Alex stares at the painting on her wall. Everything in her room is neat and orderly. She listens to the hum of the air conditioning system. Cool air drafts from a vent on the ceiling. Her uniforms hang in the closet, arranged for various occasions. On the left, her grey tiger-striped fatigues for day-to-day wear. Next, more fatigues, but these have a camouflage pattern of green, brown, and tan blotches. These are what she wears with the team, what she wore into New York and Kansas City. Finally, her dress blue uniform for formal events. The jacket, shirt, and skirt hang in a garment bag, cleaned, ironed, and smartly pressed.

The painting is The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh. She has read about the work of art in the Directorate’s database. The painting depicts a view from the window of van Gogh’s sanatorium. The tiny village at the base of the painting is Saint-Rémy in France. A peculiar object dominates the left half of the scene. That object is not, as she had first thought years ago, a broken crag or strange black flame, but a cypress tree. The painting hanging in her room is not a reproduction, but the original, rescued from the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Her father gave it to her on her seventeenth birthday. Over the years, she has stood in front of the painting, running her fingers over the protective glass and imagining she could feel the gentle textures and swirls of color. Now there is something strange – the glass and frame have disappeared. The dried oil on canvas hangs completed exposed from the wall.

She notices another abnormality. The colors have taken on a slight yellow hue as if she is looking through a pair of shooting glasses. She looks down at her hands, at the floor, at the walls and bed and the picture of her family. It is not just the painting that is off, but everything in the room. She tries to blink but nothing happens – no momentary darkness or flicker of movement from her eyelids. The air is heavy. The ventilation system has gone quiet. She can hear the beating of her heart and the blood flowing in her head.

She remembers a song, one her father likes and one she associates with the painting on her wall. The lyrics echo in her mind: Starry, starry night / paint your palette blue and gray / look out on a summer’s day / with eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

She whispers the words of the song. She has never been a good singer. Nicole told her once she is tone-deaf. In the privacy of her room, it doesn’t matter. It seems to her the painting has become a reality more solid and authentic than the sterile confines of Cheyenne Mountain. She can almost hear the wind coming down from the hills, moving like a breeze through the village and rustling the trees.

Slowly, carefully, she reaches out and touches the tip of the pointed spire of the chapel in Saint-Rémy. She runs her finger down the building and stops at the base of the church. She touches the brush strokes. The muted blue is not gentle like she imagined; it feels rough like fine concrete. The blue-grey begins to change, first turning brown and then black. The darkness expands like a creeping growth from her finger, resembling the black vines or tendrils she has seen at the edges of her vision. The vines move slowly at first, snaking up the chapel spire and sucking away the building’s color until only a burnt-out husk remains. Suddenly, the darkness spreads. She tries to back away from the painting, to withdraw her hand, but she cannot move. The infection multiplies through the painted village like wildfire. The precise strokes of color, the ghostly grays and blues and spots of yellow, turn into swirls of burnt, murky brown. Each building melts away into an indistinct smear. The darkness consumes the hills. The trees dissolve into shadowy whirlpools, and fissures of black tear apart the ground. The sky is the last to go as it transforms from dark blue and purple to blood red. The brilliant stars vanish one-by-one and leave behind only the radiant crescent moon as a tiny orange afterglow. All that remains of the original painting is the twisted cypress tree, blending in with the apocalyptic scene.

Alex stumbles back. The room is no longer silent. She hears screams and gunfire. As she stares at the painting, she realizes the darkness has not stopped with the edges of the canvas – it is inching across the wall. She turns to flee but then there is a flash of something: a black sphere outlined by a red glow. She falls to her knees but finds the carpet is gone, replaced by rough concrete. The screaming and sounds of battle intensify. She is no longer in her room but on the Kansas City overpass. Men dissolve into bone and blood around her. She looks up and sees the pain and confusion in their eyes. She watches their flesh tear away and their muscles shrivel and burn. They stare at her, pleading for mercy or reprieve. Then their eyes are gone as well, and they collapse to the ground as skeletons wearing bloody uniforms.

