seeing. This little shack, with its stove and herbs and snug feeling of home—Hollis had made the house that he and Sara would have had together.

“That’s all I’ve got,” said Hollis. “That will have to satisfy you.”

“I can’t accept it. Look at this place. It’s like you’re waiting for her to come home.”

Hollis’s grip visibly tightened on his mug. “Let it go, cuz.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe Sara’s dead. But what if she’s still out there?”

“Then she was taken up. I’m asking you nicely. If our friendship means anything to you, don’t make me think about this.”

“I have to. We all loved her, too, Hollis. We were a family, her family.”

Hollis rose and returned his mug to the sink.

“Just take us to Tifty. That’s all I’m asking.”

Hollis spoke with his back to them. “He’s not what you think. I owe that man.”

“For what? A job in a brothel?”

His head was bowed, his hands clutching the edge of the sink, as if he’d taken a blow. “Jesus, Peter. You never change.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You did what you had to. And you got Caleb out.”

“Caleb.” From Hollis, a heavy sigh. “How is he? I keep meaning to visit.”

“You should see for yourself. He owes you his life, and it’s a good one.”

Hollis turned to face them again. The tide had turned; Peter could see it in the man’s eyes. A small flame of hope had been lit.

“What about you, Michael? I know what Peter thinks.”

“Those were my friends that got killed. If there’s payback, I want it. And if there’s a chance my sister’s alive, I’m not going to just do nothing.”

“It’s a big continent.”

“It always was. Never bothered me any.”

Hollis looked at Lore. “So what’s your opinion?”

The woman startled a little. “What are you asking me for? I’m just along for the ride here.”

The big man shrugged. “I don’t know, you’re pretty good with the cards. Tell me what the odds are.”

Lore shifted her gaze to Michael, then back at Hollis. “This isn’t a question of odds. Of all the men in the world, that woman chose you. If she’s still out there, she’s waiting for you. Staying alive any way she can until you find her. That’s all that matters.”

Everybody waited for what Hollis would next say.

“You’re a real ballbuster, you know that?”

Lore grinned. “Famous for it.”

Another silence fell. Then:

“Let me pack a few things.”





44


The first snow fell on Alicia’s third night scouting the fringes of the city, fat flakes spiraling from an inky sky. A clean, wintry cold had settled onto the earth. The air felt hard and pure. It moved through her body like a series of small exclamations, bursts of icy clarity in her lungs. She would have liked to set a fire, but it might be seen. She warmed her hands with her breath, stamped her feet on the frozen earth when she felt sensation receding. There was something suitable about it, this shock of cold; it had the taste of battle.

Soldier was beside her no more. Where Alicia was going, he could not follow. There had always been something celestial about him, she thought, as if he’d been sent to her from a world of spirits. In his deep awareness, he had seen what was happening to her, the dark evolution. The fierce taste uncoiling inside her since the day she had sunk her blade into the buck on the ridge, prying forth the living heart of him. There was an exhilarating power in it, a flowing energy, but it came at a cost. She wondered how much time remained before it overwhelmed her. Before her human surface stripped away and she became one thing only. Alicia Donadio, scout sniper of the Expeditionary, no more.

Go now, she had told him. You’re not safe with me. Tears floated on the surface of her eyes; she longed to look away from him but couldn’t. You great lovely boy, I will never forget you.

She had traveled the final miles on foot, tracing the river. Its waters still flowed easily but this wouldn’t last; ice had begun to crust at the edges. The landscape was treeless and bare. The image of the city bristled from the horizon as dusk was falling. She had been smelling it for hours. Its vastness startled her. She withdrew the yellowed, hand-drawn map from her pack and took the lay of the land. The dome rising from the hilltop, the bowl-like stadium, the bisecting river with its hydro dam, the massive concrete building with its cranes, the rows of barracks hemmed by wire—all just as Greer had recorded, fifteen years ago. She took out the RDF and adjusted the gain with fingers numb with cold. She swept it back and forth. A wash of static; then the needle nudged a fraction of an inch. The receiver was pointing at the dome.

Somebody was home.

She no longer needed her glasses except in the brightest hours of the day. How had this come to pass? What had happened to her eyes? She examined her face in the surface of the river; the orange light had continued to fade. What did it mean? She looked almost … normal. An ordinary human woman. Would that were true, she thought.

