Alien Invasion 04 Annihilation (30 page)

“What about it?”
 

“Did Chris tell you it’s like a big antenna?”
 

Lila nodded.
 

“From what I see here,” Terrence said, indicating his monitor, “it’s cycling up to broadcast.”
 

“Broadcast what?”
 

Terrence’s face formed a grim line.
 

“Something big,” he said.
 

CHAPTER 56

Meyer stopped.
 

His fists, newly bloodied, dripped on the floor. In the quiet corridor, he could actually hear each droplet striking the sealed stone.
 

There was a voice behind him. It was Beta. But then it wasn’t because Meyer didn’t know anyone named Beta. He only knew four white walls, a floor, a ceiling, and an immersion to keep him busy. The voice was Mo Weir.
 

“Meyer?”
 

Meyer turned and gave Mo his patient face. But Mo’s attention was drawn to his fists.
 

“Jesus. What was it this time? Raj again?” Then quieter, with a sideways smile that had no real warmth: “Did you kill him?”
 

“It wasn’t Raj.”

“Then how did you do this?” Mo picked up Meyer’s left hand at the forearm, keeping his hands away from all the blood as if it was infected. Which, Meyer was beginning to suspect, it might be, in its own way.
 

“I had an accident in my office.”
 

“What kind of accident?”
 

“It will need to be cleaned up.”
 

Mo looked at Meyer with an unreadable expression. “What’s going on with you, Meyer?”
 

“Trevor is dead.”
 

Mo’s mouth fell open. There was a long moment where the aide didn’t seem to have any idea what to say. Sympathy was the predictable response, but Meyer had just beaten Mo over the head with surprising information. There was no decorum. No slow reveal. No tears, nothing at all. Just a bland face that barely felt like more than a prop, put on for show.
 

“What … how? What are you talking about?”
 

“Nathan Andreus told me.”
 

“Andreus?” Then: “Did he do it? Was that what he came here to tell you?”
 

“It was the Astrals. Trevor was with the rebel group that caught them with their pants down.”
 

“He could be lying, Meyer. Trying to twist you into — ”

“He was telling the truth.”
 

About Trevor.

About the fact that the Astrals did it.
 

And, perhaps most importantly, that Andreus was sorry. Meyer didn’t know why that was important, but it was. Meyer was definitely sorry — a hollow feeling that left him feeling like a shell. He could feel the Astral reaction by contrast; its bland lack of emotion was comparatively stark. Sensing it, Meyer felt a strange duality: He almost wanted to join the Astral perception, to see it as they did. He’d known the truth as Andreus had said it because something had unhitched and in a way, Meyer could see Trevor die through Divinity’s eye. He’d been split down the middle. Part of him saw it as information. The other half had caused what he’d done to his own fists, as if that had made sense.
 

“Wh … ” Mo stuttered, seeming to know he should ask more but unsure which W word to begin with. Finally, he settled on, “Was it an accident?” Then, after a small pause: “When were they going to tell you?”
 

No, it wasn’t an accident. In fact, the Reptars responsible, Meyer could sense, had felt a rather inappropriate sense of delighted anger. They weren’t supposed to relish their kills. It was all business, another rebel necessarily eradicated. But they had. Just as the Titans, when they’d discovered the rebels had played them for fools, had taken it personally.
 

Meyer’s fist clenched. The pain was a pleasant distraction. That’s why he’d kept going, alone in his office. The more it hurt, the less he had to focus inward. Pain was the ultimate bright and shiny object. Keep your eye on the agony, and you wouldn’t have to experience anything else. God knew the Astrals weren’t sharing more than the tip of their collective mind with him, like they used to in a long-ago time that Meyer Dempsey had no business remembering.
 

“Not an accident. And they — ”
 

(Red-hot fury, roiling like a storm; Meyer wanted to hit Mo too, just to break his clotted fingers open)

“ —
weren’t
going to tell me.”

“Why the hell not?” Mo looked indignant.
Good
. Angry on Meyer’s behalf. He knew how the Astrals thought, as one giant hive mind. A mind that didn’t include Meyer because he was human. Because he’d been pinched out. Because he’d stopped mattering the moment he’d been … Well, what
had
he
been
? It was all so unclear, so distant.
 

Humans could be a hive mind, too. Here he was, with Mo angry for Meyer, claiming his rage as if it were his.
 

Meyer said nothing.
 

“Does Heather know? Does Lila?”
 

“No.”
 

“Are you … ” Mo paused, seeming to sense something dire and unpleasant in the works. “Were you on your way to tell them?”
 

“No. I don’t want them to know.”
 

“What?
Meyer, they have to know.”
 

“It will hurt them.”
 

“But Meyer, seriously, they have to — ”

Meyer resumed walking. Where had he been going? It was irrelevant. He’d been in his office. Now he was in this hallway. And yet somehow, he’d also always been in that white place. Four walls. A ceiling and a floor. And an immersion like TV that kept him alive. Healthy and strong, but hollow inside.
 

“Meyer!”
 

“Please have someone mop up the blood in the hallway.”
 

“Where the hell are you going?”

“And my office. If you could have it tidied.”
 

“Meyer, shit! Stop, will you?” Mo had his hands on Meyer’s jacket, on his lapels, gripping his arm. Mo’s emotions now worse than Meyer’s. He’d always been able to mute or kill them. Part of being in a group. Nothing was wholly anyone’s, same for responsibility. He’d had that once, but now he’d lost it. Because he’d been forced out. Like the essence he could still feel, more homeless even than himself.
 

Mo turned him around. Looked into his eyes. This solid, serious, obnoxiously responsible man, coming undone over news that wasn’t even his own. It made Meyer falter. It made him see himself in Mo, knowing how he was supposed to react. Seeing how he, too, was pushing something out, shoving it down. Building more discursive stimuli. Unspooling.
 

But what the other had done, Meyer could do, too.
 

Something snapped. Meyer remembered all at once. And he knew how he could fulfill his bargain with Andreus, before he’d sent the man on his way.

“Just breathe,” Mo said, and Meyer thought the man should take his own advice.
 

“My hands,” Meyer said, feeling a firmly held wall starting to falter. “I think something is broken. I need medical treatment.”
 

“I’ll send one of the guards for Dr. Olivier.”

But Meyer shook his head.
“Astral
medical treatment,” he said. “Send for a shuttle instead.”

CHAPTER 57

Heather watched the thing from the corner of her eye, sure she was being a complete fucking idiot. This was how people got themselves killed in horror movies. There was always a clear exit or an obvious way to lie low, but then some dumbass would follow the man with the axe, walk into a dark basement for no reason, or do …
 

Well, do something like this. Like following a shadow monster just because it suggested she do so.
 

I don’t want to live in a world where a girl can’t trust shadow monsters,
Heather told herself. But even in the privacy of her mind, as she avoided her terror, the one-liner wasn’t funny. Without sarcasm as a weapon, Heather felt like Superman robbed of his powers. Or Wonder Woman minus her lasso.
 

She’d crossed street after street. It was hard to focus on the thing, given that seeing it seemed to require a
lack
of focus — a certain laziness of the eye muscles to spy it in her peripheral vision — but each time she crossed an intersection, Heather caught her breath and paused until she could see it again. It always waited. And now that she was getting better at looking-without-looking-at-it, she could
almost
make out features. Eyes, perhaps, as it watched her.
 

Why am I doing this?
she asked herself.
 

But the answer — as unilluminating as it was honest and true — came back immediately:
Why the hell not?
 

Heather Hawthorne had once lived in a world of stringent plans. A world where she had to schedule visits with her lover around her manager’s calendar. You never forgot where you were when the biggest moments hit, and Heather could still feel every ripple and contour from the day when she’d learned the ships were coming.
 

On the phone with Meyer, suddenly catching sight of the TV.
 

The clothes she’d been wearing. The position of the phone in her hand. The feel of carpet underfoot at her (formerly
their)
home in LA, the minute ticking of a clock that she’d somehow heard despite the television.
 

She’d been trying to find a time to meet him. Around a schedule that was so rigid, she refused to bend it even as Meyer reminded her that she could.
 

But things had changed, and the Heather who lived by plans and schedules was dead. She was still famous, but now she was the Queen Mum of Heaven’s Veil rather than the Queen of Mean on HBO comedy specials. Now she could do what she wanted, when she wanted. And increasingly, as shit had flown in steady streams toward life’s largest fan, she’d found herself caring less and less for what was sensible.
 

Being quiet and playing by the rules hadn’t worked.
 

Joining Meyer in a defiant
run for ze hills
after sabotaging the Internet hadn’t worked.
 

So now, Heather was phlegmatic. The world was ending again. Meyer was dead, but not gone — something new, yet clearly still Meyer Dempsey. The goddamned Apple Store pyramid in the city was flashing like a bomb, Trevor and Piper had run off to fight with the Contras, Lila had given her a spooky grandkid, and maybe, shit, the entire city was going to eat itself in search of two people whom the Astrals had fucking let into the city on purpose. Why
not
follow a big giant imaginary wolf made of smoke? How much worse was it than anything else, past history considered?

A large patrol — five or six Reptars, plus Titan guards — rounded the corner. Heather ducked back. Her heart skipped, but not as much this time. If she’d obeyed her gut instead of the insistent shadow thing in front of her, she’d have walked right into that patrol. But she’d been following the shadow for a while and had grown used to close calls. Five or six times now, it had miraculously guided her around the perfect corner at just the right time. It was like having an escort with intimate knowledge of everything in the area, including the exact time to move and where to go. Like playing Frogger with a savant.

In the corner of Heather’s eye, a column of darkness seemed to protrude from the monster’s body. It beckoned like a big hand, urging her to cross the street.
 

“Yeah, yeah,” Heather muttered.
 

Five blocks and two near-misses later, Heather defocused to see the shadow leading her into a building. It was a store of some kind, but it had either been raided or closed. The door was ajar, and opened easily when Heather pushed it.

Inside, she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun. A bald man with a black goatee was holding the weapon, but he lowered it after a surprised second of staring.
 

“You’re Heather Hawthorne,” he said.
 

Heather skipped the obvious counter-question, opting for something more self-promotional — there was some of the old, arrogant Heather left inside her after all.
 

“I guess you know me as the poor girl’s Piper Dempsey,” she said, taking the lowered weapon as a good sign — and, now that she thought about it, glancing around for the shadow that had, for reasons unknown, led her to this strange man.
 

“No. I know you from
Good Girls Don’t Have Wet Panties.
”

A small smile formed on Heather’s lips before she could stop it.
 

“Who are you, and why are you in here?”
And why,
she wanted to add,
did my big bad wolf of a companion bring me here?