The scene dissolves. Her room turns black. All that remains is the painting, the hellish depiction of Saint-Rémy, burnt and destroyed like the ruins of Kansas City. One object, however, has escaped the darkness: the picture on her dresser, the one of her and her father and mother. She scrambles for the picture, grabs it, and flees to the bathroom. The lights are off inside, but it is safe from the blackness that has consumed the adjoining room. She slams the door and sits panting on the polished tiles.

Somehow, she can still see – like looking through a pair of night-vision goggles but everything yellow instead of grainy green. She places the picture upright on the floor and reaches up to rub her eyes but encounters only a slick surface like wet rubber. She runs her hand back over her head. Her hair is gone as well. In the quiet of the bathroom, she again hears the beat of her heart, faster now. She gets to her feet and goes to the mirror.

Alex draws in a sharp breath. What she sees makes her want to scream, to turn and flee even if it means returning to her room and the corruption that has taken over the walls and ceiling and floor and everything else. But she cannot speak, turn away, or even close her eyes. She can only stare at her reflection and the black membrane covering her face. For a moment, she thinks it might be the face of Colonel Aaron Webb, but the curves are different, the shape, the line of the jaw. The face does not belong to Webb; the face belongs to her. Her hand moves up toward the edge of the membrane covering her eyes. She tries to stop herself, realizing what is about to happen, but she is not in control. She peels the membrane aware. Her eyes are no longer two white orbs with steel-blue irises but fields of worm-like stalks each hosting a point of yellow light. Then, through the yellow filter of her night vision, a face appears behind her: Webb, with the same horrible eyes, grinning and holding Nicole’s knife in his hand.

Alex screams.

The sound of a man’s voice caused the dreamscape to crumble.

She lay on her side. Her body ached everywhere, from her cramped neck to the sore joints of her legs. A dull hammer pounded the interior of her skull. The rolled-up left sleeve of her sweater revealed a clean bandage around her arm. Strangely, the wound no longer hurt. A grimy foam mattress separated her from the concrete floor. The room was small. A fluorescent lamp hung from the ceiling.

Colonel Webb sat hunched over in a folding chair between her and the doorway. A fresh bandage covered the side of his head. He watched Alex intently while balancing a handgun – the handgun Nicole had given her – on his right thigh.

“Rise and shine,” Webb said.

Alex pushed herself up off the mat. Her joints popped as she stood. How long had she been unconscious?

“Where am I?” she said.

“That’s need-to-know information. And, as they say…” He noticed her looking at the handgun and put his hand around the grip. “It is loaded this time, just in case you were wondering. Nice model, by the way. Better than that Colt.”

“How long have I been out?”

Webb glanced at his watch. “A little over seven hours.”

“And what do you want?”

“What do I want? I’m only here to babysit. After all, you’ve proven yourself to have a surprising knack for causing… trouble.”

“Go to hell.”

Webb grinned. “How’s daddy doing, by the way? And how about your friend?”

She clenched her hand into a fist and focused on her handgun. A dead weight slammed into her body. She stumbled back into the corner of the room as the white-hot pain drilled into her forehead. She clutched her head and went down to her knees. She tried to fight through the interference and find the handgun, but it was impossible. There were no traces of the creeping darkness she had seen in Fort Riley, nothing that could help her concentrate against the blasting light. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She felt nauseated, on the verge of throwing up. She let go. The burning went away, and she leaned her head close to the concrete and took several deep breaths.

“You’re a slow learner,” Webb said.

She rubbed her eyes. Webb remained in the chair, calmly holding her handgun at his side. He wiped away the blood from his nose. Then she felt a drop of liquid against her lip. She brought a hand up to her nose, and her index finger came away covered in a black smear. The same thing had happened at Fort Riley. She put her hand back against her nostrils to stifle the flow. A feeling of lightheadedness caused her to lean down toward the floor.

“Unpleasant, isn’t it?”

“I’ll kill you, you freak. I’ll kill you for what you did to Nicole and my dad.”

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘the pot calling the kettle black’?” Webb said in an amused voice. “Last time I checked, most of us bleed red.”