She passed the first two days circling the perimeter to gauge its defenses. She took inventories: vehicles, manpower, weaponry. The regular patrols that left from the main gate were easy to avoid; their efforts felt perfunctory, as if they perceived no real threat. At first light trucks would disperse from the barracks to thread through the city, carting workers to the factories and barns and fields, returning as darkness fell. As the days of observation passed, it came to Alicia that she was seeing a kind of prison, a citizenry of slaves and slave masters, yet the structures of containment seemed meager. The fences were thinly manned; many of the guards didn’t even appear to be armed. Whatever force held the populace in check, it came from within.

Her focus narrowed to two structures. The first was the large building with the cranes. It possessed the blocky appearance of a fortress. Through her binoculars Alicia could discern a single entrance, a broad portal sealed by heavy metal doors. The cranes sat idle; the building’s construction seemed complete, and yet to all appearances it went unused. What purpose did it serve? Was it a refuge from the virals, a shelter of last retreat? That seemed possible, though nothing else about the city communicated a similar sense of threat.

The other was the stadium, situated just beyond the southern perimeter of the city in an adjacent fenced compound. Unlike the bunker, the stadium was the site of daily activity. Vehicles came and went, step vans and some larger trucks, always at dusk or shortly after, disappearing down a deep ramp that led, presumably, to the basement. Their contents were a mystery until the fourth day, when a livestock carrier, full of cattle, descended the ramp.

Something was being fed down there.

And then shortly after noon on the fifth day, Alicia was resting in the culvert where she’d made her camp when she heard the distant wallop of an explosion. She pointed her binoculars to the heart of the city. A plume of black smoke was uncoiling from the base of the hill. At least one building was on fire. She watched while men and vehicles raced to the scene. A pumper truck was brought in to douse the flames. By now she had learned to distinguish the prisoners from their keepers, but on this occasion a third class of individuals appeared. There were three of them. They descended upon the site of the catastrophe in a sleek black vehicle utterly unlike the salvaged junkers Alicia had seen, straightening their neckties and fussing with the creases of their suits as they emerged into the winter sunshine. What strange costumes were these? Their eyes were concealed by heavy dark glasses. Was it just the brightness of the day or something else? Their presence had an instantaneous effect, the way a stone cast ripples across the surface of a pond. Waves of anxious energy radiated from the others on the scene. One of the suited men appeared to be taking notes on a clipboard while the other two shouted orders, gesturing wildly. What was she seeing? A leadership caste, that was apparent; everything about the city implied one’s existence. But what was the explosion? Was it an accident or something deliberate? A chink in the armor, perhaps?

Her orders were clear. Scout the city, assess the threat, report back to Kerrville in sixty days. Under no circumstances was she to engage the inhabitants. But nothing said she had to stay outside the wires.

The time had come to take a closer look.


She chose the stadium.

For two more days, she observed the comings and goings of the trucks. The fences were no problem; getting into the basement would be the tricky part. The door, like the portal on the bunker, looked impenetrable. Only when a truck hit the top of the ramp would the door ascend, sealing quickly as the vehicle passed through, all of it perfectly timed.

Dusk of the third day: behind a stand of scrub, Alicia stripped herself of weapons—all but the Browning, snug in its holster, and a single blade sheathed against her spine. She had scouted a spot in the wires where her ascent would be concealed by one of several buildings that appeared unused. A hundred yards of open ground separated these buildings from the ramp. Once the driver of the van rounded the corner, Alicia would have six seconds to cross the distance. Easy, she told herself. Nothing to it.

She took the fence with a single toehold, scuttled against the building’s rear wall, and peered around the corner. There it was, right on time, churning toward the stadium: the van. The driver downshifted as he approached the turn.

Go.

When the vehicle hit the top of the ramp, Alicia was just twenty feet behind it. The door, ascending on clattering chains, approached its apex. With a vaulting stride she took to the air, alighting on the van’s roof and dropping facedown within half a second of passing beneath the door.

Flyers, was she good.

Already she was feeling it, feeling them. The too-familiar prickling along her skin and, deep inside her skull, a watery murmuring, like the caress of waves upon a distant shore. The van, at reduced speed, was moving through a tunnel. Ahead she saw a second door. The driver beeped the horn; the door rose to let them through. Another three seconds: the van drew to a halt.

