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Footsteps in the hall: Peter turned as Caleb appeared in the doorway, Pim behind him. For a moment, Peter’s son appeared dumbstruck. A warm light switched on in his eyes.
“It’s really you,” he said.
Amy smiled. “Caleb, I believe I would like to hug you.”
Peter stepped back; Amy rose on her elbows as Caleb leaned over the bed and the two embraced. When at last they parted, they still held one another by the elbows, each beaming into the other’s happy face. Peter understood what he was seeing: the deep bond that Amy and his son shared, forged in the days before Iowa, when Amy had looked after him in the orphanage.
“You look so grown-up,” Caleb said, laughing.
Amy laughed, too. “So do you.”
Caleb turned to his wife, speaking and signing simultaneously. “Amy, this is Pim, my wife. Pim, Amy.”
How do you do, Pim? Amy signed.
Very well, thank you, Pim replied.
Amy’s hands were moving with expert speed. It’s a beautiful name. You’re just as I pictured you.
You, too.
Caleb stared at the two women; only then did it occur to Peter that the exchange he had just witnessed was, technically, impossible.
“Amy,” Caleb said, “how did you do that?”
She frowned at her splayed fingers. “Now, I don’t think I know. I suppose the sisters must have taught me.”
“None of them can sign.”
She dropped her hands to her lap and looked up. “Well, somebody must have. How else could I have done it?”
More footsteps; an atmosphere of official briskness accompanied Apgar into the bedroom.
“Mr. President, I’m sorry for the interruption, but I thought I might find you here.” His chin lifted toward the bed. “Pardon me, ma’am. How are you feeling?”
Amy was sitting up now, hands folded in her lap. “Much better, thank you, General.”
He narrowed his attention on Caleb. “Lieutenant, aren’t you supposed to be in your rack?”
“I wasn’t tired, sir.”
“That wasn’t what I asked. And don’t look at your father—he’s not interested.”
Caleb took Amy’s hand and gave it a final squeeze. “Get better, okay?”
“Now, Mr. Jaxon.”
Caleb exchanged a hasty, unreadable sign with Pim and exited the room. “If you’re done here,” Apgar said, “it’s time. People will be waiting.”
Peter turned to Amy. “I better go.”
Amy appeared not to have heard him; her eyes were fixed on Pim’s. The seconds stretched as the two women regarded each other with a crackling intensity, as if engaged in a private, inaudible conversation.
“Amy?”
She startled, breaking the circuit. It seemed to take her a moment to assemble her sense of her surroundings. Then she said, very calmly, “Of course.”
“And you’ll be all right here?” Peter said.
Another smile, but not the same—more of reassurance than something genuine. There was something hollow about it, even forced.
“Perfectly.”
* * *
63
“Mirrors,” Chase repeated.
Around the conference table, clockwise from Peter’s left, sat the players, Peter’s war cabinet: Apgar, Henneman, Sara, Michael, Greer.
“It doesn’t have to be a mirror specifically. Anything reflective will work, just as long as they can see themselves.”
Chase took a long breath and folded his hands on the table. “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not crazy at all. Thirty years ago, in Las Vegas, Lish and I were running from a pod of three and got cornered in a kitchen. We were out of ammunition, pretty much defenseless. A bunch of pots and pans were hanging from the ceiling. I grabbed one to use as a club, but when I held it out at the first viral, it stopped the bastard cold, like it was hypnotized. And this was just a copper pot. Michael, back me up here.”
“He’s right. I’ve seen it, too.”
Apgar asked Michael, “So what does it do to them? Why does it slow them down?”
“Hard to say. My guess would be some kind of residual memory.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, they don’t like what they see, because it doesn’t conform to some other aspect of their self-image.” He turned toward Peter. “Do you remember the viral you fought in Tifty’s cage?”
Peter nodded.
“After you killed her, you said something to Tifty. ‘Her name was Emily. Her last memory was kissing a boy.’ How did you know that?”
