The City of Mirrors
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“Greer.”
He was dead to the world. In a different one, a voice was calling his name.
“Lucius, wake up.”
He jerked to consciousness. He was sitting in the cab of the tanker. Patch was standing on the running board by the open door. Through the windshield, a foggy dawn.
“What time is it?” His mouth was dry.
“Oh-six-thirty.”
“You should have woken me up.”
“What do you think I just did?”
Patch shrugged in his wiry way. “Nothing major. Just before sunrise, we saw a small pod working its way down the shore.”
“Where?”
“Base of the channel bridge.”
Greer frowned. “And this didn’t strike you as important?”
“They never came all that close. It didn’t seem worth the trouble to wake you.”
Greer got in his truck and drove down the isthmus. Lore was standing on the dock, hands perched on her hips, studying the hull. The repair was nearing completion.
“How long till we fill?” he asked.
“Three, maybe four hours.” She raised her voice. “Rand! Watch that chain!”
“Where is he?” Greer asked.
He found Michael sitting at the shortwave.
“Kerrville, come back, please. This is Isthmus station.” A momentary pause and he repeated the call.
“Anything?” Greer asked.
Michael shook his head. His expression was blank, his mind far away in worry.
“I have some other news. A viral pod was sighted near the bridge a while ago.”
Michael turned sharply. “Did they approach?”
“Patch says no.”
Michael sat back. He rubbed his face with a heavy hand. “So they know we’re here.”
“It would seem so.”
The bolts were still too hot to touch. Peter was standing on the platform just below the hatch. His mind had cleared, but his headache felt like an ice pick buried in the back of his skull.
“It’s got to be light out,” Sara said. “What should we do?”
Caleb and Hollis were there as well. Peter scanned their faces; both wore the same expression: of weariness and defeat, the power of decision beyond them. None had slept a wink.
“Wait, I guess.”
An hour or so passed. Peter was dozing on the platform when he heard knocking on the hatch. He reached up to touch the surface; the metal had cooled somewhat. He removed his jersey and wrapped it around his hands; beside him, Caleb did the same. They each took a lever and turned. Cracks of daylight appeared at the edges and, with them, a strong smell of smoke. Water dripped through. They pushed the hatch open the rest of the way.
Chase was standing over them, holding a bucket. His face was black with soot. Peter climbed the ladder, the others following. They emerged into a scene of ruin. The orphanage was gone, reduced to a smoldering wreckage of ashes and collapsed beams. The heat was still intense. Behind Peter’s chief of staff stood a group of seven: three soldiers of diverse ranks and four civilians, including a teenage girl and a man who had to be at least seventy. All were holding buckets, their clothes sodden, arms and faces black as coal. They had wetted down a path through the ashes, clearing a way out of the destruction. The fire had leapt to several adjacent buildings, which were burning to various degrees.
“It’s good to see you, Mr. President.”
—
As with everyone who had survived the night, Chase’s survival was a story of luck and timing. When the catwalk had begun to fail, he had just stepped away from the command deck in search of more ammunition. This placed him near the stairs on the west side of the gate. He had made it to the bottom just in time to see the whole thing come crashing to the ground. Two soldiers had recognized him; they’d hustled him into a truck to get him to the president’s hardbox, but they hadn’t made it very far before they were attacked, the driver yanked through the windshield. As the vehicle rolled, Chase was thrown clear. His rifle empty and the hardbox far out of reach, he had run for the closest building, a small wood-framed house that the tax office used for storage. Among the boxes of meaningless paperwork, he was joined over the next two hours by the seven survivors with whom he now stood. For the rest of the night they had remained there, trying not to attract attention to themselves, waiting for an end that never came.