They were in a wide, open space, fifty feet on a side. Peeking over the top of the windshield, Alicia counted eight men. Six were armed with rifles; the other two wore heavy backpacks with tanks and long steel wands. At the far end of the room was a third door, different from the others: a heavy steel contraption with thick crossbars set into the frame.

One of the men sauntered toward the van, holding a clipboard; she pressed herself as flat against the roof as she could.

“How many you got?”

“The usual.”

“Are we supposed to do them as a group?”

“Hell if I know. What does the order say?”

A shuffling of paper. “Well, it doesn’t,” the second man answered. “A group, I suppose.”

“Is the betting pool still open?”

“If you want.”

“Give me seven seconds.”

“Sod has seven. You’ll have to pick something else.”

“Six, then.” The driver’s door creaked opened; Alicia heard his feet hit the concrete floor. “I like the cows better. It takes longer.”

“You are one sick bastard, you know that?” There was a pause. “You’re right, though. It is pretty cool.” He directed his voice away from the van. “Okay, everybody, showtime! Let’s dim the lights!”

With a thunk the lights extinguished, replaced by a twilight-blue glow emanating from caged bulbs along the ceiling. All the men were backing away from the door at the far end of the room. There could be no doubt what lay on the other side; Alicia sensed it in her bones. A metal gate began to drop from the ceiling, then jolted to a stop. The men with the backpacks had taken up positions on the near side of the gate, wicks of flame dancing at the tips of their wands. The driver strode to the rear of the van and opened it.

“Come on, out with you.”

“Please,” a man’s voice pleaded, “you don’t have to do this! You’re not like them!”

“It’s okay, it’s not what you think. Be a good fellow now.”

A woman this time: “We haven’t done anything! I’m only thirty-eight!”

“Really? I could have sworn you were older.” The click of a cocking revolver. “All of you, let’s move.”

One by one they were hauled from the van, six men and four women, shackled at the wrists and ankles. They were sobbing, pleading for their lives. Some could barely stand. While two men kept their rifles trained, the driver moved among them with a ring of keys, unlocking the chains.

“What are you unshackling them for?” one of the other guards asked.

“Please, don’t do this!” the woman cried. “I’m begging you! I have children!”

The driver backhanded the woman, knocking her to the ground. “Did I tell you to shut up?” Then, holding up a pair of shackles to the guard: “You want to clean these things later? I sure don’t.”

Do not engage the inhabitants, Alicia told herself. Do not engage the inhabitants. Do not engage the inhabitants.

“Sod?” the driver called. “Are we ready over there?”

A piggish-looking man stood off to the side at some kind of control panel. He moved a lever, and the gate gave a little twitch. “Hang on a second, it’s jammed.”

Do not engage, do not engage, do not engage …

“There, that’s got it.”

The hell with it.

Alicia rolled off the roof to find herself standing face-to-face with the driver. “Howdy.”

“Son of a … bitch?”

She drew her blade and shoved it under his ribs. With a sharp exhalation he staggered backward.

“All of you,” Alicia yelled, “hit the floor!”

Alicia unholstered the Browning and moved forward into the room, the weapon cupped in her hands, firing methodically. The guards seemed too stunned to react: one by one she began to pick them off in rusty spurts of blood. The head. The heart. The head again. Behind her, the prisoners had erupted in a torrent of wild screaming. Her mind was focused, clear as glass. The air grew suffused with a sweet intoxication of blood. She popped them off their feet. She lit them up like lightning. Nine bullets in her magazine; she’d finish them off with one to spare.

It was one of the men with the flamethrowers that got her. Though he certainly didn’t intend to. At the instant Alicia pulled the trigger, he was trying only to protect himself—an instinctive gesture, to duck his head and turn his back to her.





45


“Papers.”

Willing her fingers to stop trembling, Sara held the forged pass out for the guard. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs, it was a wonder the woman couldn’t hear it. She snatched the pass from Sara’s hands and looked it over quickly, darting her eyes to Sara’s face before examining it a final time and shoving it back without expression.

“Next!”

