The City of Mirrors is a work of fiction Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental Copyright © 2016 by Justin Cronin Maps and illustrations copyright © 2016 by David Lindroth, Inc All rights reserved Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Cronin, Justin, author Title: The city of mirrors : a novel / Justin Cronin Description: First edition | New York : Ballantine Books, [2016] | Series: Passage trilogy ; Identifiers: LCCN 2015050523 (print) | LCCN 2016005830 (ebook) | ISBN 9780345505002 (hardcover : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780804177641 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Survival—Fiction | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense | FICTION / Literary | GSAFD: Suspense fiction | Epic fiction Classification: LCC PS3553.R542 C58 2016 (print) | LCC PS3553.R542 (ebook) |DDC 813'.54—dc23 LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/2015050523 ebook ISBN 9780804177641 International Edition ISBN 9781101965832 Cover design: Belina Huey Cover photo-illustration: Tom Hallman randomhousebooks.com v4.1 ep Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Epigraph Prologue Part 1: The Daughter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Part 2: The Lover Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Part 3: The Son Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Part 4: The Heist Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Part 5: The Manifest Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Part 6: Zero Hour Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Part 7: The Awakening Chapter 55 Part 8: The Siege Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Part 9: The Trap Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Part 10: The Exodus Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Part 11: The City of Mirrors Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Part 12: The Wild Beyond Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Part 13: The Mountain and the Stars Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88 Part 14: The Garden by the Sea Chapter 89 Epilogue: The Millennialist Chapter 90 Chapter 91 Chapter 92 Dramatis Personae Dedication Acknowledgments By Justin Cronin About the Author And how am I to face the odds Of man’s bedevilment and God’s? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made —A E Housman, Last Poems PROLOGUE From the Writings of the First Recorder (“The Book of Twelves”) Presented at the Third Global Conference on the North American Quarantine Period Center for the Study of Human Cultures and Conflicts University of New South Wales, Indo-Australian Republic April 16–21, 1003 A.V [Excerpt begins.] Wilcox.” Melville Wilcox is the on-site supervisor at First Colony Such calls happen only rarely, and always with considerable advance planning; only by positioning a chain of airships across the Pacific, a tenuous and expensive arrangement, can a signal be relayed Whatever Wilcox wants, it’s bound to be important For a full minute, the line crackles with empty static; Logan has begun to think the call’s been lost when Wilcox comes on the line “Logan, can you hear me all right?” “Yes, I can hear you fine.” “Good, I’ve been trying to set this up for days Are you sitting down? Because you might want to.” “Mel, what’s happening there?” His voice grows excited “Six days ago, an unmanned reconnaissance airship surveying the coast of the Pacific Northwest took a photo A very interesting photo Do you have access to an imager?” Logan scans the room To his surprise, there is one “Give me the number,” Wilcox says “I’ll have Lucinda send it over.” Logan fetches the proprietor, who enthusiastically provides the information and offers to man the machine “Okay, they’re sending it,” Wilcox says The imager emits a shriek “The connection has been made, I believe,” the proprietor declares “Why don’t you just tell me what it is?” Logan asks Wilcox “Oh, believe me, it’s better if you see this for yourself.” A series of mechanical clunks and the machine draws a piece of paper from the tray As the print head moves noisily back and forth, Logan becomes aware of a second sound, coming from outside—a kind of rhythmic beating He has only just realized what he is hearing when Nessa enters the room, dressed for dinner She looks animated, even a little alarmed “Logan, there’s a lifter out there It looks like it’s about to land on the front lawn.” “And here we are,” the proprietor announces With a triumphant smile, he places the transmitted picture onto the desk It is the image of a house, seen from above Not a ruin—an actual house It is encircled by a fence; within this perimeter are a second, smaller structure, a privy perhaps, and the neatly planted rows of a vegetable garden “Well?” Wilcox says “Did you get it?” There is more In the field adjacent to the house, rocks have