Captives (36 page)

From here, she provided a long account of the lengths he went to in order to find her. The laundry lists of cities he visited: New York, Tampa, Tulsa, San Francisco. The fights and scrapes and close calls. How he began to visit crossroads and settlements until they recognized him and gave him the name of Wandering Ted. How he outlasted the seasons, the aliens, and in the case of Tampa, the community—but no matter where he went, or how promising the lead, he never gave up. He never would. Not until he found her.

Because she had found
him
.

He went three years without hearing one good lead about where Marisa might be. When he finally got a hint—an installment in the Rockies, an old missile silo—he hiked to it believing that, if she wasn't there, he would never see her again.

It was defended. By a tribe of end of days fanatics. Ted snuck inside. Fought his way to the deepest part of the silo, where the patriarch had taken up sanctuary. And forced his way inside.

"Well?" Fred said. "Then what?"

Mia considered the bleak route. To some people, a sad story was paradoxically happier, because it was closer to how they viewed real life, and thus held more truth about how to carry on. Fred, though, was an honest to goodness knight. One eager for a reason she should be allowed to stay in this place. He'd ridden up on an actual horse to try to save her life.

"Wandering Ted forced his way in," she said. "He and the old man fired at the same time. When Ted woke, he was outside. Being carried from the silo by the three women he'd saved—including Marisa."

Across the table, Fred took a long breath, as if waking from a dream. "Did this actually happen? Or is it only a story?"

"I think parts of it have grown in the telling," Mia said. "But I heard the story from Marisa herself. With Ted filling in the gaps. When he wasn't burping their first son, anyway."

Fred drew his finger back and forth across the surface of the table. The story had been a long one and the sun was gone, the clouds to the west arranged in bright pink rows.

"Holy cow, it's late," he said. "And you need your rest. See you tomorrow?"

He smiled and stood. After he was gone, she got up and went to the window, watching the west until the last of the light was gone, wondering if there, at last, she'd find Raymond.

* * *

The woman showed up while Mia sat outside in the pleasant morning deciding whether it would be best to get up and see all she could while she was here, or to feign weakness in order to stretch that time out as long as possible.

The woman said her name was Reeds. She wore a look capable of grinding new lenses for her glasses. Mia had a mild sense of deja vu before remembering Mauser had told her about the woman. She'd been the one who told Raina's messenger that the attacks were nothing but gangs.

"You were born in America?" she said, eyeing Mia's skin. "How did you feel about it? Before the fall?"

"Not perfect," Mia said. "But still the best country you could hope to grow up in. Why?"

The woman jotted something on a pad. They were seated at the dinner table where Mia had told Fred the story of Wandering Ted the night before.

"Were you ever in the U.S. armed forces?" Reeds said. "Since the Panhandler, have you served in a militia or paramilitary group?"

"I was never in the military. Not before, I mean. After, I was part of a militia assembled to fight the aliens. Just a soldier."

"What happened to this militia?"

"A lot of us died," Mia said. "Then the ship got dunked and we went our separate ways."

The woman wrote more, then tapped her pen down the page, checking off points. "What was your profession before the virus?"

She had to think a moment. "I was a receptionist."

"A place is available to you in the city working in any field you wish. Why are you insistent on remaining here?"

"I don't mean to insist on anything. I know there are reasons for what you do. But I'm so tired of feeling scared. I want to stay here. If you'll let me, I think I can do what I do to make others feel less scared, too. To make sense of a world that too often doesn't."

"The narrative as religion," Reeds said, as if exposing the idea to the air would test its validity. "Thank you for your time."

She departed. Mia was returned to her convalescence. Fred visited; he had no news. Another day slipped past. Up here, it felt as peaceful as the English country, but for all she knew, the Dunemarket was being invaded at that moment.

In the morning, Brenna entered her room looking gobsmacked. Anson was on the porch waiting for her. Mia dressed quickly and joined him outside, seating herself on the other chair.