Sara pushed through the revolving wire door. A final act: once on the other side, she was on her own. Beyond it lay a fenced chute, like something in a slaughterhouse. A column of day laborers was shuffling through—groundskeepers, kitchen workers, mechanics. More cols stood watch on either side of the chute, holding back snarling dogs on chains, laughing among themselves whenever one of the flatlanders flinched. Bags were searched, everyone was patted down. Drawing her shawl around her head, Sara kept her eyes averted. The real danger was being seen by someone who knew her—flatlander, col, it didn’t matter. Not until she was wearing the veil of an attendant would she be safely anonymous.

How Eustace had managed to place her in the Dome, Sara didn’t know. We’re everywhere was all he would say. Once she was inside, her contact would find her. An exchange of code words, ordinary remarks of hidden meaning, would establish their identities. She moved up the hill, trying to make herself invisible by keeping her eyes to the ground, though on second thought, should she? Would it seem more natural to look around? Even the air seemed different here—cleaner, but in a way that seemed laden, humming with danger. At the periphery of her downcast vision she detected a heavy presence of HR personnel, moving in twos and threes. Probably they had ramped up security because of the car bombing, but who knew? Maybe it was always like this.

The Dome was ringed by concrete barricades. She showed her pass at the guardhouse and ascended the wide staircase that led to the entrance, a pair of massive doors set in a bronze frame. At the threshold she drew air into her chest. Here goes, she thought.

The doors were flung open, forcing her to dodge to the side. Two redeyes brushed past, the collars of their suits turned up against the cold, leather briefcases swinging from their hands. She thought she had escaped their notice when the one on the left halted on the top step and turned to look at her. “Watch where you’re going, flatlander.”

She was staring at the ground, doing anything to avoid their eyes. Even behind their dark lenses, they had the power to make her insides twist. “Sorry, sir. My mistake.”

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

It felt like a trap. “I meant no offense,” she murmured. “I have a pass.” She held it out.

“I said, look at me.”

Against all instincts, Sara slowly raised her face. For a fraught moment, the redeye considered her from behind the inscrutable shield of his glasses, making no move to accept the pass. The second one’s attentions appeared elsewhere; he was merely indulging his companion with this interruption in their day. There was something distinctly infantile about them, thought Sara. With their soft, unblemished faces and boyishly limber bodies, they were like overgrown children playing dress-up. Everything was a game to them.

“When one of us tells you to do something, you do it.”

The other one puffed his cheeks impatiently. “What the hell is with you today? She’s nobody. Can we please just go?”

“Not until I’m done here.” Then, to Sara: “Have I made myself clear?”

Her blood felt like ice in her veins. It took every ounce of her will not to look away. Those demonic eyes. That curling sneer. “Yes, sir,” she stammered. “Completely.”

“Tell me. What is it that you do?”

“Do?”

A flicker of a smile, like a cat with a mouse in its paws. “Yes, what do you do. What’s your job.”

She offered an obsequious shrug. “I just clean, sir.” When he made no reply, she added, “I’m going to be an attendant.”

The redeye studied her another moment, deciding if this was a satisfactory answer or not. “Well, here’s a little word to the wise, flatlander. You go through those doors, you best watch yourself. It doesn’t take much.”

“I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Now get the f*ck to work.”

Sara waited for the pair to complete their descent before she allowed her body to unclench. Flyers, she thought. For the love of God, get ahold of yourself. You’re about to walk into a building full of these things.

She screwed up her courage and opened the door.

She was instantly overwhelmed by a feeling of expansiveness, her sense of dimension distorted by a vertical vastness of space. She’d never seen anyplace like it: the gleaming marble floor, the tiers of balconies, the massive, curving stairs. The ceiling soared far above. Diminished sunlight descended from the high, curtained windows of the cupola, dimming the interior to a kind of twilight. Everything seemed both loud and quiet at once, the tiniest sounds reverberating before being absorbed by the void. Cols were stationed both around the room’s periphery and at regular intervals on the stairs. A line of workers, ten deep, waited at the processing desk in the middle of the room. She assumed her place behind a man with a bag of tools over his shoulder. The desire to glance past him to see what lay ahead was intense but nothing to indulge. The line crept forward as each pass was stamped. She was fifth in line, then third, then second. The man with the tool bag stepped to the side, revealing the figure seated behind the desk.

It was Vale.

