"You think maybe you could stop pointing that thing at me?"

Michael had aged, but of course they all had. The difference was that the Michael he knew-his mental image of the man-had leapt forward two decades in an instant. It was, in a way, like looking in a mirror; the changes you didn't notice in yourself were laid bare in the face of another.

"What happened to the security detail?"

"Not to worry. Their headaches will be historic, though."

"The shift changes at two, in case you were wondering."

Michael looked at his watch. "Ninety minutes. Plenty of time, I'd say."

"What for?"

"A conversation."

"What did you do with our oil?"

Michael frowned at the gun. "I mean it, Peter. You're making me nervous."

Peter lowered the weapon.

"Speaking of which, I brought you a present." Michael gestured toward his pack on the floor. "Do you mind-?"

"Oh, please, make yourself at home."

Michael removed a bottle, wrapped in stained oilcloth. He uncovered it and held it up for Peter to see.

"My latest recipe. Should strip the lining right off your brainpan."

Peter retrieved a pair of shot glasses from the kitchen. By the time he returned, Michael had moved the rocking chair to the small table in front of the sofa; Peter sat across from him. On the table was a large cardboard folder. Michael cut the wax on the bottle, poured two shots, and raised his glass.

"Compadres," he said.

The taste exploded into Peter's sinuses; it was like drinking straight alcohol.

Michael smacked his lips appreciatively. "Not bad, if I do say so myself."

Peter stifled a cough, his eyes brimming. "So, did Dunk send you?"

"Dunk?" Michael made a sour face. "No. Our old friend Dunk is taking a very long swim with his cronies."

"I suspected as much."

"No need to thank me. Did you get the guns?"

"You left out the part about what they're for."

Michael picked up the folder and untied the cords. He withdrew three documents: a painting of some kind; a single sheet of paper, covered in handwriting; and a newspaper. The masthead said INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE.

Michael poured a second shot into Peter's glass and pushed it toward him. "Drink this."

"I don't want another."

"Believe me, you do."

Michael was waiting for Peter to say something. His friend was standing at the window, looking out into the night, though Michel doubted he was seeing much of anything.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I know it's not good news."

"How can you be so damn sure?"

"You're going to have to trust me."

"That's all you've got? Trust you? I'm committing about five felonies just talking to you."

"It's going to happen. The virals are coming back. They were never really gone to begin with."

"This is ... insane."

"I wish it were."

Michael had never felt so sorry for anyone since the day he'd sat on the porch with Theo, a lifetime ago, and told him the batteries were failing.

"This other viral-" Peter began.

"Fanning. The Zero."

"Why do you call him that?"

"It's how he knows himself. Subject Zero, the first one infected. The documents Lacey gave us in Colorado described thirteen test subjects, the Twelve plus Amy. But the virus had to come from somewhere. Fanning was the host."

"So what's he waiting for? Why didn't he attack us years ago?"

"All I know is, I'm glad he didn't. It's bought us the time we needed."

"And Greer knows this because of some ... vision."

Michael waited. Sometimes, he knew, that was what you had to do. The mind refused certain things; you had to let resistance run its course.

"Twenty-one years since we opened the gate. Now you waltz in here and tell me it was all a big mistake."

"I know this is hard, but you couldn't know. No one could. Life had to go on."

"Just what would you have me tell people? Some old man had a bad dream, and I guess we're all dead after all?"

"You're not going to tell them anything. Half of them won't believe you; the other half will lose their minds. It'll be pandemonium-everything will fall apart. People will do the math. We only have room for seven hundred on the ship."

"To go to this island." Peter gestured dismissively at Greer's painting. "This picture in his head."

"It's more than a picture, Peter. It's a map. Who really knows where it comes from? That's Greer's department, not mine. But he saw it for a reason, I know that much."

"You always seemed so goddamned sensible."

Michael shrugged. "I admit, the whole thing took some getting used to. But the pieces fit. You read that letter. The Bergensfjord was headed there."

"And just who decides who goes? You?"

"You're the president-that's ultimately your call. But I think you'll agree-"

"I'm not agreeing to anything."

