“You should be the one to ride him,” Alicia said. She was also holding out the sword.
Amy considered this. “All right,” she said.
She angled the sword over her shoulders and swung up onto Soldier’s back. Alicia mounted the second horse, a dark bay stallion, quite young but with a fierce look to him. It was late afternoon, the sun harsh and white.
They rode away.
The dream of the farmstead was different. Peter was lying in bed. The room was full of moonlight, making the walls seem to glow. The sheets were cold; it was this coldness that had aroused him. He had a sense of having slept a long time.
Amy’s side of the bed was empty.
He called her name. His voice sounded weak in the darkness, barely a presence. He rose and went to the window. Amy was standing in the yard, facing away from the house. Her posture meant something; panic surged in his heart. She began to walk—away from the house, away from him and the life they had known, her figure silhouetted by the moonlight, growing smaller. Peter could neither move nor cry out. He felt as if his soul were being wrenched from his body. Don’t leave me, Amy …
He awoke with a start; his heart was pounding, his body glazed with sweat. Apgar’s face swam into focus.
“Mr. President, something has happened.”
He didn’t have to say the rest. Peter knew at once. Amy was gone.
IX
The Trap
Blood ran in torrents, drenched was all the earth,
As Trojans and their alien helpers died.
Here were men lying quelled by bitter death
All up and down the city in their blood.
—QUINTUS SMYRNAEUS, THE FALL OF TROY
69
The saws had silenced; the steel had been cut. On the ship’s starboard flank, a gaping hole revealed the hidden decks and passageways within. The sun was receding, sparkling over the channel’s waters; the spotlights had been lit.
Rand was operating the crane. From the floor of the dock, Michael watched the first plate descending in its cradle. Voices volleyed through the dock, more from up on deck, where Lore commanded.
The required height was achieved. Men scurried over the surface, hammers and pneumatic guns swaying from their belts; others guided the plate from inside. With a clang, the huge steel sheet made contact. Michael ascended the stairs and crossed the gangway to the deck.
“So far so good,” Lore said.
They were, improbably, on schedule. The passing hours were like a funnel, drawing them down to a single moment. Every decision was binding; there would be no second chances.
Lore went to the rail and yelled down a barrage of orders, trying to make her voice heard over the roar of the generators and the whine of the guns; Michael moved beside her. The first plate lay flush against the side. They had six more to go.
“Want to know how they did it?”
Lore looked at him strangely.
“How the passengers killed themselves.”
He had not meant to raise the subject. It seemed to have arisen of its own accord, one more secret he wanted to be rid of.
“Okay.”
“They’d saved some fuel. Not much but enough. The sealed the doors and rerouted the engine’s exhaust back into the ship’s ventilation. It would have been like falling asleep.”
Lore’s face showed no expression. Then, with a small nod: “I’m glad you said something.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t apologize.”
He realized why he had told her. If it came to that, they could do the same thing.
70
The light was leaving them.
Runners had begun to move; from the command post on the catwalk, Peter felt, with cold clarity, the thinness of their defense. A six-mile perimeter, men without training, an enemy like no other, lacking all fear.
Though Apgar said nothing on the subject, Peter could read the man’s thoughts. Maybe Amy had gone with Alicia to give herself up; maybe the dracs wouldn’t come, after all. Maybe they would anyway; maybe that was the point. He remembered his dream: the image of Amy in the moonlight, walking away, not looking back. All that kept him going was the certainty of what lay ahead in the next few hours. He had a role to play, and he would play it.
Chase arrived on the platform. Peter almost didn’t recognize his chief of staff. The man was dressed in an officer’s uniform, though the insignia had been removed, cut away roughly as if in a hurry, perhaps out of respect; he was toting a rifle, trying to seem a certain way with it. The gun looked like it had been hanging over a fireplace for years. Peter was about to say something, then stopped himself. Apgar raised a skeptical eyebrow, but that was the extent of it.
“Where’s Olivia?” Peter asked finally.
“In the president’s hardbox.” Chase seemed uncertain. “I hope that’s all right.”
The three men listened as the stations called in. All stood ready, braced for attack. The shadows lengthened over the valley. It was a beautiful evening in summer, the clouds ripening with color.
71