Sara’s heart jolted with adrenaline. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t breathe. It would all be over before it had even begun. Her orders were clear: she couldn’t be taken alive. Nina had spared nothing in describing exactly what the redeyes would do to her. It will be like nothing you’ve ever experienced. You’ll beg them to kill you. You can’t hesitate. What could she use? Should she just run and pray they’d shoot her?

“Are you feeling all right, miss?”

Vale was looking at her expectantly, extending a hand to receive her pass.

“What did you say?”

“Are … you … feeling … all right?”

She felt as if she’d been yanked from the edge of a cliff. She fumbled for the correct response. “I’m just a little nervous.”

If Vale was surprised to see her, his face did not betray it. Vale was simply a better actor than she was. All those years Sara had known him, and she’d never detected a thing.

“The Dome can be a little overwhelming the first time you see it. You must be the new girl, Dani. Is that correct?”

She nodded. Dani, that was her name now. Not Sara.

“Display your tag, please.”

She drew up her sleeve and extended her arm. Eustace, using an insider in the records department, had arranged to have Sara’s number assigned to her new, fictitious identity. Vale made a small show of checking it against his paperwork.

“It seems you’re to report to Deputy Director Wilkes.” He gestured for another col to take his place at the desk. “Come with me.”

Sara didn’t know the name. But a deputy director—he had to be a member of the senior staff. Vale escorted her down a short hallway to an elevator with reflective metal doors. They stood in silence, both looking forward, as they waited for the car.

“Step inside, please.”

Entering behind her, Vale pushed the button for the sixth floor. The car began its upward climb. Still he wasn’t looking at her. She wondered if he was going to say anything. Then, as they passed the fourth floor, he reached toward the panel again and flipped a switch. The car abruptly halted.

“We only have a second,” Vale said. “You’ve been assigned to the woman, Lila. This is better than anything we could have hoped for.”

“Who’s Lila?”

“She’s the one who controls the virals. A major target. She’s under heavy guard and almost never leaves her rooms.”

Sara’s mind raced to encode every word he said. “What am I supposed to do?”

“For now, just watch her. Try to win her trust. You and I won’t have any more direct contact. Any messages will go through the serving girl who brings you your meals. If the spoon on your tray is upside down, there’s a note under your plate. Return any messages the same way, but only do this in an emergency. Got that?”

Sara nodded.

“I always liked you, Sara. I’d like to think I did what I could to protect you. But none of that matters now. If the redeyes figure out who you are, I won’t be able to help you.” He slid his fingers under his waistband and withdrew a small square of metal foil and pressed it into her hand. “Always keep this hidden on your person. There’s a piece of blotter paper inside. It’s soaked in the same compound Nina used to knock you out but at a much higher concentration. Put it under your tongue. It won’t take more than a couple of seconds. Believe me, it’s better than going to the basement.”

Sara slid the envelope into the pocket of her trousers. Death was with her now. She hoped she’d have the nerve if the time came.

Vale’s hand was on the switch. “Ready?”

With a lurch the car resumed its upward course, then decelerated as they approached their destination. Vale, snapping back into character, placed his hand on her arm, gripping her just above the elbow. The doors slid open to reveal a col, heavyset with dark teeth, glaring at them with his hands on his hips.

“What the hell is going on with this elevator?” Then, locating Sara with his eyes: “What’s she doing up here?”

“New attendant. I’m taking her to Wilkes.”

The col examined her up and down. His eyebrows wagged suggestively. “Pity. She’s a nice one.”

Vale led her down a hall lined with heavy wooden doors. Stationed at eye level beside each was a brass plate bearing a name and title, some of which Sara recalled from broadsheets posted in the flatlands: “Aidan Hoppel, Minister of Propaganda,” “Clay Anderson, Minister of Public Works,” “Daryl Chee, Minister of Material Resource Recovery,” “Vikram Suresh, Minister of Public Health.” They came to the final door: “Frederick Wilkes, Chief of Staff and Deputy Director of the Homeland.”

“Come.”

The office’s occupant was bent forward over a stack of papers on his desk, scribbling with a fountain pen. A muted winter light filtered through the draped windows behind him. A moment passed; then he looked up.

“Dani, is it?”

Sara nodded.

The redeye shifted his gaze to Vale. “Wait outside, please.”

The door clicked shut. Wilkes rocked back in his chair. An air of weariness radiated from him. He pulled a sheet of paper from the pile and looked it over.