Michael took a breath. "I think you'll agree that we need certain skills. Doctors, engineers, farmers, carpenters. We need leadership, obviously, so that includes you."

"Don't be absurd. Even if what you say is right, which is ridiculous, there's no way I'd go."

"I'd rethink that. We'll need a government, and the transition should be as smooth as possible. But that's a subject for later." Michael removed a small, leather-wrapped notebook from his pack. "I've drafted a manifest. There are some names, people I know who fit the bill, and we've included their immediate families. Age is a factor, too. Most are under forty. Otherwise there are job descriptions grouped by category."

Peter accepted the notebook, opened it to the first page, and began to read.

"Sara and Hollis," he said. "That's good of you."

"You don't have to be sarcastic. Caleb's in there, too, in case you were wondering."

"What about Apgar? I don't see him anywhere."

"The man is what? Sixty-five?"

Peter shook his head with a look of disgust.

"I know he's your friend, but we're talking about rebuilding the human race."

"He's also general of the Army."

"As I said, these are just recommendations. But take them seriously. I've given the matter a lot of thought."

Peter read the rest without comment, then looked up. "What's this last category, these fifty-six spots?"

"Those are my men. I've promised them places on the ship. I won't go back on that."

Peter tossed the notebook onto the table "You've lost your mind."

Michael leaned forward. "This is going to happen, Peter. You need to accept it. And we don't have a lot of time."

"Twenty years, and now this is a big emergency."

"Rebuilding the Bergensfjord took what it took. If I could have finished faster, I would have. We'd be long gone."

"And just how do you propose we get people to this boat of yours without starting a panic?"

"Probably we can't. That's what the guns are for."

Peter just stared at him.

"There are three options that I can see," Michael continued. "The first is a public lottery for the available slots. I'm opposed to that, obviously. Option two is we make our selections, tell the people on the manifest what's happening, give them the choice of either staying or going, and do our best to keep order while we get them out of here. Personally, I think that would be a disaster. No way we could keep a lid on things, and the Army might not back us. Option three is we tell the passengers nothing, apart from a few key individuals we know we can trust. We round up the rest and get them out in the dead of night. Once they're at the isthmus, we given them the good news that they're the lucky ones."

"Lucky? I can't believe we're even talking like this."

"Make no mistake, that's what they are. They'll get to live their lives. More than that. They'll be starting over, someplace that's truly safe."

"And this boat of yours can actually get them there? This derelict?"

"I hope she can. I believe she can."

"You don't sound convinced."

"We've done our best. But there aren't any guarantees."

"So those seven hundred lucky people might be going straight to the bottom of the ocean."

Michael nodded. "That might be exactly what happens. I've never lied to you, and I'm not going to start now. But she managed to cross the world once. She'll do it again."

The conversation was broken by a burst of voices outside and three hard bangs on the door.

"Well," Michael said, and clapped his knees. "It looks like our time is over. Think about what I've told you. In the meanwhile, we need to make this look right." He reached into his pack and withdrew the Beretta.

"Michael, what are you doing?"

He pointed the gun halfheartedly at Peter. "Do your best to act like a hostage."

Two soldiers burst into the room; Michael rose to his feet, raising his hands. "I surrender," he said, just in time for the closest one to take two long strides toward him, raise the butt of his rifle, and send it crashing into Michael's skull.

48.

Rudy was hungry. Really fucking hungry.

"Hello!" he called, pressing his face to the bars to aim his voice down the lightless corridor. "Did you forget about me? Hey, assholes, I'm starving in here!"

Yelling was pointless; nobody had been in the office since early afternoon-not Fry and not Eustace, either. Rudy plopped down on his bunk, trying not to think about his empty stomach. What he would have given for one of those stupid potatoes now.

He rocked back on the cot and tried to get comfortable. There were lots of spots that still hurt; every position Rudy tried made him ache in a different way. Okay, he'd pretty much asked for a beating. He wouldn't say he hadn't. But what would have happened if Fry hadn't gotten the door open? Dead Rudy, that's what.