“That’s Hemingway,” she said.
He turned to look at her, the wide dark eyes and heavy lashes. Her face swimming a little in his inebriation. “Yeah.”
On the stage, the violinist went into a ragged solo, the notes jarring and alien, and yet not quite wrong, and more vivid with the impact of the drug. It sounded like an insomniac Saturday night spent staring out the window and not seeing.
“I was engaged once,” she said.
“Really?”
“Christ, Cooper, you don’t have to sound so surprised.”
He laughed. “Tell me about him.”
“Her.”
“Really?” He straightened. “But you’re not gay.”
“How would you know?”
“Pattern recognition, remember? I’ve got spectacular gaydar.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I’m not, really. These days, with everything going on, it just doesn’t seem to make as much difference. I mean, maybe if the gifted hadn’t happened it would be a whole issue, maybe people would care about sexual orientation, but we’ve got much bigger reasons to hate each other.”
“So what happened?”
She shrugged. “Like you said. I’m not gay.”
“You loved her, though.”
“Yeah.” She paused, took another puff of the joint. “I don’t know. It was a lot of things. My gift was part of it, too. It’s hard. Loving someone, but not being able to share the way you see the world. Like trying to explain color to someone who’s blind. They’ll never really get it.”
Part of him wanted to argue with her, but it was more from habit than anything else. An attitude he’d had as an abnorm in a normal world. A twist who hunted other twists.
“It was nice, though,” she said. “Being loved.”
He nodded. They fell silent, leaned back and watched the band. His body felt elastic, pliable and smooth and melting into the cushions. He caught fragments of a dozen conversations, felt a woman’s laugh thrill down his spine. Tomorrow felt far off, and with it all the things he would have to do, the battle he would resume. But for now, right this second, it felt good just to sit here and float in a warm haze. To sit next to a beautiful woman in the midst of a strange new world and revel in being alive.
“This is nice, too,” he said. “Taking a little break. From everything.”
“Yeah,” Shannon said. “It is.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The band started a new song.
“Haunting and hypnotic.”
“Impeccably researched and utterly believable.”
“One hell of a read.”
Everyone knows the world changed forever with the arrival of the gifted. Now acclaimed social scientist Dr. Donald Masse details what might have been: war with the Middle East, the rise of violent religious fundamentalism, and a planet on the verge of irreversible ecological damage.
• Michael Dukakis would have lost to George H. W. Bush
• The European Union would be facing bankruptcy
• NASA would have abandoned manned space exploration
• American education would have degenerated to standardized testing
• Elephants, whales, and polar bears would be in danger of extinction
• Central America would be embroiled in a brutal drug war
• Heart disease, Alzheimer’s, and diabetes would be leading causes of death
Think you know your own world? Think again.
Discover what would have happened… if the gifted had never happened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Cooper woke with a gasp, a sudden snapping of unconsciousness. Sweaty and tangled and head pounding. Struggled against his bonds, realized it was his clothes, soaked and tight, and a sheet half on him. He blinked, rubbed at his eyes, tried to put things back together.
There was a soft sigh beside him, and he looked over, saw Shannon curled around a pillow, her hair spilling across her bare neck. The bed. They were in bed back at her apartment. Had they…
No, still dressed, both of them. He had a vague memory of more drinks, and finishing the joint. A flash of dancing, the last thing he could remember. She had been a very good dancer, and beside her he’d felt big and clumsy and happy. Then nothing.
Cooper groaned, swung his legs off the bed. He’d managed to kick his shoes off, at least. He rose, head pounding, and wobbled into the bathroom. Peed for about half an hour, then stripped off his clothes and got in the shower. The controls were odd, a temperature gauge and a button. He set it all the way to hot, then pressed the button. A light trickle of water flowed from the showerhead, then shut off ten seconds later.
Right. The evaporators outside of town stripped what water they could from the air, and every building had a catch basin for rain, but water was eternally short here. That was one of the weaknesses of the Holdfast, a tactical advantage he’d seen plans for exploiting: destroy incoming pipes and hit the evaporators with surgical strikes. Estimated population decrease of 17 percent in two weeks, 42 percent by the end of a month, industrial and technical operational ability lowered by 31 percent. He hit the button again, soaked his hair, helped himself to her shampoo when the water cut off. A hit to wash it clear, a hit to soap up, a hit to wash it off. All in all, one of the least satisfying showers he’d ever taken, and no help at all for a hangover.
He toweled dry and put on his clothes. Looked in the mirror. Game on.
Shannon was making coffee when he came out. Her hair was limp, and one side of her face creased with pillow marks. “Morning,” she said, her back to him. “How you feeling?”
“Dead and buried. You?”
“Yeah.” She filled the pot with water, poured it into the machine, her back to him. He watched her hands, the way they fidgeted at nothing. She opened the fridge, stared at the empty shelves. “Breakfast options are limited.”
“Coffee’s fine.” Awkwardness in the air like last night’s smoke. “Thanks.”
Shannon closed the door, turned to face him. “Listen. About last night.”
“Nothing to say.”
“I just, I don’t want you to—It was a good time, and I needed it, but I’m not—It doesn’t change anything.”
“Hey, you got me into bed.” He smiled, let her know he was kidding. “It was good. Things have been tense. It was nice to just, you know, be normal for a night.”
She nodded. Picked up the discarded beer bottles from yesterday, dropped them in the recycling. Opened a drawer, then closed it.
Cooper said, “Why are you second-guessing me?”
Shannon looked up at him. “That the kind of thing that used to bug your wife? Telling her what was on her mind?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “You’re right. I am.”
“Because we got drunk?”
“Yes. Maybe. You’re different than I expected. And I’m just wondering if any of it is real.” Her gaze was unwavering and unapologetic.