“The dairy barns. That was where you worked?”

“Yes, Deputy Director.”

“And you have no immediate family.”

“No, Deputy Director.”

Wilkes returned his attention to the page on his desktop. “Well, it seems this is your lucky day. You’re to be Lila’s companion. Does the name mean anything to you?”

Sara meekly shook her head.

“Heard rumors, perhaps? We have no illusions that security isn’t always what it could be. You can tell me if you have.”

With monumental effort, she forced herself to look him in the eye. “No, I haven’t heard anything.”

Wilkes let a moment pass before continuing. “Well. Suffice it to say that Lila is one of a kind. The job is pretty straightforward. Basically, do whatever she asks. You will find she can be—how do I put this? Unpredictable. Some of the things she asks of you will seem odd. Think you’re up to this?”

She returned a crisp nod. “Yes, sir.”

“The one thing you must do is get her to eat. This takes some coaxing. She can be extremely stubborn.”

“You can count on me, Deputy Director.”

He leaned back in his chair again, folding his hands in his lap. “You will find life in the Dome much more comfortable than the flatland. Three square meals a day. Hot water for bathing. Very little will be asked of you other than the duties I’ve described. If you do a good job, there’s no reason you can’t enjoy our largesse for years to come. One last matter. How are you with children?”

“Children, sir?”

“Yes. Do you like them? Get on with them? Personally, I find them rather trying.”

Sara felt a familiar pang. “Yes, Deputy Director. I like them fine.”

She waited for further explanation from Wilkes, but none was evidently forthcoming. He inspected her for another few seconds from across his desk, then picked up the telephone.

“Tell them we’re on the way.”

* * *

Roughly an hour later, Sara found herself garbed in an attendant’s robe, standing at the threshold of a room so sumptuously decorated that its volume of detail was difficult to absorb. Heavy drapes were drawn over the windows; the only sources of light were several large silver candelabras positioned around the room. Gradually the scene came into focus. The sheer volume of furniture and bric-a-brac made it seem less like a place where someone lived than a storage room of miscellaneous objects. A voluminous sofa covered in fat, tasseled pillows, as well as a pair of equally overstuffed chairs, stood to one side, facing a low square table of polished wood, its surface piled with books. More pillows of various colors were scattered on the floor, which was dressed by an ornately patterned rug. The walls were covered with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames—landscapes, pictures of horses and dogs, as well as a great many portraits of women and their children in curious costumes, the images possessing a disturbing half reality. One in particular caught Sara’s attention: a woman in a blue dress and an orange hat, sitting in a garden beside a little girl. She moved toward it to have a closer look. A small plaque at the bottom of the frame read, “Pierre-Auguste Renoir, On the Terrace, 1881.”

“Well, there you are. It’s about time they sent someone.”

Sara pivoted. A woman, arms folded over her chest, was standing in the bedroom doorway. She was both more and less than the image Sara had assembled from the things Vale and Wilkes had said. The person she had envisioned was at the very least a substantial presence, but the figure before her appeared quite frail. She was perhaps as old as sixty. Deep fissures lined her face, cutting borders between its various regions; crescents of drooping skin hung like hammocks beneath her watery eyes. Her lips were so pale they were practically nonexistent, like ghost lips. She was wearing a shimmering robe of some thin, shiny fabric, a thick towel encircling her head like a turban.

“¿Hablas inglés?”

Sara stared dumbly, unable to formulate a reply to this incomprehensible question.

“Do … you … speak … English?”

“Yes,” Sara stated. “I speak English.”

The woman gave a little start. “Oh. So you do. I have to say, that’s a surprise. How many times have I asked the service to send somebody who spoke even a little English? I don’t even want to tell you.” She made a distracted gesture with her hands. “I’m sorry, your name again?”

Never mind that she hadn’t told her to begin with. “It’s Dani.”

“Dani,” the woman repeated. “Where are you from, exactly?”

The most general answer seemed the wisest. “I’m from here.”

“Of course you’re from here. I meant originally. Your tribe. Your people. Your clan.” Another agitated flutter of her hands. “You know. Your familia.”

With each exchange, Sara felt herself being pulled deeper into the quicksand of the woman’s oddness. Yet something about her was almost endearing. She seemed quite helpless, a twittering bird in a cage.

