The City of Mirrors (34 page)

Hope springs eternal, does it not?

“The thing is, it has to be a child.” He was silent for a moment. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. They just brought her in. I don’t even want to know what they did to get her here. Jesus, Tim, she’s just a little kid.”

A child, I thought. Here was an intriguing wrinkle; no wonder Jonas despised himself. I delighted in his misery. I had learned how low a man could sink; why shouldn’t he?

“They’re calling her Amy NLN. No last name. They got her from some from orphanage. God almighty, she doesn’t even have a proper name. She’s just some girl from nowhere.”

I felt my heart go out to this unlucky child, plucked from her life to become the last pitiable hope of a crazy man. Yet even as I considered this, a new thought was bearing fruit inside me. A little girl, bathed in the innocence of youth: of course. The symmetry was undeniable; it was a message, meant for me. To face her, that would be the test. I heard the rumble of distant armies joining. This girl from nowhere. This Amy NLN. Who was alpha, who omega? Who the beginning and who the end?

“Did you love her, Tim? You can tell me.”

Yes, I thought. Yes and yes and yes. She was the only thing that ever mattered. I loved her more than any man could. I loved her enough to watch her die.

“The police came to me, you see. They knew the two of you were supposed to be on the same plane. You know what’s funny? I was actually happy for her. She deserved someone who could love her the way she needed. The way I never could. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m glad it was you.”

Was it possible? Had my eyes—the eyes of a beast, a demon—begun to shed tears?

“Well.” Jonas cleared his throat. “I guess that’s what I came to say. I’m sorry about all this, Tim. I hope you know that. You were the best friend I ever had.”

Now it is dark. Stars soar above the vacant city, heaven’s diadem. A century since the last person walked here, and still one cannot travel its streets, as I do, without seeing one’s face reflected a thousand-fold. Shop windows. Bodegas and brownstones. The mirrored flanks of skyscrapers, great vertical tombs of glass. I look, and what do I see? Man? Monster? Devil? A freak of cold nature or heaven’s cruel utensil? The first is intolerable to think, the second no less so. Who is the monster now?

I walk. Listen closely, and one still hears the footfalls of a throng, engraved in stone. At the center has grown a forest. A forest in New York! A great green eruption, alive with animal sounds and smells. There are rats everywhere, of course. They grow to fantastic dimensions. Once I saw one that I thought might be a dog, or a wild pig, or something brand-new to the world. The pigeons wheel, the rain falls, the seasons turn without us; in winter, all is dressed with snow.

City of memories, city of mirrors. Am I alone? Yes and no. I am a man of many descendants. They lie hidden away. Some are here, those who once called this island home; they slumber beneath the streets of the forgotten metropolis. Others lie elsewhere, my ambassadors, awaiting final use. In slumber they become themselves again; in dreams, they relive their human lives. Which world is the real one? Only when they’re aroused does the hunger obliterate them, taking them over, their souls spilling into mine, and so I leave them as they are. It is the only mercy I can offer.

Oh, my brothers, Twelve in sum, you were sorely used by this world! I spoke to you like the god you thought I was, though in the end I could not save you. I would not say I failed to see this coming. From the start, your fates were written; you could not help being what you were, which was the truth of us. Consider the species known as man. We lie, we cheat, we want what others have and take it; we make war upon each other and the earth; we harvest lives in multitudes. We have mortgaged the planet and spent the cash on trifles. We may have loved, but never well enough. We never truly knew ourselves. We forgot the world; now it has forgotten us. How many years will pass before jealous nature reclaims this place? Before it is as if we never existed at all? Buildings will crumble. Skyscrapers will come crashing to the ground. Trees will sprout and spread their canopies. The oceans will rise, rinsing the rest away. It is said that one day all will be water again; a vast ocean will blanket the world.
In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
How will God, if there is a God, remember us? Will he even know our names? All stories end when they have returned to their beginnings. What can we do but remember in his stead?

I go abroad, into the streets of the empty city, always returning. I take my place upon the steps, beneath the inverted heavens. I watch the clock; its mournful faces stay the same. Time frozen at the moment of man’s departure, the last train exiting the station.

III

The Son

Texas Republic

Pop. 204,876

March 122
A.V
.

Twenty-one years after the discovery of the Bergensfjord

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts.

—SHAKESPEARE,
AS
YOU
LIKE
IT

Map of Texas Settlements

Presented at the Third Global Conference on the North American Quarantine Period

Center for the Study of Human Cultures and Conflicts

University of New South Wales, Indo-Australian Republic

April 16–21, 1003
A.V.

<~?~[ART 001 TK, including townships and telegraph lines>

24

Peter Jaxon, age fifty-one, president of the Texas Republic, stood at the Kerrville gate in the pale dawn light, waiting to say goodbye to his son.

Sara and Hollis had just arrived; Kate was working at the hospital but had promised that her husband, Bill, would bring the girls. Caleb was loading the last of their gear into the wagon while Pim, in a loose cotton dress, stood nearby, holding baby Theo. Two strong horses, fit for plowing, idled in their harnesses.

“I guess that’s it,” Caleb said, as he finished lashing the final crate. He was wearing a long-sleeved work shirt and overalls; he’d let his hair grow long. He checked the load on his rifle, a lever-action .30-06, and put it up on the seat. “We really should get moving if we’re going to make Hunt by dark.”

They were headed to one of the outer settlements, a two-day ride on the buckboard. The land had only just been incorporated, though people had been homesteading there for years. Caleb had spent most of two years preparing the place—framing the house, digging the well, laying out fences—before returning for Pim and the baby. Good soil, the clear water of the river, woods heavy with game: there were worse places, Peter thought, to start a life.

