“Well, what’s that for, then?” I asked.
“Charles,” Nathaniel said, sighing, “not now.”
“What do you mean, ‘not now’？ I can’t even ask my son why he got an enormous”—I nearly said “hideous”—“tattoo on his neck?”
“It’s because I’m a member of the light,” David said, proudly, and when I didn’t answer, he rolled his eyes again. “Jesus, Pops,” he said, “The Light. It’s a group.”
“What kind of group?” I asked.
“Charles,” Nathaniel said.
“Oh, Nate, stop with the Charles, Charles—he’s my son, too. I can ask him what I want.” I looked back at David. “What kind of group?”
He was smirking again, and I wanted to slap him. “A political group,” he said.
“What kind of political group?” I asked.
“A group that tries to undo the work you’ve been doing,” he said.
At this point, Peter, you would have been proud of me. I had one of those rare moments in which I foresaw, perfectly and vividly, where this conversation would lead. The baby would try to provoke me. I would be provoked. I would say something rash. He would respond in kind. Nathaniel would stand on the sidelines, wringing his hands. Aubrey would remain slumped in his seat, watching us with sorrow and pity and a bit of revulsion—that he should have us in his life, and that the three of us should have come to such an unhappy end.
But I did none of those things. Instead—in a display of composure not even I thought myself capable of—I simply said I was happy he’d found his mission in life, and that I wished him and his comrades all the best in their struggle. And then I thanked Aubrey and Nathaniel for dinner, and I walked out. “Oh, Charles,” Nathaniel said, following me to the door. “Charles, don’t leave.”
I pulled him into the parlor. “Nathaniel,” I said, “does he hate me?”
“Who?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well who I meant. Then he sighed. “No, of course not, Charles,” he said. “He’s going through a phase. And—and he’s passionate about his beliefs. You know this. He doesn’t hate you.”
“But you hate me,” I said.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “I hate what you did, Charles. I don’t hate you.”
“I did what needed to be done, Natey,” I said.
“Charles,” said Nathaniel, “I’m not going to discuss this with you right now. The point is, you’re his father. You always will be.”
Somehow, this wasn’t very comforting, and after I left （I had hoped Nathaniel would try harder to make me stay, but he hadn’t）， I stood at the north entrance of Washington Square and watched the most recent generation of shantytown dwellers move about. A few were bathing in the fountain, and there was a family—two parents and a little girl—who had built a small fire next to the arch, where they were roasting an unidentified animal over the flames. “Is it done yet?” the little girl kept asking, excitedly. “Is it done, Daddy? Is it done yet?” “Almost, sweetheart,” the father said. “Almost, almost.” He pinched the tail off the creature and handed it to the girl, who squealed with joy and immediately began gnawing at it, and I turned away. There were about two hundred people living in the Square, and although they knew that one night their homes would be bulldozed away, they kept coming: It was safer to be here than beneath a bridge or in a tunnel. Still, I didn’t know how they slept, with those floodlights beating down on them, but I suppose people get used to anything. Many of the dwellers wear sunglasses even at night, or a piece of black gauze tied around their eyes. The majority of them don’t have protective helmets, so from afar, they look like an army of ghosts, their entire faces wrapped in cotton.
Back in the apartment, I looked up The Light, which was much as I suspected: an anti-government, anti-science group dedicated to “revealing the truth of state manipulation and ending the age of plagues.” It appears to be small, even by these groups’ standards; no major attacks to their name and no major claimed incidents. But I sent an email to my contact in Washington anyway, asking them to send me their full dossier—I didn’t say why I was asking.
Peter, I never ask you for these favors. But will you find out what you can, whatever you can? I’m sorry to ask. I really am. I wouldn’t unless I had to.
I know I can’t stop him. But maybe I can help him. I have to try. Don’t I?
All my love. Charles
Dear Peter, July 7, 2062
This is going to be a brief one, because I have to be down in Washington in six hours. But I wanted to write while I had a few minutes.
It’s unbearably hot here.
The new state will be announced today at four p.m. eastern time. The original plan was to announce on July 3, but everyone agreed that people should be allowed to celebrate a final Independence Day. The thinking was that if we announced now, at the end of the day, it would be easier to lock down certain parts of the country before the weekend begins, and then give everyone a couple of days for the shock to wear off before the markets reopen on Monday. By the time you read this, it’ll already have happened.
Thank you for your counsel over these past months, dear Peter. In the end, I took your advice and turned down a ministry position: I’ll remain behind the scenes after all, and what I give up in influence I gain in safety. Anyway, I have enough influence regardless—I’ve asked Intelligence to put a tracker on David now that The Light has become so problematic, and there are plainclothes guards stationed outside Aubrey’s house to protect him and Nathaniel just in case the rioting gets as bad as they fear. Aubrey isn’t doing well at all—the cancer’s metastasized to his liver, and Nathaniel says Aubrey’s doctor thinks he only has another six to nine months.
I’ll call you on your secure line tonight my time, early tomorrow yours. Wish me luck. Love to you and Olivier—
Charles
PART V
Spring 2094
In the weeks following our initial meeting, we met more and more. At first it was just a coincidence: The Sunday after we met at the storyteller’s session, I was walking around the Square when I became aware of someone behind me. Of course, there were many people behind me, and ahead of me, too—I was walking in the center of the group—but this presence felt different, and when I turned, there he was again, smiling at me.
“Hello, Charlie,” he said, smiling.
The smiling made me nervous. Back when Grandfather was my age, everyone smiled all the time. Grandfather said that was something Americans were known for: smiling. He wasn’t an American himself, although he became one. But I didn’t smile very often, and neither did anyone I know.
“Hello,” I said.
He joined me, and we walked together. I had been worried he would try to have a conversation, but he didn’t, and we made three laps around the Square. Then he said it had been nice to see me, and maybe he’d see me at the next story session, and then he smiled again and walked west before I even had a chance to figure out what to say in response.
The following Saturday, I returned to the storyteller. I hadn’t thought I was hoping to see him, but when I did, sitting in the same spot in the back row where we’d sat on the day we met, a funny feeling came over me, and I hurried the last few feet, in case someone should take my place. Then I stopped. What if he didn’t want to see me? But then he turned and saw me and smiled and waved me over, patting the ground next to him with his hand. “Hello, Charlie,” he said, as I approached him.