been arranged on the ground to make letters, large enough to be read from the air “What is it, Logan?” Nessa asks Logan looks up; Nessa is staring at him The world, he knows, is about to change Not just for him For everyone Outside the walls of the inn, the racket reaches a crescendo as the lifter touches down “It’s a message,” he says, showing Nessa the paper Three words: COME TO ME 92 Six days have passed Logan and Nessa, in the observation lounge, sit in silence On an airship, time moves differently The excitement of travel quickly wanes, replaced by a kind of mental and physical hibernation; the days seem shapeless, the ship itself barely to move at all Logan and Nessa, the only passengers, the objects of obscene fussing by a staff that far outnumbers them, have passed the time sleeping, reading, playing cards In the evening, after eating by themselves in the too-large dining room, they have their pick of movies from the ship’s collection and watch alone or with members of the crew But now, with their destination in view, time snaps back into line The ship is headed north, tracing the northern California coastline at an altitude of two thousand feet Towering cliffs wreathed by morning fog, mighty forests of ancient trees, the indomitable greatness of the sea where it collides with the land: Logan’s heart stirs, as it always does, at the sight of this wild, untouched place “Is it what you thought it would be?” he asks Nessa Looking raptly out the window, she has barely spoken a word since breakfast “I’m not sure what I thought.” She turns her face toward him, lips pressed together and eyes slightly squinted, like someone puzzling out a problem “It’s beautiful, but there’s something else to it A different feeling.” Not much later, the platform appears Standing a hundred meters above the ocean’s surface, it has the appearance of a rigid structure, though it is, in fact, floating at anchor The airship moves gracefully into place and attaches at the nose to the docking tower; ropes and chains are lowered; the vessel is drawn slowly downward to the deck As Logan and Nessa disembark, Wilcox strides toward them with a rolling gait: a heavyset man with an untidy beard peppered with gray, his face and arms bronzed by sun and wind “Welcome back,” Wilcox says as they shake “And you,” he says, turning, “must be Nessa.” Wilcox is aware of Nessa’s role, although he is, Logan knows, not entirely comfortable with it, believing it is too soon to involve the press But that is part of Logan’s design Security is never as tight as it should be; word will get out, and once it does, they will lose control of the narrative He’d rather get ahead of the situation by giving the story to one person, someone they can trust “Do you need to eat, clean up?” Wilcox asks “The bird’s fueled and ready whenever you want.” “How long will it take to get to the site?” Logan asks “Ninety minutes, about.” Logan looks at Nessa, who nods “I see no reason to delay,” he says The lifter waits on a second, slightly elevated platform, its props pointed upward As they walk to it, Wilcox brings Logan up to speed Per Logan’s instructions, no one has approached the house, although the building’s inhabitant, a woman, has been sighted several times, working in the yard Wilcox’s team has moved equipment to the camp in order to bag the house, if that’s what Logan wants to “Does she know she’s being watched?” Logan asks “She’d have to, with all those lifters going in and out, but she doesn’t act like it.” They take their seats in the bird From the portfolio under his arm, Wilcox removes a photo and hands it to Logan The image, taken from a great distance, is grainy and flattened; it shows a woman with a nimbus of white hair, hunched before a vegetable patch She is wearing what appears to be a kind of thickly woven sack, almost shapeless; her face, angled downward, is obscured “So who is she?” Wilcox says Logan just looks at him “I know what you’re thinking,” Wilcox says, holding up a hand in forbearance, “and pardon me, but no fucking way.” “She’s the sole human inhabitant of a continent that’s been depopulated for nine hundred years Give me another theory and I’ll listen.” “Maybe people came back without our knowing it.” “Possible But why just her? Why haven’t we found anybody else in thirty-six months?” “Maybe they don’t want to be found.” “She has no problem with it ‘Come to me’ sounds like an engraved invitation.” The conversation is drowned out by the roar of the lifter’s engines; a lurch and they are airborne again, rising vertically When a sufficient altitude is achieved, the nose tips upward as the rotors move to a horizontal position The lifter accelerates, coming in low over the water and then the coast The ocean vanishes All below them is trees, a carpet of green The noise is tremendous, each of them encased in a bubble of their own thoughts; there will be