The City of Mirrors
Page 183

—
A froth of bobbles appeared. Rand passed Michael a three-foot length of pipe and a tub of grease. Michael wrenched the old pipe free, greased the threads of its replacement, and fitted it into place. Rand had returned to the panel.
“Switch it over!” Michael yelled.
The lights flickered; the mixers began to spin. Pressure flowed into the lines.
“Here we go!” Rand cried.
Michael wriggled free. Rand tossed him the radio.
“Lore—”
Everything died again.
—
She had failed; her army was gone, scattered to dust. With all her heart Amy wanted to be on that ship, to depart this place and never come back. But she could never leave, not on this boat or any other. She would stand on the dock as it sailed away.
How I wanted to have that life with you, Peter, she thought. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
The truck was racing east, Caleb at the wheel, Peter, Amy, and Greer in the cargo bed. Ahead the lights of the dock loomed; behind them, across the widening distance, Amy saw the burning tanker pivoting. The first virals appeared through the breach. Their bodies were burning. They staggered forward, man-sized wicks of flame. The gap continued to widen, opening like a door.
Amy turned to the window of the cab. “Caleb—”
He was looking through the mirror. “I see them!”
Caleb floored it; the truck shot forward, sending Amy tumbling. Her head impacted the metal floor with a clang and a burst of disorienting pain. Lying on her back, her face to the sky, Amy saw the stars. Stars by the hundreds, the thousands, and one of them was falling. It grew and grew, and she knew what this star was.
“Anthony.”
—
Carter’s aim was true; as the truck zoomed past, he landed behind it on the causeway, rolled, and came up on his feet. The virals were careening toward him. He drew himself erect.
Brothers, sisters.
He sensed their confusion. Who was this strange being who had dropped into their path?
I am Carter, Twelfth of Twelve. Kill me if you can.
—
“What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know!”
The radio squawked: Lore. “Michael, we have got to go right now.”
Rand was madly checking gauges. “It’s not the charger—it has to be electrical.”
Michael stood before the panel in utter desolation. It was hopeless; he was beaten. His ship, his Bergensfjord, had denied him. His paralysis became anger; his anger turned to rage. He slammed a fist against the metal. “You bitch!” He reared back, struck again. “You heartless bitch! You do this to me?” With tears of frustration brimming, he grabbed a wrench from the deck and began to slam it against the metal, again and again. “I’ve…given…you…everything!”
A sudden rumble, like the roar of a great caged beast. Lights came on; all the gauges leapt.
“Michael,” said Rand, “what the hell did you do?”
“That’s got it!” Lore cried.
The sound increased in intensity, humming through the ship’s plating. Rand yelled over the din: “Pressure’s holding! Two thousand rpm! Four! Five! Six thousand!”
Michael snatched the radio from the floor. “Engage the screws!”
A groan. A shudder, deep in the bones.
The Bergensfjord began to move.
—
They skidded into the loading area. Amy leapt from the back of the truck before it stopped moving.
“Amy, stop!”
But the woman was already gone, racing toward the causeway. “Caleb, take Lucius and get on that boat.”
Standing by the cargo bed, his son seemed stunned.
“Do it!” Peter ordered. “Don’t wait!”
He took off after her. With every step he willed himself to go faster. His breath was heaving in his chest, the ground flying beneath him. The gap between them began to narrow. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten. A final burst of speed and he grabbed her around the waist, sending both of them rolling on the ground.
“Let me go!” Amy was on her knees, fighting to break free.
“We have to leave right now.”
There were tears in her voice. “They’ll kill him!”
Carter coiled. He flexed his fingers, claws glinting. He flexed his toes, feeling the taut wires of ligaments. Blueing moonlight doused him like a benediction.
Reaching one hand forward, Amy released a wail of pain. “Anthony!”
He charged.
—
They had to clear eight hundred feet.
At the rear of the vessel, a wall of foam churned up. Shouts rose from the dock: “They’re leaving without us!” The last of the passengers rushed forward, shoving themselves onto the ramp, which had begun to scrape along the pier as the Bergensfjord pulled away.
Standing at the rail, Pim watched the scene unfold in silence. The bottom lip of the gangway was inching toward the edge; soon it would fall. Where was her husband? Then she saw him. Supporting Lucius, he was racing at a quickstep down the pier. She began to sign emphatically to any who might see: That’s my husband! And: Stop this ship! But, of course, no one could make sense of her.
The gangway was clotted with people. Crammed between the guardrails, they squeezed forward onto the deck of the ship only one or two at a time, ejected from the squirming mass. Pim began to moan. She was not aware that she was doing this at first. The sound had emerged of its own volition, an expression of violent feeling that could not be contained—just as, twenty-one years ago, in Sara’s arms, she had wailed with such ferocity that she might have been mistaken for a dying animal. As the volume increased, the sound began to form a distinctive shape altogether new in the life of Pim Jaxon: she was about to make words.