The City of Mirrors
Page 162
She was crying, just a little: small, jeweled tears that hung suspended on the tips of her lashes, like drops of dew upon leaves. “Peter, will you do something for me?”
He nodded.
“Please kiss me.”
He did. He did not so much kiss her as fall into the world of her. Time slowed, stopped, moved in an unhurried circle around them, like waves around a pier. He felt at peace. His senses were soaring. His mind was in two places, this world and also the other: the world of the farmstead, a place beyond space, beyond time, where only the two of them resided.
They parted. Their faces were inches apart. Amy cupped his cheek, her eyes locked on his.
“I’m sorry, Peter.”
The remark was strange. Her gaze deepened.
“I know what you’re planning to do,” she said. “You wouldn’t survive it.”
Something came undone inside him. All strength drained from his body. He tried to speak but couldn’t.
“You’re tired,” Amy said.
She caught him as he fell.
—
Amy laid him on the bed. In the outer room, she pulled her frock over her head and replaced it with the clothing that Greer had fetched for her: heavy canvas pants with pockets, leather boots, a tan shirt, the sleeves torn away, with the insignia of the Expeditionary on the shoulders. They possessed a warm, human odor—a smell of work, of life. Whoever had owned these articles was small; the fit was nearly perfect. On the back porch the soldiers slept soundly, like babies, hands tucked under their cheeks, lost to all cares. Amy gently relieved one of his pistol and tucked it into her trousers, against her spine.
A deep quiet held the street, everyone in hiding, bracing for the storm. As Amy made her way toward the center of town, soldiers began to take notice, yet none spoke to her; their minds were elsewhere, what did one woman matter? The exterior of the stockade was unguarded. Amy strode purposefully to the door and stepped inside.
She counted three men. Behind the counter, the officer in charge glanced up.
“Help you, soldier?”
—
The sound of tumblers: Alicia raised her eyes. Amy?
“Hello, sister.”
Alicia looked past her but saw no one; Amy was alone.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Amy was unlocking the shackles. She handed Alicia her goggles. “I’ll explain on the way.”
In the outer room, the guards lay asleep on the floor. Following Greer’s directions, Amy and Alicia made their way via backstreets and trash-strewn alleys into H-town. Soon the southern wall rose into view. Amy entered a small house, little more than a hut. There was no furniture at all. In the main room, she drew a threadbare rug aside to reveal a hatch with a ladder. One of the trade’s stash houses, Amy explained, though Alicia had already figured that out. They descended into a cool, damp space that smelled of rotten fruit.
“There,” Amy said, pointing.
The shelves, stocked with liquor, pulled away to reveal a tunnel. At the far end they came to another ladder and, ten feet up, a metal hatch set into concrete. Amy turned the ring and pushed.
They were outside the city, a hundred yards outside the wall in a copse of trees. Soldier and a second horse were tied up, obliviously grazing. As Alicia climbed free of the hatch, Soldier raised his head: Ah. There you are. I was beginning to wonder.
Her sword and bandoliers were hanging from the saddle. Alicia strapped on her blades while Amy covered the hatch with brush.
“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.
* * *
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.
He nodded.
“Please kiss me.”
He did. He did not so much kiss her as fall into the world of her. Time slowed, stopped, moved in an unhurried circle around them, like waves around a pier. He felt at peace. His senses were soaring. His mind was in two places, this world and also the other: the world of the farmstead, a place beyond space, beyond time, where only the two of them resided.
They parted. Their faces were inches apart. Amy cupped his cheek, her eyes locked on his.
“I’m sorry, Peter.”
The remark was strange. Her gaze deepened.
“I know what you’re planning to do,” she said. “You wouldn’t survive it.”
Something came undone inside him. All strength drained from his body. He tried to speak but couldn’t.
“You’re tired,” Amy said.
She caught him as he fell.
—
Amy laid him on the bed. In the outer room, she pulled her frock over her head and replaced it with the clothing that Greer had fetched for her: heavy canvas pants with pockets, leather boots, a tan shirt, the sleeves torn away, with the insignia of the Expeditionary on the shoulders. They possessed a warm, human odor—a smell of work, of life. Whoever had owned these articles was small; the fit was nearly perfect. On the back porch the soldiers slept soundly, like babies, hands tucked under their cheeks, lost to all cares. Amy gently relieved one of his pistol and tucked it into her trousers, against her spine.
A deep quiet held the street, everyone in hiding, bracing for the storm. As Amy made her way toward the center of town, soldiers began to take notice, yet none spoke to her; their minds were elsewhere, what did one woman matter? The exterior of the stockade was unguarded. Amy strode purposefully to the door and stepped inside.
She counted three men. Behind the counter, the officer in charge glanced up.
“Help you, soldier?”
—
The sound of tumblers: Alicia raised her eyes. Amy?
“Hello, sister.”
Alicia looked past her but saw no one; Amy was alone.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Amy was unlocking the shackles. She handed Alicia her goggles. “I’ll explain on the way.”
In the outer room, the guards lay asleep on the floor. Following Greer’s directions, Amy and Alicia made their way via backstreets and trash-strewn alleys into H-town. Soon the southern wall rose into view. Amy entered a small house, little more than a hut. There was no furniture at all. In the main room, she drew a threadbare rug aside to reveal a hatch with a ladder. One of the trade’s stash houses, Amy explained, though Alicia had already figured that out. They descended into a cool, damp space that smelled of rotten fruit.
“There,” Amy said, pointing.
The shelves, stocked with liquor, pulled away to reveal a tunnel. At the far end they came to another ladder and, ten feet up, a metal hatch set into concrete. Amy turned the ring and pushed.
They were outside the city, a hundred yards outside the wall in a copse of trees. Soldier and a second horse were tied up, obliviously grazing. As Alicia climbed free of the hatch, Soldier raised his head: Ah. There you are. I was beginning to wonder.
Her sword and bandoliers were hanging from the saddle. Alicia strapped on her blades while Amy covered the hatch with brush.
“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.
* * *
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.