“California, actually.”

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” A pause; then, with a dawning look: “Oh, I see. You’re working your way through school. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Ma’am?”

“Please,” she chirped, “call me Lila. And don’t be so modest. It’s an admirable thing you’re doing. A great show of character. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll be paying you more than the other girls. I made that clear with the service. Fourteen an hour, take it or leave it.”

Fourteen what? Sara wondered. “Fourteen is fine.”

“And, of course, the Social Security. We’ll be paying that, and filing the 1099. David is very particular about these things. He’s what you’d call a rule follower. A big ol’ stick in the mud. No health insurance, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you get that through your school.” She beamed encouragingly. “So, are we good?”

Sara nodded, completely dumbfounded.

“Excellent. I have to say, Dani,” the woman, Lila, continued, gliding into the room, “you’ve come just in the nick of time. Not a moment too soon, in fact.” She had taken a box of matches from her robe and was lighting a large candelabra near her dressing table. “Why don’t you just put that over there?”

She was referring to the tray Wilkes had given her. On it was a metal flask and cup. Sara placed the tray on the table the woman had indicated, adjacent to an ornately carved wardrobe draped with scarves. Lila had positioned herself in front of a standing mirror and was turning her shoulders this way and that, examining her reflection.

“So what do you think?”

“I’m sorry?”

She placed one hand on her stomach and pressed inward as she filled her chest with air. “This awful diet. I don’t think I’ve ever been so famished in my life. But it really does seem to be doing the trick. What would you say, Dani? Another five pounds? You can be honest.”

Standing in profile, the woman was just skin and bones. “You look fine to me,” she said gently. “I wouldn’t lose any more.”

“Really? Because when I look in this mirror what I’m thinking is, who is this blimp? This zeppelin? Oh God, the humanity. That’s what I’m thinking.”

Sara remembered Wilkes’s orders. “I think you’re supposed to eat, actually.”

“So I’m told. Believe me, I’ve heard that before.” She placed her hands on her hips, scrunched up her face, and dropped her voice an octave. “Lila, you’re too skinny. Lila, you’ve got to put some meat on those bones. Lila this, Lila that. Blah, blah, blah.” Then, her eyes widening with sudden panic: “Oh my goodness, what time is it?”

“I guess it’s … about noon?”

“Oh my goodness!” The woman began to dart around the room, snatching up various belongings and putting them down again in a manner that seemed arbitrary. “Don’t just stand there,” she implored, grabbing a pile of books and shoving them into the bookcase.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Just … I don’t know. Anything. Here—” She filled Sara’s hands with pillows. “Put these over there. On the whooziwhatzis.”

“Um, you mean the sofa?”

“Of course I mean the sofa!”

And just like that, a light seemed to switch on in the woman’s face. A wondrous, happy, shining light. She was staring over Sara’s shoulder, toward the door.

“Sweetheart!”

She dropped to a crouch as a young child, a girl in a plain smock, blond ringlets bouncing, dashed past Sara into the woman’s outstretched arms. “My angel! My sweet, sweet girl!”

The child, who was holding a sheet of colored paper, pointed at the woman’s turbaned head. “Did you take a bath, Mummy?”

“Why, yes! You know how Mummy likes her baths. What a clever little girl you are! So, tell me,” she continued, “how were your lessons? Did Jenny read to you?”

“We read Peter Rabbit.”

“Wonderful!” the woman beamed. “Was it funny? Did you like it? I’m sure I’ve told you how much I adored him when I was your age.” She turned her attention to the paper. “And what do we have here?”

The little girl held it up. “It’s a picture.”

“Is that me? Is it a picture of the two of us?”

“They’re birds. That one is named Martha, the other one is Bill. They’re building a nest.”

A flicker of disappointment; then she smiled again. “Why, of course they are. Anyone could see that. It’s as plain as the nose on your pretty little face.”

And on and on. Sara barely ingested any of it. An intense new sensation had come over her, a feeling of biological alarm. Something deep and atavistic, tidal in its weight and movement, accompanied by a focusing of her senses on the back of the little girl’s blond head. Those curls. The precise and singular dimensions that the little girl’s body occupied in space. Sara already knew without knowing, a fact she also knew, the paradox building a kind of hallway inside her, like images reflected infinitely in two opposing mirrors.

