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.”
“I’ve seen nothing. Like they just gave up.”
I shake my head. “They don’t give up. How much farther, Razor?”
“Another mile? Don’t worry, I got her tucked away nice and safe.”
“Why’d you leave her?”
He looks at me sharply, dumbstruck for a second. But only for a second. Razor doesn’t stay speechless for long. “To look for you. You told me to meet you by the fire. Sort of generic directions. You could have said, ‘Meet me at the crash site where I put this chopper down. That fire.’”
We walk for a few minutes in silence. Razor is out of breath. I’m not. The arrays will sustain me until I reach her, but I have a feeling that when I crash, I’ll crash hard.