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Michael poured a second shot into Peter’s glass and pushed it toward him. “Drink this.”

“I don’t want another.”

“Believe me, you do.”

—

Michael was waiting for Peter to say something. His friend was standing at the window, looking out into the night, though Michael doubted he was seeing much of anything.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I know it’s not good news.”

“How can you be so damn sure?”

“You’re going to have to trust me.”

“That’s all you’ve got? Trust you? I’m committing about five felonies just talking to you.”

“It’s going to happen. The virals are coming back. They were never really gone to begin with.”

“This is…insane.”

“I wish it were.”

Michael had never felt so sorry for anyone since the day he’d sat on the porch with Theo, a lifetime ago, and told him the batteries were failing.

“This other viral—” Peter began.

“Fanning. The Zero.”

“Why do you call him that?”

“It’s how he knows himself. Subject Zero, the first one infected. The documents Lacey gave us in Colorado described thirteen test subjects, the Twelve plus Amy. But the virus had to come from somewhere. Fanning was the host.”

“So what’s he waiting for? Why didn’t he attack us years ago?”

“All I know is, I’m glad he didn’t. It’s bought us the time we needed.”

“And Greer knows this because of some…vision.”

Michael waited. Sometimes, he knew, that was what you had to do. The mind refused certain things; you had to let resistance run its course.

“Twenty-one years since we opened the gate. Now you waltz in here and tell me it was all a big mistake.”

“I know this is hard, but you couldn’t know. No one could. Life had to go on.”

“Just what would you have me tell people? Some old man had a bad dream, and I guess we’re all dead after all?”

“You’re not going to tell them anything. Half of them won’t believe you; the other half will lose their minds. It’ll be pandemonium—everything will fall apart. People will do the math. We only have room for seven hundred on the ship.”

“To go to this island.” Peter gestured dismissively at Greer’s painting. “This picture in his head.”

“It’s more than a picture, Peter. It’s a map. Who really knows where it comes from? That’s Greer’s department, not mine. But he saw it for a reason, I know that much.”

“You always seemed so goddamned sensible.”

Michael shrugged. “I admit, the whole thing took some getting used to. But the pieces fit. You read that letter. The Bergensfjord was headed there.”

“And just who decides who goes? You?”

“You’re the president—that’s ultimately your call. But I think you’ll agree—”

“I’m not agreeing to anything.”

Michael took a breath. “I think you’ll agree that we need certain skills. Doctors, engineers, farmers, carpenters. We need leadership, obviously, so that includes you.”

“Don’t be absurd. Even if what you say is right, which is ridiculous, there’s no way I’d go.”

“I’d rethink that. We’ll need a government, and the transition should be as smooth as possible. But that’s a subject for later.” Michael removed a small, leather-wrapped notebook from his pack. “I’ve drafted a manifest. There are some names, people I know who fit the bill, and we’ve included their immediate families. Age is a factor, too. Most are under forty. Otherwise there are job descriptions grouped by category.”

Peter accepted the notebook, opened it to the first page, and began to read.

“Sara and Hollis,” he said. “That’s good of you.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic. Caleb’s in there, too, in case you were wondering.”

“What about Apgar? I don’t see him anywhere.”

“The man is what? Sixty-five?”

Peter shook his head with a look of disgust.

“I know he’s your friend, but we’re talking about rebuilding the human race.”

“He’s also general of the Army.”

“As I said, these are just recommendations. But take them seriously. I’ve given the matter a lot of thought.”

Peter read the rest without comment, then looked up. “What’s this last category, these fifty-six spots?”