restless afternoon on his bunk, gazing at the ceiling. His transport would be leaving the next morning at 0600; he had no doubt that such a swift departure was by design. Men came and went, banging through the room in their heavy boots, yet their presence scarcely registered in his consciousness. Amy and Greer—where could they have gone? And why the two of them together? How could she have broken him out, and how had they made it past the sentries at the portal? He scoured his memory for anything either of them had done or said to indicate they were planning such an escape. The only thing he could come up with was the strange serenity that had radiated from the major—as if the walls that caged him were inconsequential, their substance illusory. How could that be so?
It was a mystery, like everything else about the last thirty days. The whole thing left the impression of figures drifting just beyond the barriers of a heavy fog, there and not there.
As the empty hours wore on, Peter’s thoughts were borne back to his evening among the sisters: his time with Caleb, the boy’s youthful energy and cleverness; the joy in Amy’s face as she turned from the oven to see him standing there; the quiet moment they’d shared as he made his departure, their hands touching in space. The gesture had felt entirely natural, an involuntary reflex without hesitation or resistance; it seemed to have risen from both a deep well inside him and someplace far away, like the forces that propelled the waves he loved to look at, curling onto the beach. Of all the events of the last few days, their moment in the doorway stood most vividly in his recollection, and he closed his eyes, replaying it in his mind. The warmth of her cheek against his chest, and the bright force of her embrace; the way Amy had looked at their joined hands. Do you remember when I kissed you? He was still hearing these words in his mind as he fell asleep.
He awoke in darkness; his mouth tasted of dryness and dust. He was surprised he’d slept so long; he was surprised he’d slept at all. He was reaching to lift his canteen from the floor when he noticed a figure sitting on the adjacent bunk.
“Colonel?”
Apgar was facing him, his feet resting on the floor, hands braced on his knees. He took a long breath before speaking. Peter understood that the man’s presence was what had awakened him.
“Listen, Jaxon, I didn’t feel right about what happened in there today. So what I’m about to tell you is just between us, is that understood?”
Peter nodded.
“The woman you described was seen once before, years ago. I didn’t see her myself, but others did. You know about the Massacre of the Field?”
Peter frowned. “You were there?”
“I was just a kid, sixteen. It’s not something I talk about. None of us do. I lost my parents and my little sister. My mother and father were killed outright, but I never knew what happened to her. I suppose she was taken up. To this day, I still have nightmares about it. She was four years old.”
Apgar had never told Peter anything so personal; he’d never told him anything personal at all. “I’m sorry, Colonel.”
The pain of this memory, and the effort that went into telling it: these were plainly written on the man’s face. “Well, it was a long time ago. Condolences noted, but that’s not why I’m here, and I’m sticking my neck out telling you any of this. If Fleet found out, he’d have my commission. Or send me to the stockade.”
“You have my word, sir.”
Apgar paused, then began again: “Twenty-eight souls were lost that day. Of those, sixteen, like my sister, were never accounted for. Everybody knows about the eclipse. What they don’t know is that the virals were hiding in the hardboxes, like they knew about it in advance. Just before the attack began, a young DS officer in the tower reported seeing a large truck like the one you described waiting just beyond the tree line. You see where I’m going with this?”
“You’re saying it was the same people.”
Apgar nodded. “Two men saw the woman. The first was the DS officer I mentioned. The other was a field hand, the foreman of the North Ag complex. His wife and daughters were among those lost that day. His name was Curtis Vorhees.”