The City of Mirrors
Page 189

Peter could see that his words had stung. Alicia glanced away, then back, her eyes narrowed with warning. “You realize that he knows we’re coming. I seriously doubt any of this has escaped his attention. Waltzing into the station plays straight into his hands.”
“That’s the idea.”
“And if this doesn’t work?”
“Then we all die and Fanning wins. I’m willing to hear a better idea. You’re the expert on the man. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll listen.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know it’s not.”
A brief silence passed. Alicia sighed in surrender. “Fine, I can’t. You win.”
Peter looked toward Amy. After two weeks at sea, her hair had grown out somewhat, softening her features while also making them seem clearer somehow, sturdier and more defined. “I think it all depends on what Fanning wants,” she said.
“From you, you mean.”
“Maybe he just intends to kill me, and if so, there’s not a lot to stop him. But he’s gone to a lot of trouble to get me here if that’s all he has in mind.”
“What do you think he wants?”
The light was nearly gone; from the shore, the long shushing of waves.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I agree with Lish, though. The man has something to prove. Beyond that…” She trailed off, then continued: “The important thing is to make sure he’s in that station. Get him there and keep him there. We shouldn’t wait for Michael. We need to be there when the water hits. That’s our moment.”
“So you agree with the plan.”
She nodded. “Yes. I think it’s our best chance.”
“Let’s look at that drawing.”
Alicia had sketched a simple map: streets and buildings, but also what lay beneath them and points of access. To this she added verbal descriptions: how things looked and felt, certain landmarks, places where their passage would be obstructed by forest growth or collapsed structures, the sea’s margins where it lapped over the southern tier of the island.
“Tell me about the streets around the station,” Peter said. “How much shade is there for the virals to move in?”
Alicia thought for a moment. “Well, a lot. Midday you’d get more sun, but the buildings are all very tall. I’m talking sixty, seventy stories. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen in your life, and it can get pretty dark at street level any time of day.” She drew their attention to the drawing again. “I’d say your best bet would be here, at the station’s west exit.”
“Why there?”
“Two blocks west, there’s a construction site. The building’s fifty-two stories tall, not huge by the standards of what’s around it, but the top thirty stories are only framed in. There’s good sun around the base, even late in the day. You can see it from the station—there’s an external elevator and a crane up the side of the building. I used to spend a lot of time up there.”
“On the crane, you mean?”
Alicia shrugged. “Yeah, well. It was kind of a thing with me.”
She offered no more explanation; Peter decided not to press. He pointed to another spot on the map, a block east of the station. “What’s this?”
“The Chrysler Building. It’s the tallest thing around there, almost eighty stories. The top is made of this kind of shiny metal, like a crown. It’s highly reflective. Depending on where the sun is, it can throw a lot of light.”
The day was over; the temperature had dropped, drawing dew from the air. As a silence settled, Peter realized they had come to the end of the conversation. In a little under eight hours they would raise the sails, the Nautilus would make the final leg to Manhattan, and whatever was bound to happen there would happen. It was unlikely that all of them would survive, or even that any of them would.
“I’ll take the watch,” said Michael.
Peter looked at him. “We seem well protected here. Is that necessary?”
“The bottom’s pretty sandy. The last thing we need is a dragging anchor right now.”
“I’ll stay, too,” Lish said.
Michael smiled. “Can’t say I’d mind the company.” Then, to Peter: “It’s fine, I’ve done it a million times. Go sleep. You two are going to need it.”
—
Night spread her hands over the sea.
All was still: only the sounds of the ocean, deep and calm, and the lap of waves against the hull. Peter and Amy lay curled together on the cabin’s only bunk, her head resting on his chest. The night was warm, but belowdecks the air felt cool, almost cold, chilled by the water encircling the bulkhead.
“Tell me about the farmstead,” Amy said.
Peter needed a moment to gather his answer; lulled by the boat’s motion and the feeling of closeness, he had, in fact, been skating on the edge of sleep.
“I’m not sure how to describe it. They weren’t like ordinary dreams—they were far more real than that. Like every night I went someplace else, another life.”
“Like…a different world. Real, but not the same.”
He nodded, then said, “I didn’t always remember them, not in detail. It was mostly the feeling that lasted. But some things. The house, the river. Ordinary days. The music you played. Such beautiful songs. I could have listened to them forever. They seemed so full of life.” He stopped, then said, “Was it the same for you?”