“You can’t go yet,” Sara said. “The girls will be heartbroken if you leave without seeing them.”

Sara had, simultaneously, signed these words for Pim, who now turned to her husband with a stern look.

You know how Bill is,
Caleb signed.
We could be here all day.

No. We wait.

There was no point in arguing when Pim had made up her mind. Caleb always said it was the woman’s stubbornness that had kept them together while he was stationed with the Army on the Oil Road, and Peter didn’t doubt it. The two of them had married the day after Caleb had finally capitulated and resigned his commission—not, as he often pointed out, that there was much of an army remaining to resign from. Like nearly everything else in Kerrville, the army had scattered to the winds; barely anyone remembered the Expeditionary, disbanded twenty years ago, when the Texas Code had been suspended. It had been one of the great disappointments of Caleb’s life that there was nobody left to fight anymore. He’d spent his years in the service as a glorified ditch digger, assigned to the construction of the telegraph line between Kerrville and Boerne. It was a different world than the one Peter had known. The city walls went unmanned; the perimeter lights had gone out one by one and never been repaired; the gate hadn’t been shut in a decade. A whole generation had grown to adulthood thinking the virals were little more than exaggerated boogeymen in scary stories told by their elders, who, in the fashion of all old people since the dawn of time, believed theirs had been the vastly harder and more consequential life.

But it was like Kate’s husband, Bill, to be late. The man had his positive qualities—he was far more easy-going than Kate, counterbalancing her often humorless maturity—and there was no question that he adored their daughters. But he was scattered and disorganized, liked the lick and cards, and lacked anything approximating a work ethic. Peter had tried to bring him into the administration as a favor to Sara and Hollis, offering him a low-level job with the Bureau of Taxation that required little more than the ability to use a stamp. But as with Bill’s brief forays into carpentry, farriering, and driving a transport, it wasn’t long before he drifted away. Mostly he seemed content to look after his daughters, make Kate the occasional meal, and sneak out to the tables at night—both winning and losing but, according to Kate, always winning just a little more.

Baby Theo had begun to fuss. Caleb used the delay to pick the horses’ hooves while Sara took Theo from Pim to change his diaper. Just when it had begun to seem that Bill wouldn’t show, Kate appeared with the girls, Bill bringing up the rear with a sheepish look on his face.

“How did you get away?” Sara asked her daughter.

“Don’t worry, Madam Director—Jenny’s got it covered. Plus, you love me too much to fire me.”

“You know, I really hate it when you call me that.”

Elle and her younger sister, Merry, who everybody called Bug, dashed to Pim, who knelt and hugged them together. The girls’ signing abilities were limited to simple phrases, and all exchanged
I love you,
circling their hearts with a flat palm.

Visit me,
Pim signed, then glanced up at Kate, who explained what she was asking.

“Can we?” Bug asked eagerly. “When?”

“We’ll see,” Kate said. “Maybe after the baby is born.”

This was a sore subject; Sara had wanted Pim to delay their departure until after the birth of their second child. But that wouldn’t be until nearly the end of the summer, far too late to plant. Nor did Pim, in her obstinate way, plan to return alone for the birth.
I’ve done it before,
she said.
How hard can it be?

“Please, Mom?” Elle begged.

“I said, we’ll see.”

Hugs all around. Peter glanced at Sara; she was feeling it, too. Their children were leaving for good. It was what you were supposed to want, the thing you worked for, yet facing it was a different matter.

Caleb shook Peter’s hand, then pulled him into a masculine embrace. “So I guess this is it. Mind if I say some stupid things? Like, I love you. You’re still a terrible chess player, though.”

“I promise to practice. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find me out there before too long.”

Caleb grinned. “See? That’s what I’ve been telling you. No more politics. It’s time to find a nice girl and settle down.”

If you only knew,
Peter thought.
Every night I close my eyes and do just that.

He lowered his voice slightly. “Did you do like I asked?”

Caleb sighed indulgently.

“Humor your old man.”

“Yeah, yeah, I dug it.”

“And you used the steel framing I sent out? It’s important.”

“I did it just like you said, I promise. At least I’ve got someplace to sleep when Pim kicks me out.”

Peter looked up at his daughter-in-law, who had climbed onto the bench. Baby Theo, worn out by all the attention, had passed out in her arms.

Look after him for me,
Peter signed.

I will.

The babies, too.

She smiled at him.
The babies, too.

Caleb lifted himself onto the buckboard.

“Be safe,” Peter said. “Good luck.”

The indelible moment of departure: everyone stepped back as the wagon moved through the gate. Bill and the girls were the first to leave, followed by Kate and Hollis. Peter had a full schedule ahead of him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to start his day.

Nor, apparently, could Sara. They stood together without speaking, watching the wagon bearing their children away.

“Why do I sometimes feel like they’re parenting us?” Sara said.

“They will be, soon enough.”

Sara snorted. “Now
there’s
something to look forward to.”

The wagon was still in sight. It was crossing the old fence line to the Orange Zone. Beyond it, only a fraction of the fields had been plowed for planting; there simply wasn’t enough manpower. Nor were there that many mouths remaining to feed; the population of Kerrville itself had shrunk to just about five thousand. Make that 4,997, thought Peter.

“Bill’s a mess,” Peter said.

Sara sighed. “And yet Kate loves him. What’s a mother to do?”

“I could try again with a job.”

“I’m afraid he’s a lost cause.” She glanced at him. “Speaking of which, what’s this about you not running for reelection?”

“Where did you hear that?”

She shrugged coyly. “Oh, just around the halls.”

“Meaning Chase.”

“Who else? The man is chomping at the bit. So, is it true?”

“I haven’t decided. Maybe ten years is enough, though.”