Genesis. Volume 2

January 1, 1987. Brookfield. Headquarters, kitchen. 7:30 a.m. By eight in the morning, everyone had gathered in the kitchen. Not because anyone had called—they just woke up and followed the smell of coffee. Emma had brewed it, despite her bandaged shoulder. Liam stood beside her, holding the ibrik as she measured out the ground beans. It was awkward for her left hand, but she refused help. The ibrik was old, copper, with a bent handle and a greenish patina inside. "Step back," she said. "I'm standing." "You're breathing on me." "I breathe through my mouth." "Step back." He took a step back. Emma finished brewing the coffee herself. She poured it into mugs—first for Lisa, then Arthur, then the others. Herself last. Steam rose from the stove, thick and bitter. "Black coffee," she said, setting a mug on the table. "No milk left." "And no sugar," Max added. "Drink it bitter. It's good for you." "For what?" "For the soul." Max picked up the mug and took a sip. He grimaced. "Not for mine." On the table lay the ticket. Yellow, thick, with words on the back. Arthur hadn't put it away—he'd left it there since morning, and everyone had seen it, but no one had asked. Each waited for someone else to speak first. The ticket lay on the oilcloth, the words pressed deep, almost through the card. Lisa spoke first. "The Sleeper calls," she read aloud. "It's an invitation. Or a warning." "Or both," Arthur said. "Where did it come from?" Liam asked. "In the snow. By the fence." "Someone left it?" "I don't know. Maybe one of us." Everyone looked at Sasha. She sat in the corner, gripping her coffee mug. Her face was unreadable. Her fingers, wrapped around the mug, were steady. "You?" Max asked. "Why?" "I don't know. But you go to the warehouse. Leave containers. Maybe this is your work too." "I didn't leave the ticket." "How do we know?" Sasha set her mug on the table. She looked at Max—long, straight. "You don't have to trust me," she said. "That's your right. But I'm here to help. Not to hinder." "Then tell us who you're passing information to." "I can't." "Why?" "Because it's not my secret." "Whose is it?" "Elias's." Silence. Even the coffee smell seemed to fade. "Elias knows?" Arthur asked. "He knows." "And what do you send him?" "Our coordinates. Our status. What you say. What I see." "Spying," Max said. "Observing," Sasha replied. "Elias doesn't trust the Circle. And he doesn't trust me. But he knows I won't betray him. That's why I'm here." "And the containers?" "Empty. For appearances. If someone intercepts the signal, they'll see I'm passing metal. Not data." "Where's the data?" "In records. Paper ones. That I leave somewhere else." "Where?" "I won't say." Max wanted to ask more. Arthur stopped him with a hand. "Enough," he said. "Not now." "When?" "When we know who to trust." "I trust her," Jenny said. Everyone turned. "She's risked her life. In London. In Chicago. She's not a traitor." "Traitors take risks too," Max said. "To keep up appearances." "Sasha isn't an appearance." "How do you know?" "I can feel it." Max fell silent. Jenny rarely said "I can feel it." And when she did, she was usually right. Her palms, wrapped in bandages, rested calmly on her knees. Arthur picked up the ticket. Turned it over in his fingers. "Did Elias know we'd find it?" he asked. "He knew," Sasha replied. "He said: 'When you receive the message—don't rush. First think. Then act.'" "And what are we supposed to think about?" "That the Sleeper doesn't call for no reason. He chooses the time. The place. And those who will answer." "Will we answer?" Emma asked. "I don't know. That's for you to decide." "And you?" "I'll go with you." "Even if you don't know where?" "Even then." Arthur tucked the ticket into his jacket's inner pocket. The same one where the iron coin lay. "Tomorrow we'll decide," he said. "Today we rest. It's January first. A holiday." "What holiday?" Max asked. "New Year's." "That was yesterday." "It counts today too." No one argued. Until noon, everyone went about their own business. Arthur sat in his room, sorting through maps. Max sharpened knives in the basement—it was quiet there, and Jack didn't bother him, because Jack never bothered anyone. Jack sat on a stool by the wall, staring at the anvil. The hammer hung on its hook. "Not forging today?" Max asked. "I don't know." "Maybe you should rest?" "I am resting." Max looked at his hands. Gray, thin, with calluses that wouldn't heal because he struck every day. The skin on his knuckles was dark, almost black with scale. "Alright," Max said. "Rest." Jack nodded. He didn't look away. Emma lay on her bed, listening to the radio. An old Panasonic that hissed and crackled but sometimes picked up music. Now