She removed her hand from her nose. The bleeding had stopped but more of the thick black liquid now covered her hand. What is this? Is that blood?

“I’m nothing like you. You’re a monster.”

“After what you did in Kansas City, you’re not in a position to call anyone a monster.”

The words stung. But I’m still different from him. He shot Dad, he killed all those people in Cheyenne, he isn’t even human.

“No comment?” Webb sounded smug. “I’m sure you can find some way to justify it. What’s the Directorate’s party line? You must have found some way the blame us for what happened.”

“You started this war. The NEA attacked us, not the other way around. You ambushed us in New York. You shot my dad. He wasn’t even armed. I don’t care what happens, but you’re going to regret what you did.”

“Be careful what you threaten me with.”

“Or else what? What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

“As much as I enjoyed it last time… No.”

“Why?”

“You have friends in high places.”

“Is that why you didn’t kill me in the mountain?”

Webb was silent. She noticed the faint glow behind the black substance covering his eyes. She wanted to jam something through the mask, to rip out the disgusting worm-like stalks and their buds of yellow light. But there was nothing to use as a weapon. All she had were fists and nails, and Webb would have no trouble subduing her in a hand-to-hand fight.

Finally, Webb said, “I would have done both our sides a favor if I had.”

Alex stood but stayed in her corner of the room. Behind Webb, the metal door was half-open. The light beyond was dim. The concrete floor, walls, and ceiling extended beyond the room. The setting reminded her of Cheyenne Mountain.

“Where’s my team?”

“Secure and far away.”

“And what about Nicole and Captain Shepherd? Did you kill them already like you do all your other prisoners?”

“The ignorance you display is amazing.”

“Tell me what you did to them!”

“They’re alive. Captain Shepherd is only a few miles away. And… your friend,” Webb gestured to the bandage on the side of his head, “is in General Park’s custody.”

Alex said hesitantly, “She’s okay?”

“She’s stable and under heavy sedation.”

“I want to see Captain Shepherd.”

“Do you imagine you’re in some position to make demands? I’ll explain the situation. You’re in the custody of the New England Alliance. You’re a prisoner of war. If you try anything clever, my men have orders to kill Shepherd and Serrano.”

Alex snorted. “You call me ignorant and then tell me you’re going to kill my friends if I don’t cooperate? They’re prisoners just like me. It’s a crime if you hurt them.”

“Don’t talk to me about crime. Your friend is an assassin. She’s been committing murder for the Directorate since long before you started this war. Of course, I’m sure your propaganda has convinced you all of it is A-Okay. Murder is all right as long as it’s for a good cause – your cause – isn’t that right? Is that how you sleep with what you did in Kansas City?”

“Screw you.”

“Avoiding the truth is always the easier option, I suppose.”

“So what are you going to do to me? Are you just going to keep me here for the rest of the war?”

“That option was discussed.”

“You can’t sit there forever. You’ll have to sleep sometime.”

“Will I?” Webb said. “Are you sure about that?”

“You are a freak.”

“And you’re becoming tiresome.” Webb looked at his watch. “Thankfully, I won’t have to deal with you much longer; General Martin wants to see you.”

“He’s here?”

“No.” He holstered her handgun and stood from the chair. “We’re going to him.”

Webb went to the door, pushed it the rest of the way open, and gestured for her to move. She edged along the walls and then went outside.

The space resembled an old, decrepit bunker. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and long fissures ran through the concrete walls. The fluorescent light fixtures offered faint, flickering light. Other doors and passages branched off from the wide hallway. At the far end of the corridor, a stairway ascended out of view. Webb pushed her toward it.

They entered another corridor at the top of the stairway. The old concrete and dim lightning gave way to marble hallways and tall windows through which bright sunlight shone through. They arrived at a pair of glass doors leading outside. Two men stood nearby. Both wore civilian clothes but from their short haircuts and the way they carried themselves, Alex suspected they were military. The men opened the doors as Webb approached. All of them went outside to a grey SUV parked on the street corner. The two men got in the front while Webb opened the back door. “Get in.” Alex climbed into the car and scooted close to the far window as Webb sat down next to her.

