“The guns are tokens,” he used to say. “To prove we’re who we say we are. The progressive papers might be satisfied with a few fulfilled prophecies, but what does that mean to Chief Joseph or a black family in Grant Parish?” He had never included more than a single clip of ammunition with any of the Glocks he shipped to endangered communities. “It’s a way of saying, expect violence. Of saying, we have seen the future, and it fucks you over, and some of us aren’t okay with that.”

The part about expecting violence was undeniably true. That violence was erupting all around them, in the repeal of Reconstruction, the murders in the South, war between workers and the railroads—in the mob attack on Chinatown, maybe even in this Nob Hill mansion. She had heard two detonations in the last few minutes, the first and louder of them accompanied by a burst of light. She remembered, two summers ago in Paris, a seminar for activists that had taught her the basics of noise cannons, kettling, tear gas, and concussion grenades. Bright light, big noise, no flame—was it actually possible that Jesse or Elizabeth had detonated a flash-bang?

She wasn’t sure what to make of Elizabeth DePaul, who worked for Mercy’s father but who seemed a little more thoughtful than the job description would suggest. Jesse Cullum was even more enigmatic, a local hire whose term of employment was obviously coming to an end and whose loyalty to August Kemp had probably reached its best-before date. Which was maybe why they had come here to do whatever they were doing, rather than taking Mercy and Theo to the docks as had been arranged. Some urgent and violent errand of Jesse’s, Mercy guessed, which must have gone bad in a big way, if grenades were being deployed.

But on a purely intuitive level, for no defensible logical reason, she wanted to trust Jesse Cullum. Elizabeth, on the other hand … had Elizabeth really learned that this slice of Hilbert space was not Frontierland? Or was she still clinging to the illusion the City fostered, of the past as a kind of disposable virtual reality, a dream that vanished as soon as you took the goggles off?

“We might have to get out of here,” Theo said; this, too, not for the first time. “If things get completely crazy.”

“But not yet.”

“But if we do have to get out, even without this fucking wrist cuff—”

“You can tie my jacket around your waist, so you won’t get arrested for public indecency, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

But what then? Where would they go? Theo’s accomplices in this world, mostly runners, had set up bank accounts he could draw on in an emergency. But the evacuation of City people from both coasts had thrown that network into disarray. All but the most fanatical runners had already decamped for the plains of Illinois.

We’re a long way out on a thin limb, Mercy thought; and it was making Theo crazy.

She looked outside again. Events at the house had attracted the attention of the crowd that had gathered to watch the fires consuming the Chinese quarter. But the house was surrounded by walls, and although the gates were open, the onlookers stayed outside them, out of some instinctive deference to the property and prerogatives of the rich. Nothing new, she was about to tell Theo, but then a figure lurched out of the darkness, heading straight for the coach.

A meaty hand landed on the door handle and yanked it open. Jesse Cullum leaned inside.

Mercy almost failed to recognize him. His expression was a mask of grief or outrage, and worse, his face was speckled with blood: There was a dime-sized spot of it above his right eye and smaller dots clustered around his cheek, as if he had been flecked with a blood-brush. He looked at Mercy but didn’t seem especially interested in her. “Sit tight,” he said in a flat voice. “I’ll drive the rig up to the house. Once we’re inside, you can talk to your father by radio.”

His right hand was bloody, too. The blood, oily black by moonlight, seemed to be leaking from the cuff of his shirt, also sodden with blood. “Are you hurt?”

“A little. There are people inside who are hurt worse.”

“I can help,” she said.

He looked at her dubiously.

“Seriously,” she said. “I volunteered at a hospital when I was doing pre-med. I’m not squeamish, and I can do basic first aid.”

“All right,” Jesse said. He closed the door, climbed onto the driver’s bench, and set the carriage in motion.

*   *   *

Elizabeth improvised a compression bandage for Phoebe’s wound while Jesse was out retrieving the carriage.

He came back into the house with Mercy and Theo trailing behind him, rubbing their wrists where Jesse had cut away the flex cuffs. Mercy rushed to the sofa where Phoebe was lying, muttering something about her med-school training. Elizabeth was skeptical—she had pegged Kemp’s daughter as the kind of dilettante who wears Prada to a sit-in—but she stood back while Mercy examined the unconscious girl. “Good job stanching the wound,” Mercy said, “but you must know she needs more than a bandage.”

“Her name is Phoebe. And yeah, I do know that.”

“She’s bleeding internally, her pulse is weak—she needs serious medical attention as soon as possible.”

“Obviously. I was about to radio your father.”

“Call him now,” Mercy said, which was fairly presumptuous for someone who had recently been cuffed to a guy without pants. But there was nothing wrong with the advice.

Elizabeth nodded. “I will. In the meantime you should look after Jesse’s arm.”

“If he’ll let me. Are there any other injuries?”

“Nothing serious. There’s a stack of bodies upstairs, but the survivors are all down here.”

“What about you?” Mercy was eyeing Elizabeth’s shirt where she had bled into it.

“When you have time,” Elizabeth said.

*   *   *

Elizabeth took the radio to an adjoining room. The radio reminded her of an antique mobile phone: It had a collapsible antenna, which she extended to its fullest length, and she stood by the window to use it, as if it might work better if it had a clear view toward Oakland.

This wasn’t the easiest call Elizabeth had ever made, but it was probably the most urgent. The voice that came crackling back at her was August Kemp’s, and he was pissed. “Where the fuck are you? You missed the rendezvous—what’s your status?”

“We’re halfway up Nob Hill, and we have injured requiring evac.”

“Is Mercy—”

“Mercy’s all right. She’s here, she’s okay, but there’s no way we can get her to the docks tonight.”

“Okay … so who’s injured? You?”

“Jesse and I sustained minor injuries, but we’re basically okay. But we have a young woman who took a bullet and needs attention ASAP.”

“A local?”

“She was hurt while we were on City business.” Not strictly true, but it was a useful lie.

Kemp said, “We’re not in the business of patching up locals.”

Mercy Kemp came into the room. Elizabeth turned to face the window. A reef of cloud had rolled in from the sea, reflecting the glare of the Chinatown fires, as if the clouds themselves were about to burst into flame. “She’ll die without help.”

“I’m truly sorry to hear that, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“We have a moral obligation—”

“You picked the wrong time to lecture me about morality. Give me your location and I’ll arrange to evacuate you and my daughter. And here’s a clue: The next words out of your mouth should be ‘yes sir’ and ‘thank you.’”

Elizabeth stared at the radio. This was going south even faster than she had feared.

Mercy put a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Let me talk to him.”

“What?”

“Just let me talk.”

Elizabeth was annoyed, but anything that might change Kemp’s mind was worth a try. She showed Mercy the send/receive button and handed over the device. After that, all she could hear was Mercy’s end of the conversation: