“Finance,” she said. “Middle management.” If she didn’t get control of the conversation again soon, they’d find her name and look her up online, and then this little gambit of hers would backfire entirely. They’d believe a Tucker daughter would fetch a fortune.
There was a short cry to her left. Someone tipped forward and landed on their shoulders and forehead, forming a body caret. The two militants looked at each other, then at Mia.
“See if she’s okay,” Mia said. “I think that’s an older person.”
They helped the woman up, taking off her blindfold and binding her wrists in her lap, so she could lean back against the wall. Mia thought she recognized her—a college professor and civil rights activist who’d written a book about ethics, citizenship, and the International Legion.
In the midst of chaos, Mia thought, there is also opportunity. Some famous dead person had said that.
“You should get her water,” she said, loud enough for the two militants but also for the other hostages. The woman was aware but disoriented. “And maybe a wet towel? It’s really hot.”
The younger one took a step toward the bar but the older one stopped him. “Hey, officer! You’re not in charge here.”
Some of the other hostages were stirring and began grumbling; through their pantyhose blindfolds they could see the two armed guards looming over the professor, either feeling bad for her or feeling jealous that she was able to set her back against the wall.
“You’re in charge, absolutely,” Mia said, recalling from the SERE class the importance of projecting deference. “Just trying to help.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Given how this could look. Like, media-wise.”
The older veteran’s nostrils flared. “Explain.”
“Well. You have been very professional. But say this turns out to be serious, heatstroke, a concussion or something. Older black woman, mostly white vets… you know how reporters are. They might make it racial.”
“We’re trying to recruit more people of color.” The younger militant looked upset. “We have a few Asians and Latinos. A Haitian runs our community force.”
“I’m a doctor.” One of the bound hostages spoke up. “I can check on her!”
The hostage next to him said, “Stop. You’re a dentist.”
“Everyone calm down!” the older militant shouted, pointing his rifle into the air. “We got this.” He looked back at Mia. “The Mayday Front supports people of all colors, creeds, and orientations. We work for the good of all warfighters. For anyone who’s done their part.”
“I know that,” Mia said. “But will citizens unfamiliar with your movement?”
Choice passed through the militants like wildfire. Soldiers loved to complain about the decision making of their sergeants and officers. It was a proud tradition, one ancient as battle itself. But Mia had seen this quizzical look before, many times. They either rose to the moment or they didn’t.
“We should let someone check her out,” the younger one said, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder. “The ma’am, she’s right. This could go bad.”
“We should’ve brought walkie-talkies,” the older one said, mostly to himself. “No one ever listens to me.” Then he said he was going to find their medic to treat the professor, which really meant asking someone else for guidance.
“Watch them close,” he told the other militant. “Back in ten.”
And just like that, Mia Tucker cut down the enemy force by half.
* * *
Mia took a shallow, measured breath and sequenced through possible next steps. She’d caught some luck, being left the green militant instead of the skeptical one. If the professor was playing at illness, or better yet wasn’t, that would keep him distracted. Which would free her up to start communicating with the nearest hostages and gauging who could see, who could move their wrists, et cetera…
“Psst. Mia.”
The whisper was soft as light and she thought she’d imagined it until it tickled at her ears a second time. “Mia. It’s me.”
She turned her head to the right and saw nothing. She turned her head to the left and saw nothing. She loosed a small cough, hoping, trying impossibly to convey: What do you want?
It was Sebastian, the invisible man. He’d escaped, somehow, and was creeping around the ballroom. She wanted to tell him to stop, to go away, that she was in the middle of something and that she’d had training for this something and while it hadn’t been a lot of training it was still better than no training and she was making progress and that sometimes the best action was inaction especially around jumpy young men with guns and whatever it was he thought he was doing, he needed to stop, time now.
But she couldn’t say that. She couldn’t say anything. The militant guard was still ten feet from her, giving the professor a glass of water and two pain relievers from a cargo pocket.
“I’m going to slide a butter knife under your dress on the right side,” Sebastian whispered. “Don’t worry, I won’t look or anything.”
Mia wheezed between her teeth and tensed her back but she sensed the knife already placed and Sebastian already gone. She raised her eyes again and the young veteran was looking over at her, naked questions rolling across the flat berm of his face.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she said, knowing it was too late. For the should-be Mormon pamphleteer, the quiet fear of being left alone now metastasized into panic. Because of Sebastian, she would be the focus of it. He walked over in four steps and hauled her upward with a jerk of her elbow. The butter knife lay between her feet, conspicuous as a bazooka. The militant looked at it for a few seconds, blinking. Mia regretted not telling him that she was pregnant, for the same reason she hadn’t earlier. Babies scared boys.
“Ma’am,” the militant said, careful and conscious, which impressed her. The type of wars America fought in the world needed more soldiers like him. “I have to take you to the bosses.”
“I understand,” she said.
As he put her blindfold back on and led her to the ballroom stage, something inside her twinged again. She knew then that she’d be flying out of that ballroom, her child safe and settled within. No one else here, rich or poor, perpetrator or victim, superpowered or citizen, mattered the way that did.
* * *
What followed coalesced even in the moment. This made sequencing the events difficult for Mia, as she was asked to the next day by Bureau investigators. Her mind, her attention, had lain solely on escape. She’d seen the ballroom, yes, she’d heard the ballroom, yes, but had she known it, did she understand it? She thought no, and said so. Disorder was disorder, and disorder was anything but comprehension. She used her power to save her unborn. She did that and she did that alone. Anything else that happened was extraneous, disruptions for her captors and disruptions she was thankful for, but beyond her.
Still, she tried.
The young veteran walked her to the center stage, her hands bound behind her. She could see through the pantyhose blindfold, but not well. He’d secured it tighter than before. The governor, General Collins, and the detained celebrities had been cobbled together and put on their knees. Across from them, Pete Swenson and two others were being held in the same position but with rifles fixed on them. These men have forgotten their training, she remembered thinking, because an American soldier never raises a weapon unless they intend on firing it. Veteran Zero began shouting about the movie man, where was the movie man? One of the militants said they’d taken him to the bathroom but now they couldn’t find him, just his pile of clothes. That’d made Veteran Zero shout even more; who loses someone in a seersucker suit, he wanted to know, his protests bouncing off the ballroom ceilings. Then he’d slapped one of the kneeling men across the face, loosing a trembling echo of flesh and teeth.