Carmen Farooq-Lane stood in one of London Heathrow’s infernally busy terminals, her head tilted back to look at the gate announcements. People flowed around her in the stop-start way humans did in airports and train stations, their journeys more stream of consciousness than logic. Most people didn’t care for airports; they were in survival mode. Id mode. They became the purest, most unfiltered versions of themselves. Panicked, rambling, erratic. But Farooq-Lane liked them. She liked schedules, systems, things in their place, holidays with specific celebratory rituals, games where people took turns. Before the Moderators, airports had represented the pleasant thrill of plans coming to fruition. New places seen. New foods eaten, new people met.
She was good at airports.
Now she was a vision of professional loveliness as she waited, poised in a diffuse spotlight, her pale linen suit impeccable; her small, expensive, wheeled suitcase spotless; her long, dark hair pulled into a softly braided updo; her absurdly long eyelashes lowered over her dark eyes. Her boots were new; she’d bought them from an airport store and thrown out the bloodstained pair in the ladies’ room. She looked flawless.
Inside her, however, a smaller Carmen Farooq-Lane screamed and beat against the doors.
Nathan was dead.
Nathan was dead.
She’d had him killed.
Of course, the Moderators hadn’t said they were going to kill him, but she’d known there wasn’t a prison for people like Nathan. The only way to securely imprison Zeds was to never let them sleep—never let them dream. Impossible, of course.
I expected more complexity from you, Carmen.
Her brother had earned his death sentence, several times over. But still. She grieved the memory of who she’d thought he was, before she’d found out what he’d done. The heart was so foolish, she thought. Her head knew so much better.
If only it had actually stopped the apocalypse.
A flight to Berlin appeared on the board; she’d be up next. Chicago. It was morning here. Middle of the night there. Ten hours from now, she’d be climbing the stairs to her row house, groceries in hand, bag slung over her shoulder, steeling herself for the long task of trying to insert herself back in her old life. Back to her own bed, to a commute and a day job, her friends and what was left of her family. She’d done what she’d promised the Moderators she’d do, and now she’d earned her freedom.
But how was she supposed to manage clients’ financial futures if she knew there might not be a future? How was she supposed to go back to her old life when she was no longer the Carmen Farooq-Lane who’d been living it?
Beside her, a man sneezed gustily. He searched his pockets unsuccessfully for a tissue. Farooq-Lane had been using plenty and had just restocked for another tumultuous day. She produced one from her bag; he accepted it gratefully. He seemed about to use it as an excuse for conversation, but her phone rang, and she turned away to answer.
“Are you still in the terminal?” Lock asked.
“Just about to board,” Farooq-Lane said.
“Going home.”
Farooq-Lane didn’t answer this one.
“Look,” he rumbled, “I’ll cut right to it. I know you’ve done what we asked, I know you’re finished, but you’re good at this like no one else is.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Not the breaking-things part. The finding-things part. People like you. That’s important. We need you. Do you think you could help us with one more?”
One more. Was it really one more? Did it matter? It was as if some part of her had been hoping or anticipating that he would ask, because she heard herself say yes before she even really considered. That heart-head dissonance again. She wanted to be done, but she just couldn’t be until the world was safe.
“I was hoping you might say that,” Lock said. “Nikolenko is there with a package for you and new flight information. Meet her at the Costa.”
As her gate information appeared on the board, Farooq-Lane left it behind and navigated through the throngs of people until she found Nikolenko, a short, stone-faced woman with short, stone-colored hair. Nikolenko waited beside an angular young man in a T-shirt, suit coat, and tiny round glasses. He was extraordinarily tall and extraordinarily hunched. Elbows, knees, and Adam’s apple were all prominent. His shoulder-length blond hair was tucked behind his ears. He looked a little like a young undertaker or, with those skeletal features, like one of the cadavers.
Nikolenko handed him some money. “Go get a coffee.”