“This is my chief of staff, Marla Keevers.”
“Ms. Keevers.” Though Cooper had been a government agent for eleven years, politics had never been his thing; still, even he knew of Marla Keevers. A hardcore political fixer, a backroom dealer with a reputation for ferocity.
“Mr. Cooper.”
The president rapped his knuckles on the partition, and the limo slid into motion. “Marla?”
The chief of staff said, “Mr. Cooper, did you release the Monocle video?”
Well, so much for preliminaries.
He thought back to that evening. After Shannon freed his children, Cooper had chased his old boss up to the roof. He’d retrieved the video of Drew Peters conspiring with President Walker, and then he’d tossed his mentor off the twelve-story building.
That had felt good.
Afterward, Cooper sat on a bench not far from here deciding what to do with the video. The massacre at the Monocle restaurant had been the first and most incendiary step in dividing the country: not North versus South, not liberal versus conservative, but normal versus abnorm. Revealing the truth about that attack felt like the right thing to do, even though he knew it would have consequences beyond his control.
What was it Drew had said just before the end? “If you do this, the world will burn.”
President Clay was watching him. It was a test, Cooper realized. “Yes, I did.”
“That was a very reckless decision. My predecessor may not have been a good man, but he was the president. You undermined the nation’s faith in the office. In the government as a whole.”
“Sir, if you’ll forgive me saying, President Walker undermined that when he ordered the murder of American citizens. All I did was tell the truth.”
“Truth is a slippery concept.”
“No, the great thing about the truth is that it’s true.” A hint of that old antiauthority tone was coming out, and he caught himself. “Sir.”
Keevers shook her head, turned to look out the window. Clay said, “What are you doing these days, Nick?”
“I’m on leave from the DAR.”
“Are you planning to return?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come work for me instead. Special advisor to the president. How does that sound?”
If Cooper had listed a hundred things the president of the United States might have said to him, that wouldn’t have made the cut. He realized his mouth was open, and closed it. “I think maybe you have bad information. I don’t know anything about governing.”
“Let’s cut through it, shall we?” Clay fixed him with a steady gaze. “Walker made a mess of things. He and Director Peters turned the DAR, which might have been our best hope for a peaceful future, into a private spy shop for personal gain. Would you agree?”
“I—yes. Sir.”
“You yourself have killed more than a dozen people and leaked highly classified information.”
Cooper nodded.
“And yet out of the entire catastrophe, you were the only person who acted righteously.”
Keevers wrinkled her lips at that, but said nothing. The president leaned forward. “Nick, things are getting worse. We’re on the edge of a precipice. There are normals who want to imprison or even enslave all brilliants. There are abnorms who favor genocide of everyone normal. A new civil war that could make the last one look like a minor skirmish. I need help averting it.”
“Sir, I’m flattered, but I really don’t know the first thing about politics.”
“I have political advisors. What I don’t have is the firsthand opinion of an abnorm who dedicated his life to hunting abnorm revolutionaries. Plus, you’ve proven that you will do what you believe is right, no matter the cost. That’s the kind of advisor I need.”
Cooper stared across the limousine. Scrambled to remember what he knew of the president. A history professor at Harvard, then a senator. He had a vague memory of an article he’d read, a piece suggesting that the real reason Clay had been chosen as VP was for electoral math. As a black man from South Carolina, he’d mobilized both the South and the African-American vote.
Jesus, Cooper. A vague memory of an article? That right there tells you whether you belong in this car.
“I’m sorry, sir. I truly appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I’m the man for the job.”
“You misunderstand,” Clay said mildly. “Your country needs you. I’m not asking.”
Cooper looked at—
Clay’s posture, his body language, they’ve been perfectly in line with his words.
This isn’t a PR move or a way to quiet you.
And everything he said about the state of the world is accurate.
—his new boss.
“In that case, sir, I serve at the pleasure of the president.”
“Good. What do you know about a group called the Children of Darwin?”
ONE WEEK BEFORE THANKSGIVING
CHAPTER 2
Ethan Park stared.
The supermarket shelf was empty. Not thinly stocked. Not lacking variety. Empty. Cleaned out.
He closed his eyes, felt the world wobble. Long hours he was used to; the research team had been on the edge of a breakthrough for a year, and as they’d moved into proof-of-concept trials, the days had started blurring, meals eaten standing up, naps snatched in break room chairs. He’d been tired for a year.
But it wasn’t until Amy gave birth to Violet that he discovered true exhaustion. The blackness behind his closed eyes felt dangerously good, a bed on a cold night that he could just wrap himself in, drift away—
He snapped to, opened his eyes, and checked the shelf again. Still empty. The sign above the aisle read SEVEN: VITAMINS – CANNED ORGANICS – PAPER TOWELS – DIAPERS – BABY FORMULA. Paper towels there were still plenty of, but on the shelf that until today had held Enfamil and Similac and Earth’s Best, there was only dust and an abandoned shopping list.
Ethan felt oddly betrayed. When you ran out of something, you went to the grocery store. It was practically the basis for modern life. What happened when you couldn’t take that for granted?
You return to your exhausted wife and hungry baby with a dumb look on your face.
Before they’d had a child, he’d scoffed at the idea that breast-feeding was difficult. He was a geneticist. Feeding the young was what breasts were for. How hard could it be?
Pretty hard, it turned out, for dainty modern-day breasts, breasts draped in cotton and lace, breasts that never felt wind or sunlight, never chafed and roughened. After a month of agonizingly slow feedings, of being patronized by a “lactation consultant” peddling specialized pillows and homeopathic creams, of Amy’s nipples cracking and bleeding and finally growing infected, they’d called a halt. She’d tied down her breasts with an Ace bandage to stop milk production, and they’d switched to powdered formula. Their entire generation had been raised on it, and they’d done okay. Plus, it was so easy.
Easy, that was, until there was no formula on the shelf.
So. Options.
Well, at Violet’s age, bovine milk was not ideal. Casein protein micelles were too taxing for a baby’s developing kidneys. On the other hand, cow’s milk is better than no milk—
The dairy case was empty. There was a piece of paper taped to it.
WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. RECENT ATTACKS HAVE DISRUPTED SHIPPING. WE HOPE TO BE RESTOCKED SOON. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE IN THIS DIFFICULT TIME.