Dawson Island, just off La Perdita, the Caribbean
One morning, exactly two years before Landfall
Leslie Smith’s back ached even more than usual as she finished washing her face and looked up into the mirror. Morning sickness was supposed to at least die down, if not disappear, by the end of the first trimester. How’s that workin’ out for ya? Her typically lovely light-brown eyes were lined with the telltale markings of many sleepless nights, her normally luxuriant auburn hair tied back into a haphazard ponytail. She could feel how agonizingly swollen her feet and ankles had become, but even as she looked down she was reminded of three particularly prominent reasons she couldn’t see them. And, of course, the only clothes that fit her comfortably were more or less tents with patterns the magazines swore were slimming.
If one more person tells me I’m glowing, I swear to God I’m shooting them in the face.
<You’re positively glowing today, Mrs. Smith…>
“Asshole,” Leslie mumbled around her toothbrush as Phil strode into the colonial manor’s bathroom, smirking. The telepath’s half-smile faded as he studied his reflection. “Still white, babe,” Leslie observed for him, evening the score. Phil Smith had never looked into a mirror in quite the same way since his return from the hereafter, but his wife suspected it had less to do with Alice and with Phil’s brief tour of duty with the Order than with the formerly dark-haired psionic being sent back with a short shock of pure white on his head. For all his abilities and virtues, Phil was still a good bit more vain than he was probably aware of.
“Thanks for reminding me,” he replied – out loud this time. “Hey – didn’t they insist you’d stop puking by four months at the latest?”
Leslie rolled her eyes. “Thanks for reminding me,” she echoed before seeing his concern. She paused. “I’m okay. The baby’s okay. Don’t worry about a thing.” She smiled and kissed him.
“I believe you,” the telepath insisted as he circled around and put his arms around her from behind. “You know I can’t help but worry sometimes, though.”
“I know,” the heavily pregnant former bounty hunter replied as she studied their collective reflection in the mirror. “But really, we’re okay. Worrying only borrows trouble – whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen, and there’s only so much even you can do. Especially about this.” She gently pulled free of his embrace and turned to face him. “Besides, you have some very important business to attend to today.”
Phil nodded as he straightened his white tie. He’d taken a page from an old friend when he found himself the leader of Vanguard and traded his black tactical gear and bandoliers of ammo and gadgets for finely-tailored white suits. The ammo was just dead weight anyway – when you’ve been sent back from the dead under the single very strict condition that you never take another human life for any cause, it tends to discourage the carrying of firearms. “We’re almost done with the final negotiations. We’ll break for lunch once we hit a stopping point, that’ll give the media and politicians time to get in on it, and unless something very odd happens we’ll sign it in the mid-to-late afternoon.”
It was the final draft of the International Metahuman/Posthuman Enfranchisement Treaty – the document hammered out in front of UN officials and heads of state from around the globe, finally guaranteeing legal protection and equal rights for all metahumans and posthumans. While it had been several years since any government or individual had deliberately taken direct action to harm metas, in most of the world they were, effectively, the same second-class citizens they’d been treated as for decades. Their awesome powers had evoked only judgment and suspicion from fearful “norms”, but thanks to the successes of metahuman groups such as Vanguard and the accomplishments of individuals such as Phil Smith, the tide was turning, with IMPET finally giving metas the world over the freedom to claim their future – whatever that future might hold. No more registrations, no more forced relocations, no more government- and military-sanctioned experimentation; IMPET ultimately represented Phil’s life’s work – at least, the portion of his life he’d had control over. And delegations from the US and other governments had been arriving on La Perdita for the past several days to make it a reality.
“And correct me if I’m wrong,” Leslie continued amid Phil’s contemplation, “but aren’t you supposed to be meeting the media in front of Parliament half an hour before everyone gets together inside?”
Phil turned and looked at the antique clock on the far wall of the master suite. “Shit.”
“You can read minds,” Leslie mused as she reached for the concealer, “but you won’t wear a damn watch.”
“You going out today?” Phil asked, trying not to sound like too much of a worrier as he scrambled to cram everything into his attaché case. Between the waterproofed genuine calfskin and the crushed black velvet, the shell was feather-light carbon fiber layered with enough Kevlar to stop a .308. He’d never needed those features and probably never would, but it was ruinously expensive, and that had to mean something.
“Is this where I’m supposed to ask your permission?” Leslie asked as she smoothed over the more obvious lines in the mirror. “I need a halfway-decent dress if you really want me to waddle my pregnant ass in front of those cameras with you. And since you were a bit too optimistic and jumped the gun to buy blue everything for the nursery so long ago I can’t return it all now, I’m gonna try to donate some of it to someone who needs it before I go buy orange stuff.”
“Orange?”
“Why pink?” Leslie demanded as she started in with the eyeliner. “Everyone does pink. This child is gonna get lost in a sea of little girls all in pink soon enough – she deserves to stand out for the first year or two at least.”
“Fair enough.” Phil looked over at her. “You’re not going by yourself… this close, are you?”
Leslie sighed. “Babe. We have three weeks left. I know what I’m doing. Bri’s coming with me once Brian’s nanny shows up. We’re gonna do a little shopping, and then we’re gonna come get our pictures taken with you and the boys before you all go off to get smashed.”
Phil started to protest as he went for the boat keys, but stopped in his tracks. His head tilted slightly to the side the way it usually did. A faint smile creased the corner of his mouth.
“What?” Leslie knew that look.
“Still learning the language,” Phil explained, “but I think she liked the lasagna last night.”
“You mean this morning,” Leslie confessed as she rechecked the symmetry of her handiwork. “I snuck downstairs and nuked about half of it while you were asleep.” Phil smirked but didn’t answer. “Like I said,” Leslie grumbled as she took a step back and looked down at as much of herself as she could comfortably see, “pregnant ass.”
“I’m not complaining,” Phil replied with a sly smile. “Preggo-you pushes all the same buttons.”
Leslie wasn’t convinced, and she found her husband’s expression irritating. “The hell is that look?” she asked, perturbed, though by now she didn’t need any sort of telepathic link to know what was coming.
Phil poked his head in the doorway, just outside of striking range. “Ti-i-i-i-itsss…”
“Sonofabitch!” Leslie flung a wadded-up hand towel at him, but the nimble psionic had already dodged away and was heading down the stairs toward the front door.
“Love you!” he called over his shoulder as he retreated.
“Go fuck yourself!” Leslie called back. “…Love you too…”
The empath returned to the mirror as she heard the door slam. She picked up the mascara, then paused and regarded the woman in the mirror for a moment. She looked down and adjusted each one furtively, then grinned wickedly at herself.
He did make a pretty compelling argument…