"It feels pretty good up here, doesn't it?" Anson nodded at the barrier enclosing the grounds. "We've got walls. Security. Crops, and the water to keep growing them." His smile grew strained. "But we can't afford to constrain our vision to what's inside these walls. Out there is a city. A damn big one. And as big as it is, the world beyond it makes it look like a dollhouse. One clumsy step and it could be crushed beyond repair."

"It looks pretty sturdy to me. You've got an actual fortress. Down there, you own half the city."

"If you build it, they will come. When I started down this path, my only want was to build a quiet life for myself. I never dreamed it would inspire so many people to join me." He pressed his palms together. "But being here from the start has taught me how fragile it can be. Protecting it isn't about weapons and tactics. It isn't even about the numbers. I'd rather have ten true believers than a hundred people who are only here because they don't have anywhere else to go. What happens to them when real trouble comes around?"

"They scatter like seeds?"

"To be eaten by the birds," Anson laughed. "This is earthquake country. If a people are a building, then I believe their values provides the steel to their frame. The steel that holds fast no matter how hard the ground tries to shake them loose. I think you've got a valuable skill, Mia. Something my people have been missing. I would like you to make their lives a little brighter—and at the same time, make my frame a little stronger."

"I'd love that."

"Reeds is coming up with a few ideas. That's all they are, ideas—you're free to spin them into whatever stories you please. So long as you check in with her before taking them public. Do you understand what I'm asking?"

It was as clear as day: propaganda. They wanted to use her to help mold the minds of their people.

She smiled across the table. "It would be an honor to help you fulfill your vision."

Later that same day, Reeds checked in with her first "ideas," bare-bones morals she expected Mia to flesh out into parables about persistence and having faith in your leader. Embedding these in the stories she'd picked up on the road struck Mia as gross. She reminded herself why she was there: whoever Anson was, he was right about the fragility of the fledgling societies down below. Anyone looking to douse the sparks of possibility had to be destroyed.

She was assigned her first gig two days later. A dinnertime event down in the zone where Fred had found her. A few stories to take the carpenters' minds off their sore muscles. Sitting before them, as she began to speak, they paid her little mind. Halfway through her first tale, the last of their conversations ceased, eyes locked on her. Once she finished her last, they applauded, standing one by one until she was the only one still in her chair.

Reeds scheduled her for two performances the next day. Three the day after that. She did her best, and afterward, when people came up to thank her and to tell her stories of their own, she was happy to ask them more about life among the People of the Stars. She absorbed a vague xenophobia about the southern tribes, and the collective wish for them to be relocated—contained, at the very least—but picked up no hard evidence of a military campaign against them.

She began to wonder what she was doing there. So far, she hadn't picked up a single useful piece of intelligence. Instead, she was actively
helping
them. Steeling their people's belief in their cause. One that Mia was no longer certain involved war against the Place. The People of the Stars appeared to be at peace. They had more land than they knew what to do with. Risking their people in the kind of pitched battle it would take to displace or eliminate Raina? That didn't make much sense.

After another two days and six stops across the city, she was recalled to the Heart and taken to Reeds' office in the central building. It was on the third floor, with a wide view of the lake. Mallards paddled across the surface.

"We are happy with the results," Reeds announced. "We would like your next performance to be here at the Lakehouse. Saturday night. In the meantime, your schedule will be clear."

Two days to prepare. Mia nodded. "Any requests?"

"I don't know the name—the story of the man who's in a feud with his neighbor. Yet when the neighbor sees the man's son drowning, he risks his life to save the boy."

"I call that one 'George Takes the Plunge,'" Mia said. "Anything else?"

Reeds wanted two others on top of that: one before dinner, then one after, with 'George Takes the Plunge' as the finale. Mia spent the rest of the day rehearsing. The day after, a tailor arrived, fitting a navy blue dress to Mia's body. As the man pinched the tape around her ribs, she smiled to herself, glad she hadn't come here as Thom.

