The virals broke away from Lila. Simultaneously, one of the hostages shot to his feet, exposing his face. It was Vale. The virals were encircling the group; everyone was screaming. Vale tore the flaps of his jacket aside to reveal rows of metal tubes strapped to his chest. He yanked his arms skyward, his thumb poised on the detonator.
“Sergio lives!”
IX. THE ARRIVAL
55
Lila’s dressing table detonated with a splintering crash. Guilder hauled her to her feet again and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand, sending her flying back, toward the sofa.
“How could you let this happen?” His face boiled with rage. “Why didn’t you call the virals back? Tell me!”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!”
From the collar of her bathrobe this time: with terrifying effortlessness, Guilder hurled her, face-first, into the bookshelf. A thud of impact, things falling, Lila screaming. Sara was huddled on the floor, her body curled around Kate, the little girl wilted with fear.
“Every last viral! Nine of my men, dead! Do you know how this makes me look?”
“It wasn’t my fault! I don’t remember! David, please!”
“There is no David!”
Sara clenched her eyes tight. Kate was whimpering softly in her arms. What would happen if Guilder killed Lila? What would become of the two of them then?
“Stop it! David, I’m begging you!”
Lila was lying face-up on the floor, Guilder straddling her, one hand holding her by her collar. The other was balled into a fist, pulled back, ready to strike. Lila’s arms lay across her eyes like a shield, though this effort would come to nothing; Guilder’s fist would crush her face like a battering ram.
“You… disgust me.”
He loosened his hold and stepped away, wiping his hands on his shirt. Lila was sobbing uncontrollably. Blood bulged from a cut along her cheekbone. More was in her hair. Guilder flicked his eyes toward Sara, dismissing her with a glance.
Then he stormed from the room.
Sara went to where Lila was whimpering on the floor. She knelt beside her, reaching for her face to examine the cut. In an unexpected burst of energy, Lila shoved Sara’s hand away and scampered backward.
“Don’t touch it!”
“But you’re hurt—”
The woman’s eyes were wild with panic. As Sara moved toward her, she waved her hands in front of her face.
“Get away! Don’t touch my blood!”
She leapt to her feet and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
6:02 A.M.
The vehicles made their way into the flatland in the predawn darkness, gates flying open as they passed. At the head of the line, like the point of an arrow, was the sleek black SUV of the Director, followed by a pair of open trucks, full of uniformed men. Into the maze of lodges they roared, hurling clots of dirty snow from their mudchoked tires, their passage observed by the workers filing from the buildings to assemble for morning roll—weary faces, weary eyes, dully noting the vehicles sailing past. But their glances were brief; they knew better than to look.
Guilder watched the flatlanders from the passenger window, full of contempt. How he loathed them. Not just the insurgents, the ones who defied him—all of them. They plodded through their lives like brute animals, never seeing beyond the next square of earth to be plowed. Another day in the dairy barns, the fields, the biodiesel plant. Another day in the kitchen, the laundry, the pigsties.
But today wasn’t just another day.
The vehicles halted before Lodge 16. The eastern sky had softened to a yellowish gray, like old plastic.
“This is the one?” Guilder asked Wilkes.
Beside him, the man gave a tight-lipped nod.
The cols disembarked and took up positions. Guilder and Wilkes stepped clear of the car. Before them, in fifteen evenly spaced lines, three hundred flatlanders stood shivering in the cold. Two more trucks pulled in and parked at the head of the square. Their cargo bays were draped by heavy canvas.
“What are those for?” Wilkes asked.
“A little extra… persuasion.”
Guilder strode up to the senior HR officer and snatched the megaphone from his hand. A howl of feedback; then his voice boomed over the square.
“Who can tell me about Sergio?”
No reply.
“This is your only warning. Who can tell me about Sergio?”
Again, nothing.
Guilder gave his attention to a woman in the first row. Neither young nor old, she had a face so plain it could have been made of paste. She was clutching a filthy scarf around her head with hands covered by fingerless gloves black with soot.
“You. What’s your name?”
Eyes cast down, she muttered something into the folds of her scarf.
“I can’t hear you. Speak up.”
She cleared her throat, stifling a cough. Her voice was a phlegmy rasp. “Priscilla.”
“Where do you work?”
“The looms, sir.”
“Do you have a family? Children?”
She nodded weakly.
“So? What do you have?”
Her knees were trembling. “A daughter and two sons.”
“A husband?”
“Dead, sir. Last winter.”
“My condolences. Come forward.”
“I sang the hymn yesterday. It was the others, I swear.”
“And I believe you, Priscilla. Nevertheless. Gentlemen, can you assist her, please?”
A pair of cols trotted forward and grabbed the woman by her arms. Her body went slack, as if she were on the verge of fainting. They half-carried, half-dragged her to the front, where they shoved her onto her knees. She made no sound; her submission was total.
“Who are your children? Point them out.”
“Please.” She was weeping pitifully. “Don’t make me.”
