“Didn’t your mom tell you?” Wally says. “It’s a big meeting and everyone gets to listen this time, even kids. So shut up.”
“Okay,” the speaker says, and the kids look up. “I think we’ve got it fixed, so if I can ask everyone to pause their day for a moment, put the hammers down, give your babies their binkies, and listen.”
Marie gazes into the black grill of the speaker. She sees the vibrations of the paper cone pulsing like a heartbeat. She reminisces one last time, and she lets go. The gauzy pink light of her prehistory falls away and she is here on Earth, bare toes in the dirt, listening.
I
“YOU’VE ALL SEEN the helicopters,” Rosso says into the microphone while Bob the sound guy munches a sandwich in the back of the room. “And some of you saw the convoy of trucks early this morning. These vehicles aren’t ours and they don’t appear to be Goldman’s.”
“Who the fuck else is there?” says a voice in the crowd, loud to begin with and made louder by the mics hanging from the ceiling.
Rosso adjusts his glasses, locating the speaker. “Mr. Balt. A valid question, although I’ll remind you that we’re broadcasting to the whole stadium here, so let’s keep the language civil.”
“Sorry kids,” the man says, speaking directly to the ceiling mics. “Uncle Tim fucked up.”
Wavy blond hair. Tan, tattooed arms bulging from a black tank top. A prominent, stubbly jaw supporting a smug grin. I remember this man. I smashed his head into a wall once. It seems I didn’t kill him, which is . . . good, I guess.
“To answer your question,” Rosso says with great restraint, “we don’t know who else there is. We don’t know much of anything. General Grigio wasn’t . . . he didn’t prioritize outreach.” His tone briefly slips out of professionalism as he recalls his former friend. “We haven’t sent scouts outside Cascadia in seven years. Travelers are rare and their reports are unreliable. Even the Almanac seems to have gone out of print.”
“This is bullshit,” Balt says, folding his arms so the gun tattoos on his biceps bulge. “We need to know who’s out there. We need to know our enemies!”
“Because everyone out there is our enemy,” Julie mutters under her breath. She and Nora and I are against the wall, slightly removed from the crowd. The women aren’t official representatives, but they’re considered “special consultants” due to their intimate acquaintance with the undead threat: the Morgue, in Nora’s case, and in Julie’s case . . . me.
And me? Why am I in this room? I have no title, I have no job, and the percentage of people who think I should be shot hovers right around fifty. But Rosso insists he sees something in my eyes, even now that they’re dirt brown. Rosso says I have important work to do. I wish he could be more specific.
“Well Mr. Balt,” he says, “if you’ve managed to locate and disable the BABL generator, I’ll be happy to send out a national broadcast asking our enemies to identify themselves. Until then, we’re living in a narrow spotlight on a dark stage.”
Balt glowers but says nothing.
“What did Goldman say?” Julie asks. “They didn’t know anything either?”
Rosso hesitates. “We’ve been trying to ask them.” Another pause, perhaps suddenly reconsidering his decision to make this meeting public. “The line to Goldman headquarters seems to be disconnected.”
A wave of fearful murmuring rushes through the room and I can almost hear it spreading through the streets outside.
“So that’s it, then!” Balt says, jumping to his feet. “They invaded Goldman. It’s a fuckin’ war!”
“For those of you listening outside,” Rosso sighs into the mic, “Mr. Balt is visibly tumescent.”
“Visibly what?”
“Sit down, Tim. It may be an invasion, it may not. Scouts are on their way to the dome as we speak.”
Balt looks at Kenerly for confirmation and Kenerly nods. Balt sits down with exaggerated slowness, adjusting his gray fatigues.
“Could it be the Fire Church?” a man in the crowd asks.
“Invasions aren’t in their liturgy,” Rosso says. “They’re out to raze cities, not rule them.”
“What about the old corporate militias?” an elderly woman asks.
“All the big ones destroyed each other in the Merger War. The survivors choked in the Borough Conflicts. There are no nation-scale forces left in America, as far as we know.” He clears his throat. “But like I said . . . we don’t know very far.”
The room falls into silence as everyone looks around, hoping someone else has the question or answer that will ease the tension. A few rows back, Ella stands up. “Suppose it is an invasion. Suppose they’ve conquered Goldman and they’re coming for us next. Whoever they are, any group that has a fleet of helicopters probably is nation-scale, and now they have Goldman’s resources too. So if they want this stadium . . . do we really want to fight them for it?”