“Remember what I told you,” Webb said. “If my men lose contact with me, Captain Shepherd and Ms. Serrano are going to have a bad day.”

Alex didn’t reply. They were in a city. The buildings looked modern, made out metal, glass, and concrete. Most were white or light grey although Alex spotted several structures with exteriors covered in dark, tinted glass. Trees with bright green leaves stood every few meters along the sidewalks. Lawns full of healthy grass decorated the perimeters of the buildings. The streets and sidewalks were free of garbage and empty of cars and pedestrians.

The vehicle drove from the sidewalk and followed the street around the building. They paused at an intersection and then turned and sped up. Numerous structures lined the right side of the road but only raised pedestrian walkways and dense trees populated the left. They passed beneath a green sign that read “Roosevelt Bridge” and then merged onto a six-lane parkway split down the middle by a concrete median. Through the occasional gaps in the foliage, Alex saw a river with even more trees and a few buildings rising beyond the far bank. She spotted two more signs suspended above the road. The left read “Interstate 66, East Washington” and the right “110 South, Pentagon, Alexandria.”

Washington? Pentagon?

She began to turn toward Webb. Then as the SUV sped into a long curve and came up onto a bridge above the river, allowing her to see a white marble obelisk towering in the distance: the Washington Monument. “This is Washington,” she said in disbelief. “Why did— Why would you bring me here?”

Webb kept silent.

They continued across the bridge through a forest that rose and enveloped the span from an island in the middle of the Potomac. Alex felt like a giddy tourist as they approached the opposite side of the river. Everywhere were beautiful structures she had seen only in pictures: the Lincoln Memorial was just off the shore to the right, and leading up to it was the Arlington Memorial Bridge with its nine broad arches supporting the span above the calm waters. The clear, lightly clouded skies only added to the beauty. Even though she recognized the danger of her situation, she was thrilled to see the old capital of the United States. She had spent the first six years of her life near D.C., but only vague memories of the city remained.

The Washington Monument disappeared behind the trees as they came off the Roosevelt Bridge. They paused at an intersection, and Alex leaned forward to look past Webb out the window. The northern face of the Lincoln Memorial stood only three hundred meters away. She hoped the driver would turn right toward the structure, but he hung a left into the city.

Alex noticed other cars parked along the streets. The vehicles were old but not broken or abandoned. A man in a suit got out of an SUV and walked into a structure that reminded her of a shorter version of the United Nations Building in New York. It was clear that people occupied many more of the structures as well. Alex looked through glass doors and clean windows to see men and women sitting behind desks or walking through lobbies.

This is a real city. Not one that’s being cleaned up or rebuilt. It’s alive. People actually live here.

Alex was surprised when the driver pulled over and parked along the sidewalk. They had stopped beside a church. The structure consisted of bricks of various earth tones ranging from brown to red. Five stained glass windows faced the street, and an ornate cross high on the roof looked down over the main entrance. The church felt familiar.

“Get out,” Webb said.

She exited the vehicle and went to the sidewalk. Webb came up to her and grabbed her upper arm. She recoiled and tried to jerk away. “Let go of me!”

Webb looked around and then said, “Don’t make a scene.” He pushed her forward. She went grudgingly to the front of the church. Webb opened one of the wooden doors, and they went inside. He let go of her arm. They were in the church’s sanctuary. A carpeted path extended from the door to an elevated stage at the other side of the room. Pews lined both sides of the path, and a wooden ambo stood prominently on the stage. The lights in the sanctuary were off but sunlight filtering in through the stained glass windows lit the sanctuary and picked particles of dust out of the air. The windows each had their own designs: scenes from the Bible.

A man in a black wool trench coat sat midway down the left row of pews. Without looking back at Alex or Webb, he pushed himself up and shuffled sideways toward the middle of the church. A heavy clomp sounded against the tiled floor each time he took a step, and it was clear he was using the pew in front of him for support. Webb went quickly forward.