The day arrived. While she rehearsed, she walked around by the lake, enjoying the cool air rising from it, watching minnows nip at the flies at its edges. It was so strange, how one event led to another. How you could be adrift one moment—uncertain whether you were on the right
ship
, let alone the correct course—and then the clouds could part, taking the doubt with them. How one stroke could forge disconnected events into a solid blade of meaning.

The dinner itself went fine; they assembled on the deck beside the lake, Anson and Reeds holding hands, smiling as Mia launched into her first tale. It concluded to applause. Servants produced dinner: chicken with tomatoes and basil, lake trout fried in bread crumbs, a salad with walnuts, avocado, and hard-boiled eggs. Mia was given a seat near the end of the table. Those near her asked polite questions. Near the head of the table, at Anson's left, an older man stared baldly. He wore a fine blue suit, but his face and hands were hard and gnarled, as if someone had draped a cigar store Indian in pinstripes.

After she finished her post-dinner story, and the encore of George, a woman came around to serve home-brewed champagne from a green bottle with the label fastidiously scraped off.

"To those who take the first step," Anson toasted. "May they always inspire us."

The champagne was good, if on the dry side, and after so much talking, Mia was happy to be out of the proverbial spotlight, drink in hand. She'd hardly had a minute to herself when the old man in the suit crossed the deck and stopped before her.

"Ma'am."

She stood, inclining her head. "Sir."

"You spin a good yarn," he said. "I'd like to borrow you. Monday evening. No need to worry, I've already cleared it with the bossman."

The hint of resentment in his voice made her hesitate, but she had no choice but to agree. After their brief conversation, she confirmed his claim with Reeds. The man's name was Gil Dreggers. Former soldier of some kind. Currently Anson's chief strategist.

At Reeds' side, Mia sipped what was left of her champagne. "What kind of stories do you think he'd like?"

Reeds smiled thinly. "Do you have anything about an old dog who glowers his way to the head of the pack?"

She wouldn't say more, but that was enough for Mia to work with. By Monday, she had her material ready. On arriving at Dreggers' house—a small but separate structure a short ways down the lake—she was let inside by a young man who kept his spine as straight as a Marine. During her dinnertime performance, her audience was about as private as it got: the young man, who appeared to be a butler; Dreggers, who drank amber liquor from a round, bottom-heavy glass; and his wife, a brittle woman at least sixty years old. She appeared to be listening, but the smile on her lips was like if the Mona Lisa had given up years ago.

After dinner, the butler cleared the table, clanking away in the kitchen. Dreggers lifted his empty glass and swirled it at his wife. "Mind correcting this?"

She gazed at it, hands clasped in front of her waist. "Perhaps you should save some for tomorrow."

He snorted. "For the bright future that's just around the corner? Get me a drink."

She took the glass and departed. Mia and Dreggers sat in silence. Glasses clinked from the kitchen. She returned, extending the glass in both hands so it wouldn't spill; it was filled nearly to the brim. She murmured something and exited the room.

The old man drank. "Were you there?"

Mia looked away from the doorway. "There, sir?"

"The Battle of Milwaukee. When the young buck died and Pearson took over his command."

"I heard it from a witness."

He nodded. If he was disappointed, it didn't show. "You fake it well."

"Thank you, sir."

Silence claimed the room. Dreggers took a long sip. "Are you enjoying yourself here?"

"I am. It feels very safe. Very calm."

"So do deep waters. But that's only because you can't see what's below the surface."

"Court intrigue?" She leaned back in her chair. "The more things change, huh?"

"You're a new toy," he said. "You want to last? Better do it before the shine comes off and you find yourself discarded."

"Is this friendly advice?"

"Once he drops you as a toy—and a man like him doesn't have time for you for long—then you become Reeds'. Reeds doesn't have toys. She has tools. You know what tools do? They get used."

"Who doesn't?" Mia squinted across the candlelight. "Here's the thing about being a useful tool: you don't get thrown away."

"No, but you don't get taken in from the garage, either. A year from now, when the shine's off, could be one of the Sworn decides it's time to cash in his boon. Requests to make you his wife." He touched the sides of his index fingers together, staring at his weathered skin. "And that's it. There's your life."