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Or the cold water closing over me.
Or the pressure of that water as I plummet into inky darkness.
I feel nothing. My nerves have been shut down or the pain receptors in my brain turned off.
Hundreds of feet above me, a tiny point of light, a pinprick, faint as the farthest star: the entry point. Also the exit po
int. I kick toward the star. My body is numb. My mind is empty. I’ve completely surrendered to the 12th System. It isn’t part of me anymore. The 12th System is me. We are one.
I am human. And I am not. Rising toward the star that shines in the ice-encrusted vault, a protogod ascending from the primordial deep, fully human, wholly alien, and I understand now; I know the answer to the impossible riddle of Evan Walker.
I shoot into the heart of the star and hurl myself over the edge onto the icecap. A couple of broken ribs, a fractured wrist, a deep gash in my forehead from the pilot’s harness, totally numb, completely out of breath, empty, whole, aware.
Alive.
76
I REACH THE SMOLDERING wreckage of the chopper by dawn. The crash site wasn’t hard to find: The Black Hawk went down in the middle of an open field covered in a fresh fall of snow. You could see the fire’s glow for miles.
I approach slowly from the south. To my right, the sun breaks the horizon and light shoots across the winterscape, setting ablaze a crystalline inferno, as if a billion diamonds had fallen from the sky.
My water-soaked clothes are frozen, crackling like kindling when I move, and sensation has been returned to me. The 12th System perpetuates my existence to perpetuate its own. It’s calling for rest, food, help with the healing process; that’s the purpose of giving me back my pain.
No. No rest until I find them.
The sky is empty. There is no wind. Smoke curls from the mangled remains of the chopper, black and gray, like the smoke that rose over Camp Haven carrying the incinerated remains of the slaughtered.
Where are you, Razor?
The sun climbs and the glare coming off the snow becomes blinding. The visual array adjusts my eyes: A dark filter with no discernable difference from sunglasses drops over my vision, and then I see a blot in the perfection of white about a mile to the west. I lie flat on my stomach, using a breaststroke motion to dig myself a small trench. At it draws closer, the dark imperfection takes on a human shape. Tall and thin, wearing a heavy parka and carrying a rifle, moving slowly against the ankle-gripping snow. Thirty minutes crawl by. When he’s a hundred yards away, I rise. He drops as if shot. I call his name, not loudly, though; sound carries farther in winter air.
His voice floats back to me, high pitched with anxiety. “Holy shit!”
He slogs for a few steps, then takes off running, lifting his knees high and pumping his arms like a determined cardio fiend on a treadmill. He stops an arm’s length from me, warm breath exploding from his open mouth.
“You’re alive,” he whispers. I see it in his eyes: Impossible.
“Where’s Teacup?”
He jerks his head behind him. “She’s okay. Well, I think her leg might be broken . . .”
I step around him and start walking the way he came. He trudges after me, fussing for me to slow down.
“I was about to give up on you,” he puffs. “No chute! What, you can fly now? What happened to your head?”
“I hit it.”
“Oh. Well, you look like an Apache. You know, war paint.”
“That’s the other quarter: Apache.”
“Seriously?”
“What do you mean, you think she broke her leg?”
“Well, what I mean is I think her leg might be broken. With the help of your x-ray vision, maybe you can definitively diagnose—”
“This is strange.” I’m studying the sky as we walk. “Where’s the pursuit? They would have marked the location.”