it was playing jazz. Emma didn't know who was playing. She just listened. Liam sat beside her, cleaning his pistol. Disassembled, oiled, reassembled. Disassembled again. An oily rag lay on his knee, smelling of gun oil. "That's the third time," Emma said. "I'm nervous." "About what?" "The ticket. The Sleeper. What comes next." "Your hands aren't shaking." "I know how to hide it." She looked at his hands. They weren't shaking. Neat, quick movements—like a watchmaker's. "Don't hide it," she said. "We're all scared." "I'm not scared." "You're lying." "A little." She smiled. He smiled back. In the evening, Lisa drew a map. Not a new one—the old one she'd started in New York. She added new points. Brookfield—a red circle. London—a black cross. And an arrow—pointing to where no one had been yet. Where the ticket was calling. "Do you know where that is?" Arthur asked. "No. But he does." "Who—he?" "The Sleeper." Lisa set down her pencil. Her left hand was tired, her fingers cramping. "Enough for today," she said. "Tomorrow we'll continue." "Tomorrow." She closed her sketchbook. At night, Arthur couldn't sleep. He sat on the windowsill, looking out at the street. The snow had stopped, the sky had cleared, stars burning bright—cold, like December. He pulled out the ticket. Reread the words on the back. "The Sleeper calls." "I hear you," he whispered. The wind outside fell still. Arthur put the ticket away. He lay down to sleep. And in his dream, he was standing in a square again. Gray, empty, with a single lamppost in the center. Under the lamppost sat a man. In a coat, with a cane. His face was hidden—shadow fell across it. "You came," the man said. "Who are you?" "You know." Arthur stepped closer. The man looked up. His face was blank—no eyes, no mouth, no nose. Smooth skin, like a mannequin. "Are you afraid?" he asked. "No." "You're lying." "I'm not lying." "You always lie. To yourself first." The man stood. The cane tapped the stones—once, twice. "Follow me," he said. "I'll show you the way." He walked. Arthur followed. The lamp went out, but the road was still visible—gray, straight, without turns. "Where are we going?" "Where you need to be." "I don't need to be anywhere." "Everyone does. Sooner or later." The road ended. A wall. Stone, gray, with faces. Hundreds of faces—pressed into the stone, mouths open, eyes closed. And among them—one. Familiar. Mark Walker. His father stared at Arthur. Not shouting. Not calling. Just staring. "Do you see?" the man asked. "I see." "He's waiting." "For what?" "For you." The man vanished. The lamp went out. The wall remained. Arthur stood before his father's face and couldn't move. "Dad," he called. Mark didn't answer. His face was frozen—not dead, frozen. Like those taken by the Sleeper. Arthur reached out. Touched the stone. Cold. He woke. Outside, it was gray. The clock showed six in the morning. He sat up in bed. His palms were damp—not with sweat, with frost. He hadn't noticed when he'd opened the window. Or it had opened itself. Arthur closed the window. Slid the bolt shut. He lay back down. Closed his eyes. Sleep didn't return. He lay, staring at the ceiling. Remembering his father's face—the one he'd seen in the dream. Not his own memory. Someone else's. Like a black-and-white photograph you hold in your hands but don't remember who's in it. "Dad," he whispered. "I'll bring you back." Silence. Outside, the sun was rising. The first sun of the new year. Pale, cold, but alive. Arthur stood. Pulled on his jacket, walked to the kitchen. Lisa was already sitting at the table, drawing. She saw him and nodded. "You look pale." "Didn't sleep." "Did you see something?" "A dream." "What kind?" "A square. A wall. Faces." "Your father's?" "Yes." "Did he speak to you?" "No. He just looked." Lisa set down her pencil. "It's the Sleeper," she said. "He shows you what you want to see." "I didn't want to see a wall." "You wanted to see your father." "Yes." "Then he showed you what you wanted. And what you needed to see." Arthur sat across from her. He picked up her mug, took a sip—cold, bitter. "What should I do?" he asked. "Think. Don't rush." "And if he calls again?" "Then you'll answer." She took the mug back. "Pour your own. I'm not a waitress." He smiled. The first time that morning. He stood, poured tea. Sat down. "Lisa." "Yeah?" "Are you scared?" "Of everything." "Like what?" "That we won't come back." "We will." "How do you know?" "Because there's nowhere else to go." She nodded. "That's true." Outside, the sun was rising. The snow glistened—pink, orange, gold. They sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, and outside, a new day was beginning. The first day of the new year. And the first day of a new war.