“But how awful of me,” the woman, Lila, was saying, her voice at some impossible remove from reality, a transmission from a distant planet. “I’ve totally forgotten my manners. Eva, I need to introduce you to someone. This is our new friend …” She paused, drawing a blank.

“Dani,” Sara managed.

“Our wonderful new friend Dani. Eva, say how do you do.”

The child turned. Time collapsed as Sara beheld her face. A unique amalgamation of form and features that was the only one in all the universe. There was no doubt in Sara’s mind.

The little girl sent her a shining, closed-lip smile. “How do you do, Dani?”

Sara was looking at her daughter.


But in the next second something changed. A shadow fell, a dark presence descending. It jolted Sara back to the world.

“Lila.”

Sara turned. He was standing behind her. His face was a man’s, ordinary, forgettable, one of thousands like it, but from it radiated an invisible force of menace as incontrovertible as gravity. To behold him was to feel oneself plunging.

He looked Sara contemptuously in the eye, piercing her utterly. “Do you know who I am?”

Sara swallowed. Her throat was as tight as a reed. For the first time, her mind darted to the foil package secreted in the deep folds of her robe; it would not be the last.

“Yes, sir. You’re Director Guilder.”

His mouth curled downward with distaste. “Put down your veil, for God’s sake. Just the sight of you makes me sick.”

With trembling fingers, she did so. Now the shadow became a shadow literally, his features mercifully blurred behind the blush of fabric, as if in mist. Guilder strode past her, to where Lila still crouched with Sara’s daughter. If his presence meant anything to the little girl, Sara couldn’t see it, but Lila was a different story. Every part of her tightened. Clutching the child in front of her like a shield, she rose to her feet.

“David—”

“Just stop it.” His eyes flicked disagreeably over her. “You look like hell, you know that?” Then, turning to face Sara once more: “Where is it?”

He was, she understood, speaking of the tray. Sara pointed.

“Bring it here.”

Her hands, somehow, managed this.

“Get rid of them,” Guilder said to Lila.

“Eva, sweetie, why doesn’t Dani take you outside?” She looked quickly at Sara, her eyes beseeching. “It’s such a beautiful day. A little fresh air, what do you say?”

“I want you to take me,” the girl protested. “You never go outside.”

Lila’s voice was like a song she was being made to sing. “I know, sweetheart, but you know how sensitive Mummy is to the sun. And Mummy has to take her medicine now. You know how Mummy gets when she takes her medicine.”

Reluctantly, the child complied. Breaking away from Lila, she moved to where Sara was standing beside the door.

With excruciating miraculousness, she took Sara by the hand.

Flesh meeting flesh. The unbearable corporeal smallness of it, its discrete power, its infusion of memory. All of Sara’s senses molded around the exquisite sensation of her child’s tiny hand in her own. It was the first time their bodies had touched since one was inside the other, though now it was the opposite: Sara was the one inside.

“Run along, you two,” Lila croaked. She gave a wave of absolute misery toward the door. “Have fun.”

Without a word, Kate—Eva—led Sara from the room. Sara was floating; she weighed a million pounds. Eva, she thought. I have to remember to call her Eva. A short hallway and then a flight of stairs: a pair of doors at the bottom pushed into a small, fenced yard with a teeter-totter and a rusted swing set. The sky looked down with a solemn, snow-filled light.

“Come on,” the child said. And broke away.

She climbed aboard a swing. Sara took her place behind her.

“Push me.”

Sara drew back the chains, suddenly nervous. How much was safe? This precious and beloved being. This holy, miraculous, human person. Surely three feet was more than enough. She released the chains, and the girl arced away, vigorously pumping her legs.

“Higher,” she commanded.

“Are you sure?”

“Higher, higher!”

Each sensation a piercing. Each a painless engraving in the heart. Sara caught her daughter at the small of her back and thrust her away. Up and out she rose, into the December air. With each arc her hair volleyed backward, suffusing the air behind her with the sweet scent of her person. The girl swung silently; her happiness was bound into a pure occupation of the act itself. A little girl, swinging in winter.

My darling Kate, thought Sara. My baby, my one. She pushed, and pushed again; the girl flew away, always returning to her hands. I knew, I knew, I always knew. You are the ember of life I blew on, a thousand lonely nights. Never could I let you die.