no more talking until they land Logan is drifting at the edge of sleep when he feels the lifter slowing He sits up and looks out the window Color That is the first thing he sees Reds, blues, oranges, greens, violets: extending from the forested base of the mountains to the sea, flowers paint the earth in an array of hues so richly prismatic it is as if light itself has shattered The rotors tilt; the aircraft begins to descend Logan breaks his gaze from the window to find Nessa staring at him Her eyes are full of a mute wonder that is, he knows, a mirror to his own “My God,” she mouths The camp is situated in a narrow depression separated from the wildflower field by a stand of trees In the main tent, Wilcox presents his team, about a dozen researchers, some of whom Logan is acquainted with from previous trips In turn, he introduces Nessa to the group, explaining only that she has come as “a special adviser.” The house’s resident, he is told, has been working in the garden since morning Logan issues instructions Everybody is to wait here, he says; under no circumstances should anyone approach the house until he and Nessa report back In Wilcox’s tent, they strip to their underclothes and don their yellow biosuits The afternoon is bright and hot; the suits will be sweltering Wilcox tapes the joints of their gloves and checks their air supplies “Good luck,” he says They make their way through the trees, into the field The house stands about two hundred meters distant “Logan…” Nessa says “I know.” Everything is perfect Everything is just the same, without the slightest deviation The flowers The mountains The sea The way the wind moves and the light falls Logan keeps his eyes forward, lest he be consumed by the powerful emotions roiling inside him Slowly, in their bulky suits, he and Nessa make their way across the field The house, one story, is homey and neat: wide-planked siding weathered to gray, a simple porch, a sod roof, from which a haze of green grass grows As promised, the woman is working in the dooryard, which is planted in rosebushes of several colors Logan and Nessa halt just outside the picket fence Kneeling in the dirt, the woman doesn’t notice them, or appears not to She is profoundly old With gnarled hands—fingers bent and stiffened, skin puckered in folds, knuckles fat as walnuts—she is plucking weeds and placing them in a bucket “Hello,” Logan says She offers no reply, just continues her work Her movements are patient and focused Perhaps she has not heard him Perhaps she is hard of hearing or deaf Logan tries again: “Good afternoon, ma’am.” She stops in the manner of someone alerted by a distant sound; slowly she raises her face Her eyes are rheumy, damp and faintly yellow She squints at him for perhaps ten seconds, fighting to focus Some of her teeth are gone, giving her mouth a pursed appearance “So, you’ve decided to come up, then,” she says Her voice is a coarse rasp “I was wondering when that would happen.” “My name is Logan Miles This is my friend Nessa Tripp I was hoping we could talk with you Would that be all right?” The woman has resumed her weeding She has also begun, faintly, to mutter to herself Logan glances at Nessa, whose face, behind her plastic mask, drips with sweat, as does his own “Would you like some help?” Nessa asks the woman The question appears to puzzle her The woman shifts backward onto her haunches “Help?” “Yes With the weeding.” Her mouth puckers “Do I know you, young lady?” “I don’t believe so,” Nessa replies “We’ve only just arrived.” “From where?” “Far away,” says Nessa “Very far away We’ve come a great distance to see you.” She points toward the field of rocks “We got your message.” The woman’s yellowed eyes follow Nessa’s gesture “Oh, that,” she says after a moment “Set that up a long time ago Can’t really remember the reason for it You say you want to help with the weeding, though—that’s fine Come on through the gate.” They enter the yard Nessa, taking the lead, kneels before the rose beds and begins to work, scooping the dirt aside with her thick gloves; Logan does the same Best, he thinks, to let the woman get used to their presence before pressing her further “The roses are lovely,” Nessa says “What kind are they?” The woman doesn’t answer She is scraping the ground with a metal claw She appears to take no interest in them whatsoever “So, how long have you been here?” Logan asks The woman’s hands stop, then, after a beat, resume working “Started work early this morning Garden doesn’t rest.” “No, I meant in this place How long have you lived here?” “Oh, a long time.” She plucks another weed and, unaccountably, places the green tip between her front teeth and nibbles on it, her jaws working like a rabbit’s With a sound of dissatisfaction, she shakes her head and tosses it in the bucket “Those suits you’re wearing,” she says “I think I’ve seen those before.” Logan is