“General,” Webb said. “She’s here.”

Martin made his way into the aisle. Webb put a hand on his shoulder. Martin’s appearance had not changed. A simple metal mask covered his face while a thick scarf sat along his shoulders and wrapped around his neck. His steel-blue eyes stood out within the eyeholes of the mask, looking at her as she stood by the doorway.

“Alexandra.” It was the same soft voice he had used the first time he spoke her name in New York.

She looked back at the door.

“I can outrun you,” Webb said.

“We seem to be making a habit of meeting like this.” Martin held his hand out toward the nearest pew. Hesitantly, she went forward. When she reached the pew, she sat and scooted over. Martin half fell and half plopped down next to her. Webb went to the back of the church and sat in the corner furthest away from them. Alex felt him staring at her.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“I thought it might be safer for you than the Pentagon,” Martin said with a smile. “Do you recognize this church?”

“You said you were there when I was baptized. Is this it?”

“I was sitting in the front row. Your father was right up there, and your mother was at his side holding you. You were so peaceful. You didn’t cry or make a sound.” He stared at the stage. Then in a hoarse whisper, he said, “You look so much like her, Alexandra.”

The words caught her off guard. She pictured the photograph that had been in her father’s office and that was now in her room in Cheyenne Mountain. She had few memories of her mother, and most were of the cancer. Her mother’s hair had fallen out, her luminous skin had gone pale and yellow, and her eyes had sunk into their sockets. But somehow, Katherine Michelle Bedford had kept her kind and reassuring smile until the end.

“Dad told me,” Alex said. “About you and him and Mom.”

“Did he?”

“I know you’re my biological father.”

“Yes,” Martin said simply.

“So… You don’t have to wear that mask anymore.”

Martin was silent. Then he shook his head. “I… That isn’t why I wear it. You wouldn’t see a family resemblance. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Martin let out a deep breath. The whole of his body seemed to go tense. Then he raised his left hand to his mask. He hesitated before giving a quick yank. The mask came away from his skin. He looked away from Alex as he placed the mask down on the pew.

Alex leaned forward. Martin held still. Then she saw the side of his face. A dark imprint persisted from where the edges of the mask had pressed into his skin, and from the line of his ear forward was scarred flesh. The rough tissue, a conglomeration of clefts and crevices tight against his skull, resembling the dried flesh of a mummified corpse. A jagged scar ran from the middle of his brow, down between his eyes, and to the right side of his mouth. His lips were thin and cracked, and his nose was crooked and wasted. His nostrils were small, uneven holes. Alex looked into his eyes, which were wet with tears. The brilliant steel-blue irises were the only things that seemed alive. Martin picked the mask up from the pew and slid it back over his face.

She wanted to reach out and hug Martin or offer him some gesture of kindness or reassurance, but she kept still. “What happened?” she said.

Martin stared at his lap and his gloved left hand. His right arm hung at his side. Alex wondered how much more damage the trench coat and uniform hid from view.

“It was the morning of August 7th, 2016,” Martin said. “I was at Lansing Station. Three days earlier, we had brought in a laser, the same kind the Air Force experimented with to shoot down ICBMs. We were going to try to cut out a sample of the Anomaly. On the day of the test, your father called me. He was here in DC. He told me he needed me back at the Pentagon. He said it was urgent. An hour later, I was in the air. When my helicopter was about five miles out from McMurdo, there was a flash. It was brighter than anything… the snow, the ice, the sun. Then the shockwave hit. The pilot lost control. We crashed. I remember a fire. The sky was red and there was a black cloud like a mountain rising from the direction of Lansing Station. I remember touching my face and my skin coming off in my hand. I remember a scream before I passed out. I don’t know if it was my voice or… something else.”

I saw that, Alex thought. In my dream. Antarctica being destroyed.

“When I woke up, I was in a sickbay. Your father was sitting at my bedside. I was covered in bandages. And the pain… Your father told me about the outbreaks. I didn’t believe him at first. He showed me aerial photographs from New York and Los Angeles. The streets were full of bodies. He said he was in a position to take over what was left of the military. He wanted my help. I asked him if we had been the cause of the plague. I wanted to know if the disease was a result of what had happened in Antarctica. I asked him why he ordered me out just a few hours before the experiment.”

“What did he say?”

“He knew the test would be a failure. But a group – I believe the same group that now calls itself the Directorate’s Executive Committee – demanded the test anyway. Your father was convinced we could return to Antarctica and recover the Anomaly, but we would have to wait.”

“For what?”

“For you.” His voice wavered as he said the two words. He met her eyes for a moment before returning his gaze to the front of the church. “He told me a sample from Novaya Zemlya had been injected into you while you were still in your mother. He wanted you to be perfect: no diseases, no disorders, no defects. And there was something more. He said you would be able to communicate with that sphere. I told him he was crazy. I wanted to know if he ever told Kate. And…” Martin’s voice trailed off. He took a deep, labored breath and shook his head.

“And what?”

“He told me.” His voice almost broke but he continued, “Your mother didn’t die of cancer. That sample… It wasn’t isolated to you. She… She caught some of it. And her body couldn’t fight it.”

“And Dad knew this?” She thought back to the strange black liquid, the substance that had bled from the bullet wound to her arm and then from her nose after her attempt to disarm Webb.

“Not until after she died,” Martin said. “Or so he told me.”

“So is this why you didn’t join the Directorate? You think my dad killed my mom? Is that it?” She was angry with Martin. She remembered the hours her father had spent at her bedside in Cheyenne Mountain, talking about her mother and the world before the outbreaks. His voice had always taken on a soft, hoarse tone. On occasion, there had been tears in his eyes.

I was lost after your mother died, he had said once. You were the only thing that kept me attached to this world, Alexandra.

“Well, whatever you heard isn’t true. Dad would never have hurt her.”

Martin spoke as if he hadn’t heard. “I loved Kate. I never told her that.” His voice contained deep regret. Alex looked at his eyes, which remained focused on the front of the church.

“She might have known how I felt. But she was always faithful to your father. I’m sure he loved her, too. They were very happy. But all of this came straight from your father’s lips. He allowed your mother to be used in an experiment that ended in her death. He may not have known how it would end, but…” Alex noticed his hand had become a fist. “After hearing all of that, I couldn’t be part of it. That was the last time the two of us spoke.”

Martin adjusted the mask and wiped away some of the drying tears clinging to his chin.

“So what now?” Alex said. “How long was I out? Have you attacked Colorado Springs?”

“It will be a few hours before we reach the Springs.”

“And what then?”

“We’ll demand the Directorate’s unconditional surrender.”

“We won’t give up.”

“If that’s the case, my forces have orders to attack.”

“How did you convince General Park to betray us? You… Your men killed his son. How could he betray the Directorate after that?”

“I’ve been in contact with General Park since New York. I spoke to him after… the incident in Kansas City. He told me his son was dead. I thought that was the end of our tentative alliance. But he told me he doesn’t blame the NEA. He blames the Directorate.”

“What? How is it our fault?”

“The Directorate started this war.”

“You attacked us,” she said, trying to keep her voice under control. “I was on that bridge when it exploded. That wasn’t just some accident. Those explosives were waiting for us.”

“Yes, they were waiting for you. Consider something for just a moment. If we had wanted to kill you and your team, why would we have blown up our only bridge between New York and New Jersey? I could have had my whole force ready to cut off both sides of the bridge and trap you in the middle. The damage would have been minimal. And why send a greeting party of two men to meet your team if I intended you any harm?”

“So what are you saying happened? The bridge just blew up by itself?”

“Those explosives were planted by operatives of the Directorate. I don’t think your father was responsible; he wouldn’t risk you like that. But these people who run things behind the scenes, the Executive Committee, I believe they wanted a war between the Directorate and the NEA. During my first contact with General Park, I asked him to consider everything I just told you. It was clear to him what happened in New York didn’t make sense. I hope you can see that as well.”

She was about to protest the absurdity of Martin’s claim. Then she saw a flash of Kansas City. How does it feel, Ms. Bedford? Ellzey had said on the overpass. This is what New York should have been like!

“No!” She got to her feet and stepped away from Martin. Webb shot up and lowered his hand to his holster. Martin shifted in the pew to face her. His eyes, with their rings of steel blue, met with her and held her gaze.

“Alexandra,” he said softly, “I’m sorry, but—”

“No. The Directorate isn’t— We’re… we’re not like you. We wouldn’t start a war. We just want to rebuild the country. You attacked us! It doesn’t matter how many freaks and traitors you have, you’re not going to win!”

Martin used the back of the pew in front of him to pull himself up. Webb had left the corner and now stood in front of the entrance doors. Martin limped toward her. She wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. The spacious sanctuary now felt oppressive and claustrophobic. Her face was warm, and she felt her pulse quickening.

“Do you even know what I did in Kansas City? I wiped out your army. I’ll do it again. I don’t care if you try to use that monster to stop me.” She pointed at Webb. Martin continued to advance. She took another step back and her foot caught on one of the pew’s supports. She almost tripped but caught herself. “What do you want?! You already took my dad away from me! What happened in Kansas City is your fault! Everything is your fault! I’ll destroy this city if you don’t order everyone to turn around—”

Martin embraced her with his left arm. She struggled and tried to raise her fists to beat against the soft wool of his trench coat but it was useless. His grip was firm as if he was tapping into some well of strength normally beyond the reach of his crippled body. “Let me go,” she wanted to shout, but her voice came out as a wavering moan. She gave up struggling and let her arms hang at her sides. The embrace felt familiar, like her father’s on the rare times he had given her a hug. She blinked. She didn’t want to cry, not in front of Martin and especially not in front of Webb. She wanted to be strong like her father. Then she felt the warm tears.

“I want him back,” she cried. “I want him to wake up. I want this stupid war to be over. I hate it. None of this should have happened.”

Martin lowered her to the pew. He held her as they sat, and she buried her face in his coat. She realized the absurdity of the situation even as the tears rolled down her face. He’s the enemy. No matter what else he is, he’s still leading the NEA to destroy the Directorate. And you’re letting him hold you like… like Dad.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, abruptly, unexpectedly, as if someone else were speaking through her.

“For what?” Martin’s voice was gentle, and the effect of his embrace soothing.

“For what I did. For Kansas City. For all those people.” They were words she had pent up since the disaster. She had wanted to say them to her father, to beg for forgiveness and hope he could somehow offer absolution. Now, she was saying them to Martin, to the man whose troops she had helped kill in New York, in Kansas City, and Fort Riley. She could imagine if their roles were reversed or perhaps if Webb were crying at her feet and apologizing for what he had done to her father and Nicole. She could never forgive him, let alone keep herself from driving a knife or bullet into his skull. Yet Martin held her without anger while softly running his hand through her hair.

His name was Harold Conant. Her mother’s voice echoed from the nightmare at Topeka. His name was Harold Conant. And there were so many others. There was no way to tell if the name was real or something her mind had produced, if the young man whose life she had watched on the strange projector was anything more than a forgery. But somehow, she knew it was true. She had killed Harold. She had killed his friends, his comrades in arms, and his enemies. Those thousands of men and women had once been children, had grown up, and had tried to live their lives as best they could. They had been loved by their families and had loved others. For one reason or another, all of them had arrived in Kansas City, likely frightened and nervous, unsure if they would survive the night, and she had killed all of them without regard for what she was stealing from the world.

“What do I do?” she said.

“You have to keep going,” Martin said. “You have to try your best to make up for it.” His voice carried traces of sorrow and remorse. Alex looked up at him. His eyes focused on the front of the church. She wondered if he was speaking to himself as much as he was speaking to her.

“How?” she said.

Martin did not answer at first. His gaze remained on the altar, on the spot her mother had been standing during the baptism. Finally, he looked down. Their eyes, both pairs steel-blue and both pairs wet with tears, met.

“You can help me, Alexandra. Come with me to the White House. There’s someone I need you to meet.”