“It’s plainly impossible,” Moreland was saying indignantly, “that these vicious entities were ever human beings. Those claims are pure propaganda.”
“But the facial resemblance?” the newscaster objected in a weak voice. “There are records of a Lucette Gray Korchak. A troubled eighth grader who was presumed to have committed suicide in Pittley, Alaska, in April of last year. So are you suggesting that General Lucette Gray Korchak is actually someone else?”
The image was suddenly replaced by two very close-up faces juxtaposed side by side. On the right was Luce, wounded and exhilarated and fierce, as she’d leaned from the wave’s flank during her conversation with the reporters. On the left was what Luce recognized with a jolt as her seventh-grade portrait from school, her gaze scared and full of longing. Together those two faces created an unsettling stirring, a sense of something irreconcilable and rasping and wrong, because they were so much the same but also not the same at all. Objectively there was no real alteration in Luce’s features between the two portraits, apart from the notch missing from her right ear, her fine crisscrossing wounds, and the strange internal luminance that gave the mermaid version of her face the feeling of a beacon floating in infinite darkness. It was precisely the sameness of the two faces that created such a disturbing sense of impossibility: how could the commonplace childish prettiness of her human face translate into the volatile, raking beauty of the face on the right? Luce heard murmurs around her and realized that both Yuan and Imani were squeezed against her sides as if they needed to protect her from something.
The screen switched back to the interview. “Our research suggests that these creatures can assume a resemblance to their victims,” Moreland intoned heavily, then paused for effect. “The real Lucette Korchak—an innocent although seriously disturbed child—was almost certainly murdered by this monster who has hijacked her identity.”
Around Luce mermaids cried out in indignation and disbelief. But didn’t some of the humans facing them look troubled, uncertain? Luce couldn’t completely blame them: it had been hard even for her to stand the dissonance between those two faces. Even as she remembered the cold metal stool where she’d sat for that school portrait, the bleak room and glaring flash, she could still feel a kind of shudder of persuasion in Moreland’s words.
Moreland kept going. “We also need to remember what happened to Kathleen Lambert of Grayshore, Washington, when she made the mistake of getting involved with these unnatural beings. It’s certainly a striking coincidence that Ms. Lambert turned up drowned so soon after videotaping this self-styled General Luce. Anyone out there who’s considering aiding mermaids, or trying to contact them—” Moreland’s voice became a bleak growl—“would be well advised to keep Ms. Lambert’s fate in mind.”
Yuan stared. “What is he talking about? You said somebody filmed you, Luce, but—”
Luce felt nauseous. “I don’t know. I only saw those people with the camera for a few seconds!” Had the strange woman Luce had glimpsed that day somehow died because of her? But that made no sense at all.
“The woman who put out the first tape of you was found drowned,” Helene Vogel confirmed softly, her hat sliding over her eyes. “People have been talking about it. I’m not accusing you, General Luce . . .”
Luce stared up at the humans lining the shore, bewildered and heartsick. Their skin was damp with fog, hazy with the faded afternoon light. No matter how she struggled to put a stop to the killing it seemed that there was always death, and more death, and maybe in some obscure way it was her fault . . .
“General Luce,” Helene Vogel asked, gently but steadily, “did you kill that woman? Or order her killed?”
Luce shook her head miserably. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I’m so sorry if . . . if she died because of . . .”
Helene nodded. “Then don’t allow anyone to manipulate you into feeling responsible, general.”
Yuan’s arm was tight around Luce’s shoulders, silently urging her to be strong, and meanwhile the voices from the interview kept beating into her mind. She needed to focus on what they were saying, no matter how she felt.
“So—I know you’ve stated before that there’s no possibility of agreeing to the Twice Lost Army’s demands—is it correct that General Luce’s letter doesn’t change the White House’s position on that?” The newscaster’s voice pounded on like a drum.
“I’ve said it before and if necessary I’ll say it again,” Moreland droned. “We do not negotiate with mermaids!”
That made Luce jerk back in shock. “But—why shouldn’t they negotiate with us! It just means talking to us. Like we count.”
“And as for resolving the blockade of San Francisco Bay?” the newscaster pursued. “You’ve appealed for patience, and of course there’s been a real outpouring of support from the business community so far. But—”
“All options are still on the table,” Moreland snapped. “Naval traffic will be redirected to alternative ports until such time as we’re ready to move on this.”
Luce bit her lip and leaned toward Imani’s shoulder. Her eyes squeezed shut with the effort to hold back tears. Beyond the darkness of her closed eyes the newscaster nattered on, thanking Moreland for taking the time to talk to their viewers. Why were mermaids the only ones who were considered unworthy of meeting in conversation? If the humans wouldn’t even talk to them, it was hard to imagine what else the mermaids could do.
There were a few commercials for cars and alarming-sounding medicines. How much longer could she ask the Twice Lost to go on this way if there was no hope of negotiations at all? A blurt of shrill music announced a return to the news program.
“Well, we’ve all been wondering about the crowds who can’t seem to tear themselves away from the Golden Gate Bridge,” the newscaster’s voice suddenly thudded on. “It’s certainly hard to understand why some people in the Bay Area are expressing support for the mermaids.”
“That’s San Francisco for you!” a man’s voice smirked.
The female newscaster gave a dull laugh. “That’s certainly one explanation, Tim. But now we’re getting reports that even in Chicago—far away from the crazy Bay Area—there’s a demonstration happening right now. A crowd estimated at around five thousand people is marching in support of the Twice Lost Army. To you, Constance.”
Luce looked up again—and what she saw was even more intolerable than Moreland’s bland, cold face had been. The screen showed a large procession of people carrying signs. And right there, unmistakably, at the very front of it—
“Oh my God!” Cala squealed. “That is just so sweet of them!”
Two teenage boys were leading the march. A large banner stretched between them was emblazoned with the words All Life Came from the Sea. A wild wind stirred the tarnished bronze-blond hair of the boy on the left, and his expression was grim and determined even as his dark-haired friend grinned absurdly.
But even worse than that—
“Oh, I love that boy!” Cala called giddily. “Do you see what his shirt says? That is just the sweetest, most adorable thing—”
Yuan wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. She’d suddenly craned forward to stare into Luce’s face. Luce wouldn’t meet her eyes.