perturbed Has someone else been here? “When was that, you think?” “Don’t remember.” She purses her lips “I doubt they’re very comfortable You can wear what you like, though It’s not really my business.” More time passes The pail is nearly full “Now, I don’t believe we got your name,” Logan says to the woman “My name?” “Yes What are you called?” It is as if the question makes no sense to her The woman lifts her head and angles her gaze toward the sea Her eyes narrow in the bright oceanic light “No one around here to call me anything.” Logan glances at Nessa, who nods cautiously “But surely you have a name,” he presses The woman doesn’t answer The murmuring has returned Not murmuring, Logan realizes: humming Mysterious notes, almost tuneless but not quite “Did Anthony send you?” she asks Once again, Logan looks at Nessa Her face says that she, too, has made the connection: Anthony Carter, the third name on the stone “I don’t believe I know Anthony,” Logan tenders “Is he around here?” The woman frowns at the absurdity of this question, or so it seems “He went home a long time ago.” “Is he a friend of yours?” Logan waits for more, but there is none The woman takes a single rose between her thumb and forefinger The petals are fading, brittle and brown From the pocket of her dress she removes a small blade and clips the stem at the first tier of leaves and drops the wilted bloom in the pail “Amy,” Logan says She stops “Is that you? Are you…Amy?” With painstaking, almost mechanical slowness, she swivels her face She regards him for a moment, expressionless, then frowns as if puzzled “You’re still here.” Where would they have gone? “Yes,” says Nessa “We came to see you.” She shifts her eyes to Nessa, then back to Logan “Why are you still here?” Logan senses a deepening presence in her gaze Her thoughts are taking clearer form “Are you…real?” The question stops him But of course it makes sense that she would ask this It is the most natural question in the world, when one has been alone so long Are you real? “As real as you are, Amy.” “Amy,” she repeats It is as if she is tasting the word “I think my name was Amy.” More time goes by Logan and Nessa wait “Those suits,” she says “They’re because of me, aren’t they?” It surprises him, the thing he does next Yet he experiences not the slightest hesitation; the act feels ordained He removes his gloves and reaches up to the clasp that holds his helmet in place “Logan—” Nessa warns He pulls the helmet over his head and places it on the ground The taste of fresh air swarms his senses He breathes deeply, enriching his lungs with the scents of flowers and the sea “I think this is much better, don’t you?” he asks Tears have risen at the corners of the woman’s eyes A look of wonder comes “You’re really here.” Logan nods “You’ve come back.” Logan takes her hand It is nearly weightless, and alarmingly cold “I’m sorry it took us so long I’m sorry you have been alone.” A tear spills down her weathered cheek “After all this time, you’ve come back.” She is dying Logan wonders how he knows this, but then the answer comes: his mother’s note “Let her rest.” He has always assumed she was speaking of herself But now he understands that the message was for him, for this day “Nessa,” he says, not breaking his gaze from Amy, “go back to camp and tell Wilcox to gather his team and call for a second lifter.” “Why?” He turns his face to look at her “I need them to leave All their gear, everything except a radio Deliver the message and then come back I would be very grateful if you could that for me, please.” She pauses, then nods “Thank you, Nessa.” Logan watches as she passes through the flowers, into the trees, and out of sight So much color, he thinks So much life everywhere He feels tremendously happy A weight has lifted from his life “My mother dreamed of you, you know.” Amy’s head is bowed Tears fall down her cheeks in glistening rivers Is she happy? Is she sad? There is a joy so powerful it is like sadness, Logan knows, just as the opposite is also true “Many people have This place, Amy The flowers, the sea My mother painted pictures of it, hundreds of them She was telling me to find you.” He pauses, then says, “You were the one who wrote the names on the stone, weren’t you?” She gives the barest nod, grief flowing, rising out of the past “Brad Lacey Anthony Alicia Michael Sara Lucius All of them, your family, your Twelve.” Her answer comes in a whisper “Yes.” “And Peter Peter most of all ‘Peter Jaxon, Beloved Husband.’ ” “Yes.” Logan cups her chin and gently raises her face “It was a world you gave us, Amy Do you see? We are your children Your children, come home.” A quiet moment passes—a holy moment, Logan thinks, for within it he experiences an emotion entirely new to him It is the feeling of a world, a reality, expanding beyond its visible borders, into a vast unknown; and likewise does he believe that he—that everyone, the living and the dead and those yet to come—belong to this greater existence, one that outstrips time That is why he has come: to be an agent of this knowledge “Will you something for me?” he asks She nods Their time together will be brief; Logan knows this A day, a night, perhaps no more “Tell me the story, Amy.” DRAMATIS PERSONAE (In chronological order) B.V., OHIO, CAMBRIDGE, AND NEW YORK Timothy Fanning, a student Harold and Lorraine Fanning, his parents Jonas Lear, a student Frank Lucessi, a student Arianna Lucessi, his sister Elizabeth Macomb, a student Alcott Spence, a ne’er-do-well Stephanie Healey, a student Oscar and Patty Macomb, parents of Elizabeth Macomb Nicole Forood, an editor Reynaldo and Phelps, police detectives A.V., TEXAS REPUBLIC Alicia Donadio, a soldier Peter Jaxon, a laborer Amy Bellafonte Harper, the Girl from Nowhere Lore DeVeer, an oiler Caleb Jaxon, adopted son of Peter Jaxon Sara Wilson, a physician Hollis Wilson, her husband; a librarian Kate Wilson, their daughter Sister Peg, a nun Lucius Greer, a mystic Michael Fisher, an explorer Jenny Apgar, a nurse Carlos and Sally Jiménez, expectant parents Grace Jiménez , their daughter Anthony Carter, a gardener Pim, a foundling Victoria Sanchez, president of the Texas Republic Gunnar Apgar, general of the Army Ford Chase, president’s chief of staff The Maestro, an antiquarian Foto, a laborer Jock Alvado, a laborer Theo Jaxon, infant son of Caleb and Pim Jaxon Bill Speer, a gambler Elle and Merry (“Bug”) Speer, daughters of Kate Wilson Speer and Bill Speer Meredith, partner of Victoria Sanchez Rand Horgan, a mechanic Byron “Patch” Szumanski, a mechanic Weir, a mechanic Fastau, a mechanic Dunk Withers, a criminal Phil and Dorien Tatum, farmers Brian Elacqua, a physician George Pettibrew, a shopkeeper Gordon Eustace, a lawman Fry Robinson, his deputy Rudy, an Iowan The Possum Man’s wife, an Iowan Rachel Wood, a suicide Haley and Riley Wood, her daughters Alexander Henneman, an officer Hannah, a teenage girl, daughter of Jenny Apgar A.V., INDO-AUSTRALIAN REPUBLIC Logan Miles, a scholar Nessa Tripp, a reporter Race Miles, a pilot, son of Logan and Olla Miles Kaye Miles, a teacher, wife of Race Miles Olla Miles, ex-wife of Logan Miles Bettina, a horticulturalist, partner of Olla Miles Noa and Cam Miles, twin sons of Race and Kaye Miles Melville Wilcox, an archaeologist For my family ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thanks and yet more ponies to the usual suspects: Mark Tavani, Libby McGuire, Gina Centrello, Bill Massey, and the spectacular editing, marketing, production, sales, and publicity teams at Ballantine, Orion, and my many publishers around the world Y’all are going to need a bigger barn To Ellen Levine, my agent and friend of twenty years: you are a true treasure in my life In the course of writing the Passage trilogy, I’ve called upon the expertise of many individuals on subjects ranging from epidemiology to military strategy My gratitude to all A special shout-out to Dr Annette O’Connor of La Salle University, who has advised me on scientific questions since the beginning Although I generally adhere to a policy of strict realism in matters of geography and landscape, this is not always possible Respectful apologies to the fine citizens of Kerrville, Texas, for liberties taken with the area’s topography Similar adjustments have been made to the Houston Ship Channel and environs To Leslie, I say again: Without you, nothing Finally, special thanks to my daughter, Iris, who challenged me ten years ago to write a story about “a girl who saves the world.” Darlin’, here it is BY JUSTIN CRONIN The Summer Guest Mary and O’Neil THE PASSAGE TRILOGY The Passage The Twelve The City of Mirrors ABOUT THE AUTHOR JUSTIN CRONIN is the New York Times bestselling author of The Passage, The Twelve, The City of Mirrors, Mary and O’Neil (which won the PEN/Hemingway Award and the Stephen Crane Prize), and The Summer Guest Other honors for his writing include a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a Whiting Writers’ Award A Distinguished Faculty Fellow at Rice University, he divides his time between Houston, Texas, and Cape Cod, Massachusetts enterthepassage.com Facebook.com/justincroninauthor @jccronin What’s next on your reading list? Discover your next great read! Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author Sign up now ... Copyright © 2016 by Justin Cronin Maps and illustrations copyright © 2016 by David Lindroth, Inc All rights reserved Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House,... Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Cronin, Justin, author Title: The city of mirrors : a novel / Justin Cronin Description: First edition | New York : Ballantine Books,... The City of Mirrors is a work of fiction Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously