"Come on, Lulu," Julian said. "You did it. They're waving us in."
He and Jake were standing over me, dog-tired and dirty as losers at tug-o'-war. I couldn't seem to move or look them in the face. Everything was a hazy jumble of accusatory ghosts, an ever-growing population of those I had wronged crowding my aching head. I was out of my mind. It's a strange thing to be mad and to know it.
"Tyrell's dead," I muttered.
Julian wasn't listening. "Come on, we gotta go."
"We left them there to die. I couldn't tell you."
"She's out of it, man," said Jake, crying.
"I lied about the rations, too. They were giving me extra the whole time."
"Lulu, it's okay."
"They're all dead! Don't you get it?"
"Lulu, it's okay, it's okay." Julian knelt beside me, trying to get me to look at him. "Whatever you're talking about, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that we're still here, and that's because of you. You saved us."
Resisting, wanting to shout, Shut up! Shut up! You're so stupid! I melted and sobbed, "No…"
"Lulu, what do you have? If we're going to survive, you have to tell us what's going on. Obviously, you know something we don't. Quick, before they get here."
Angrily meeting his eyes, I said, "I have something these people want. Something Cowper gave me."
Jake exhaled harshly, head bobbing.
"What is it?" Julian asked me.
"Kind of a… Xombie vaccine. A miracle cure."
"For Agent X? Are you serious?"
"For everything. It's what Agent X was supposed to be: some kind of elixir of life for the fabulously wealthy." I couldn't stop a loony giggle from bursting out. "It's the gift that keeps on giving."
"Are you serious?" Julian took me roughly by the shoulders. "Where is it?"
"Hidden on the boat."
"Holy shit! Lulu! And you didn't tell anyone?" Horror and outrage were driving the initial disbelief from his voice. His hands were a pair of live wires. I could see he felt betrayed, not just for himself but for the whole human race.
"I didn't know," I said. "I didn't realize where it was until just now!"
Julian was about to kill me or something, but Jake stepped in, and said giddily, "She's fucking bluffing, dude. Can't you see that? She's bluffing the fuckers!"
Julian wavered, taken aback. "What?"
"Of course she's bluffing. She's buying us time, tricking them into letting us back on the boat. She's playing 'em!"
Julian turned to me. "Is that what's going on, Lulu? Because if you're not bluffing, and this shit is real, then you absolutely cannot give it to them. It's our only leverage. If you hand it over, we got nothing."
Jake said, "Don't you see? That's the beauty of it. It doesn't even matter if it's real or not. All that matters is that they think it's real! She's got it all worked out!"
"Do you, Lulu?"
I couldn't bring myself to answer. To let them down.
"Ice-cold, man," Jake marveled. "You think she's gonna tell you? Chick is ice-cold."
Don came galloping out the gate, ivory fangs gnashing. The sight of that red, white, and blue-daubed monster ripped us from our funk.
"Bad monkey!" Jake gibbered.
I held their sleeves, and said, "Stay calm, he's tame, he's tame. Just wait."
"Are you sure?"
"He's friendly, you'll see."
"Are you sure?" There was no fight left in them, but they stood their ground, instinctively shielding me from the fantastic beast. Don raced around behind and menaced us toward the compound. Jake said, "If that thing bites me, I'm gonna freak."
"Just walk. He's not going to bite you, trust me." As I said this I caught a peripheral look at the squirming remains of Hector and Shawn, a scalding rebuke to my continued prideful existence. Trust me. The peat fire that was my madness suddenly flared up, and I ran to them, diving to my knees amid their loose parts and trying to piece them back together or something. I don't know what I was doing. Just before Julian dragged me away, I had picked up a small piece of Hector and swallowed it. Screwing my eyes shut, I pressed on the implant with the heel of my hand until pain routed everything else.
Laser dots swarmed us like persistent flies as we were shepherded through the gate.
"Anytime, Lulu."
Colonel Lowenthal's weaselly voice, amplified by the intercom, was piercingly loud in the confines of the cell, a brightly lit metal tank exactly like the ones I had seen holding Cowper and the other Xombies. This time I was on the mirrored side of the glass, sandwiched between Jake and Julian in a space about the size of a phone booth.
I looked at our scruffy reflection and summoned the words, "I want to make a trade." It was not me speaking, but it was so sane-sounding, I said it again: "I want to make a trade."
"We've already made one. I fulfilled my end of the bargain, now it's your turn."
"I'm not going to tell you anything until you return our people to the boat."
"I see."
"Once we're all out there, and Captain Coombs is back in charge, I will let him set the conditions under which we will hand over the materials. I don't think I can make that determination on my own."
"Really? You mean to say that's too much responsibility for an underdeveloped seventeen-year-old girl to handle? I'm shocked. And here I was all prepared to fold."
"Fuck you," said Julian.
"I'm sorry," Lowenthal said, anything but. "I shouldn't joke. It's just funny to me that you think you're in a position to negotiate. You sound like some of the guys we had to deal with here, all polished brass, as if military protocol was some kind of natural law like gravity. They couldn't tell which way the wind was blowing until it blew them away. It was really sad. Lucky for me, I guess. But you're just like them-you think you're privileged to hold on to your illusions, exempt from anything that doesn't suit you. Haven't you learned anything by now? Maybe they let you get away with this on the sub, but if so, I don't know why you're demanding to have that jackass Coombs be put back in charge. Captain Lulu is more like it."
"If you think you're intimidating me, you're wrong," I said. "I know how important what I have is to you. You and your Moguls. Well, tell them they'll never get it without me, not until you set us free."
"Ooooh. Listen to her. Hey, it may be true we'll never find it, lady, but at this point I seriously doubt you know anything helpful. I personally think your papa destroyed it, if it ever really existed, but I'll keep searching every inch of that sub until I know for sure, even if it takes a year. Either way I'm not cutting any more deals. All you're doing now is grasping at straws, trying to buy time. I respect that-it's what I would do in your position-but unless you have something real to offer, it has to end now."
"It is real. I could take you to it right now, right this second, but I guarantee you'll never find it if anything happens to us or anyone else from the boat."
"You're such a baby. Even if that were true, don't you realize your best bet is to accept what you've been so generously offered? Full citizenship in MoCo, security, a halfway-decent future? Life, goddammit! It's the most anyone can hope for now, and you're throwing it away because somebody changed the rules on you, and your feelings are hurt? I don't think so; you're not that dumb. And if you are… well, honey, we no longer have the luxury of being able to save people like you from themselves, I'm sorry."
Julian said, "It's you we need to be saved from, asshole."
Lowenthal suddenly seemed to lose all interest. "I'm sure we're all in dire need of a savior. In the meantime, we have to manage as best we can. Without Miska's data we'll have to beef up our own research, which means we need a lot of test subjects. Fortunately we've just received a big shipment by U-boat: You three will participate in the first clinical trial, starting right now."
"Good!" yelled Jake, losing it. "Bring it on, motherfucker!"
"I will."
"You do that!"
"I am."
"We don't give a shit!"
"You got it."
"Then do it, if you got the stones! Bust a move!"
"Jake, be quiet."
"It's done," said the colonel. "Just a few seconds now…" There was a slithering noise outside the tank, getting louder. "Well, it's been fun."
"You're out of your mind," I said.
"That's what they said about Masters and Johnson." From a row of chrome spouts high up the wall, ice-cold water began gushing in.
I thought I knew what cold water was. I had spent plenty of time mucking around in tide pools, foraging oysters, clams, and periwinkles in the dead of winter, with my numbed fingers getting all cut up by mussel shells as I dug. But this was colder. Cold was the wrong word for this. This burned. Burned like it was peeling off skin as it rose over feet, ankles, calves, knees, thighs, crotch, hips, waist, nipples, shoulders. The boys and I pressed together as tightly as we could, our shouts and moans lost in the deafening torrent:
"Oh my God, it's so cold!" "Turn it off!" "Hang on!" "Get closer!" "Away from the spray, right here!" "Let us out!"
As the lapping tide threatened to rise over my head I had to swim, meaning I was forced to surrender my precious upraised arms to that searing flood, the last warmth I could give without going under completely.
Then the boys were lifting me from either side, boosting me above the swirling, Coke-bottle green pool. My white flesh was rubbery as a half-thawed turkey, but not so dead I couldn't feel the vivid pleasure of warm air.
"No!" I shrieked, fighting the intense relief. "You can't!"
"Shut up, we're taller," said Julian.
"Pretend you're on Girls Gone Wild," Jake said.
I didn't try to resist as they propped me up on their shoulders, cradling my hips between their still-warm heads. My own head was jammed up against a caged light fixture in the ceiling, basking in its slight heat, while my submerged legs were sheathed in a fragile pocket of less-freezing water between the boys' bodies. If they moved at all, colder eddies swirled in like biting drafts. Violently shivering, I watched from my perch as Jake and Julian became immersed, standing on tiptoes and craning their necks until only their gulping, disembodied faces broke the surface like floating masks.
Pounding the intercom in front of my face, I screamed, "Stop! Stop it! Turn it off! Stop!"
The water stopped.
All of a sudden it was so quiet-the only sound was my teeth chattering in that shallow pocket of air, and I was miserably aware that the boys couldn't hear anything with their ears underwater. Nobody spoke. I searched their faces for some sign of what to do, but their eyes stared straight up, unblinking, all thoughts turned inward as warmth and life ebbed from their bodies. They hardly seemed aware of me.
She's bluffing, dude.
If you hand it over we got nothing.
Chick is ice-cold.
"I know where it is," I said.
"Where?" asked Lowenthal.
"Let us out first."
"No."
"Please!"
"No."
Sitting hunched there on the faltering shoulders of my friends was so precarious I expected it to be mercifully short, yet the moment stretched on and on like a detour in time, a missed off-ramp with no U-turn in sight, receding into eternity: all the loneliness, pointlessness, emptiness of it. The waiting. I realized it was not death, but death's delay that was the ultimate cruelty.
To the intercom, I said, "D-d-don't you realize you're d-doing us a f-f-favor?" Lowenthal didn't reply.
As Jake and Julian succumbed, I begged them to hold on, not because I was so afraid of the end but because I was afraid of being left alone. I resented them going first. And yet I continued to struggle: As Jake went under I clung to Julian, and even as Julian's upturned mouth filled with water I tried to climb his sinking body to keep my own head above. In the end I stood upon them both as the cold took its sweet time stealing over me.
Actually, I wasn't getting colder. A deep warmth had started to bloom, and with it a dreamy calm. I knew what this was, this welcome, enfolding dark. I knew these were precursors to the end, and the gratitude I felt was indescribable. Thank you thank you thank you thank you…
But even as I slipped beneath the surface, trailing a string of mirrored bubbles, my alien hand found the necklace, snapped the chain, and held the locket up above the water. Up where the gold would catch the light.
I could feel cool grass against my cheek, and desert wind riffling my clothes. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. I was heavy, immovable, a lizard sunning on a rock. In the hazy distance, I could see our old house in Oxnard, white as a milk carton on the grass, with the peeling eucalyptus trees and the laundry line. At first I sensed the presence of my mother inside and was overjoyed, wild to tell her something. Then I began to notice something wasn't right-the focus was peculiar-and as I reached my hand out, the illusion collapsed: It was a miniature, a fake. A crummy little diorama. I was so frustrated I wanted to smash it! That's why I disliked miniatures and models, even the good ones in museums, because the more real they are, the more daintily inviting, the more they put you at arm's length. But this one was the most crushing disappointment of all.
Or maybe I was just too old for toys. I remembered how delighted I was by the toy circus set on my birthday cake when I was five: the plastic Ferris wheel, the big top, the flags and trapeze, the clowns and camels. There was nothing realistic about it, nothing to scale. It was probably very cheap. But it was the only thing that interested me-the few other presents were so drab and functional I have no memory of them at all. But at the end of the party, the landlord and her daughter wrapped up what was left of the cake and disappeared with it.
Not sure what had just happened, I said, "Mummy, where did the circus go?"
"Oh, honey, those were just decorations. They belong to Mrs. Reese."
"But it's my birthday," I said, tears streaming. "I wanted them."
"Well, she made the cake, Lulu. I'm sorry. Come on now, be a big girl."
My mother's voice was growing faint. The house was empty, a cheap toy, and the more I pawed at it, the more unreal it became. My heart seized up with a terrible feeling of loss, and I called, "Mum!"
As I spoke, the dream shivered apart. I was in bed, naked as a baby, swaddled in flannel. It was no ordinary bed, but a fluffy giant pillow as rapturously soft and warm as a sheltering bosom. The room was dim, but the impression I got was something out of Arabian Nights-a large carpeted tent with hanging swaths of colorful sheer fabric and pillows all over the place. Was I still dreaming? I squirmed deeper, away from bad thoughts and a ghostly hand petting my head.
"Welcome back, Lulu."
I scrunched up my face. It was that blond woman doctor-Dr. Langhorne. She was sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed. Her eyes were red and her face raw-scrubbed, as if fresh from a long crying jag.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Alive," I murmured, heartsick.
"Oh yes. You were never in any danger. We made sure of that."
"Why?"
"Because you have a place here. You've earned a place here."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's a new day, Lulu. A brand-new life starts today."
"No…"
"Louise, I know this is hard, but from what I know about you, you're tough enough to take it. And starting tomorrow, things are going to get a whole lot easier."
Reluctantly, I asked, "How?"
"Tomorrow you'll get a guardian. Someone to take care of you."
"Oh."
"I know that doesn't mean much to you yet, but I think you'll find it exciting."
"Uh-huh."
"You're a princess around here. A rare bird. Important men are eager to meet you."
"You mean like they've been meeting the boys?"
She looked at me shrewdly, grateful to dispense with childish fictions. "Much more so," she said. "Boys are just a substitute borne of necessity."
"Swell."
"You know, later on you'll have a chance to see some of your pals again, the ones who have been 'adopted.' You'll see that they're getting along just fine."
"Why not now?"
"They're still going through orientation."
"Why can't I go through orientation with them?"
She smiled and put her hand on my shoulder. "Honey, you don't need to."
I remained in bed all day, feeling leaden and ill. At intervals my guts would seize up, bending me double and wringing out harsh silent tears, like juice from a frost-damaged lemon. I wondered if there were any hidden cameras as I used the bed-pan. Several doctors dropped by to check my vitals, and I had the impression they had drawn straws for the privilege. They didn't speak English. Ridiculously sumptuous meals were brought on a cart-soft-boiled eggs, fresh fruit, a variety of breads and crackers with a basket of individual little spreads and cheeses, a pot of tea. At lunch there was an antipasto tray that could have fed six people, and at dinner a four-course meal with whole roast game hens. I hardly ate any of it-I could tell it was from the boat.
Sometime later, Dr. Langhorne returned, accompanied by a much older lady, a Miss Riggs, whose baggy face was plastered with makeup and whose flaming copper wig looked about as natural as a coonskin cap. I couldn't believe they had given this poor old thing an implant! She dragged a huge rolling suitcase behind her like a homeless person.
"Lulu, Miss Riggs is going to help you get ready for tomorrow. She's a professional, so give her your full cooperation, okay?"
Professional what? I thought apprehensively.
"Oh, my achin' feet," said Miss Riggs, opening the suitcase and setting up a bright light on a stand. "Come on, honey. I ain't gettin' any younger." I hesitated because of my nakedness, but she didn't give a darn. "Let's go!" she squawked.
Half her suitcase was taken up by a big makeup kit with folding trays full of every conceivable grooming tool. I nearly swooned from the smell, which evoked the spicy-sweet aroma of numberless beauty parlors. The color palette had the worn look of long, expert use, and the tools and brushes were arranged as neatly as surgical instruments. The other half of the case contained a stack of carefully packed dresses, all plastic-wrapped as if fresh from the dry cleaner. On top I could see a baroque layered gown of jade silk and antique lace.
"Excuse me," Miss Riggs said to the doctor. "I can take it from here."
"I won't get in your way," said Langhorne.
"I can't stand people lookin' over my shoulder when I'm workin'! Beat it!"
Langhorne was shocked and furious, but she held her tongue. "All right," she said. "Let me know when you're done." To me, she said, "Your escort tomorrow will be Mr. Utik. He'll be here at eleven, so be ready to go. He's conversant in Inuktitut, French, and Danish, but his English may leave something to be desired. I suggest you don't call him an Eskimo, or he'll think you uncouth." She brusquely ducked out.
"Some people can't take a hint," the old lady said. "They don't understand the artistic temperament. You can't crowd talent. I learned that from Jayne Mansfield. You gotta stick up for yourself, or these bozos will walk all over ya." Measuring me, she said, "Honey, you sure ain't no Jayne Mansfield, I'll tell you that. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"That's a shame. You need some meat on your bones; you look like a plucked chicken. They treatin' you all right in here?"
I couldn't begin to answer; all I could do was cry.
"Aw, honey, you're gonna be all right. You know how many fresh-faced young girls I worked with over the years? I seen 'em all go through it, even Marilyn Monroe. You ain't the first. Some became tramps, some became drunks and dope addicts, some made a career of getting knocked around by the wrong kind of men. There's always gonna be men who think having a pretty dame around will make them hate themselves less, and they take it out on the girl when it doesn't work. Ain't no different now. Hold still."
"What can I do?" I quavered. "What can I do?"
"Don't move." She was fastening the tiny hooks on a carapace-like bustier, her hands strong and nimble and utterly without hesitation or wasted movement, everything coming together with an accidental ease that suggested the opposite of entropy-order flowing from chaos. Despite her rheumy yellow eyes and cigarette-stained teeth, I sensed that nothing could shake her; she was solid. I wished she would stay with me and tell me what to do. I wanted to hide in her suitcase.
With effortless speed, she threw clothes on me from that treasure chest of couture, one dazzling outfit after another, enough to stage the Oscars, all pristine and new. Obscenely plush designer gowns straight off a Paris runway; metallic silks and jewel-fruited filigree; bloodred taffeta and peach satin; cream lace studded with pearls; Versace, Gucci, Dior-annoying names that littered my consciousness with all the other obsolete pop-culture clutter, but which I had never seen on a label, suddenly delivered into my pauper's hands like so much pirate booty. Nothing fit me, but needles sprouted from Miss Riggs's withered lips, thread from her spiderlike hands, cinching in and hemming and pleating, filling out the tops with blubbery foam inserts so that for the first time in my life I looked like a woman. Amazed at my unfamiliar spangled self, I realized I was booty, too-part of the loot.
"You wanna know what to do?" she said through a mouthful of pins. "None of the above. That's the extent of my wisdom, hon: Do none of the above."
Miss Riggs took all the costumes with her to finish working on them-a whole lavish wardrobe, custom-fitted for me. I couldn't quite comprehend it. It had been such a bizarre flurry of activity that I almost believed I had imagined the whole thing, and it was a little bit of a shock the next morning to find all the completed dresses hanging in the tent, with a row of matching shoes lined up below. One of the outfits was set apart, and next to it was something I never expected to see again: the hooded fur cape Hector had given me. I wept to touch it. It had been cleaned and brushed to a high reddish gloss, matching perfectly with the teal-and-black ensemble I was to wear.
At exactly eleven (by the Tiffany watch that had appeared on my bedstand), a pair of Air Force men came in through the tent flap and escorted me down a sausagelike inflated tunnel. I sensed them taking great pains not to stare at me in my finery.
"What happens now?" I asked them.
"We're not at liberty to say, ma'am."
"What do you think of all this?" I tapped my forehead nodule.
One of them was annoyed by my questions, but the other one said, "Everybody's just coping. That's all you can do. Forget who you were and roll with it. Those who can't…" He shrugged.
Eyes swimming with tears, I said, "I'm not sure if I can live like that."
"You wouldn't be the first."
At the end, we came to a revolving door, and they sent me through. Pushed by a gust of warm air, I emerged on an enclosed balcony in pale, subzero twilight. I was outside the dome!
There was someone else on the balcony. A large Inuit man in a long black overcoat with the collar turned up and a gleaming stovepipe hat. He had no implant, making me more aware than ever of mine.
"Oh," I said. "Are you Mr. Utik?"
Doffing the hat with a comical flourish, he said, "Herman." He opened a pneumatic outer door and gestured me through. I braced for the murderous cold, but he took his heavy coat off and wrapped it around me as we went. Underneath he was wearing a striking charcoal uniform with jodhpurs, gold buttons, and highly polished leather boots. The outfit made him look like some kind of Prussian officer. His face was familiar, then I realized he was the bus driver who had intercepted us at the perimeter wall.
I looked across the white divide to that motley armada of planes, and suddenly made the connection-I was being taken out there. Mogul country. Mr. Utik hustled me down a short flight of stairs to a waiting armored truck, and two other equally decked-out native Greenlanders appeared to help me aboard. They all stared at me with frank curiosity.
Climbing into the truck, I had to laugh: From the outside it looked like some kind of tank or riot vehicle, replete with turret, but on the inside it was an outrageous Victorian carriage, roomy as a small RV, with velvet-upholstered walls, pastoral thumbnail portraits in gilded frames (by the likes of Sargent and Cassatt-if they were real), stained-glass lamps, a small mahogany bookcase with miniature editions of Herodotus and Thucydides, two antique divans, and curtains over the gun slits.
"Oh my God," I said, plopping down on one of the burgundy divans. It reminded me of a psychiatrist's couch. All I could think was, If this van's a-rockin-
As the others took their places in the cockpit, Mr. Utik got me squared away, tucking high-tech hot-water bottles around my legs and showing me a cooler full of liquor.
"No thanks," I said. "I'm underage."
This seemed to fluster him, and he gave the order for us to get going.
"I'd give anything to know what you make of all this," I said in an undertone as the vehicle lumbered forward.
"Better than hunting seal," said Utik, sitting behind the drivers.
"What?"
"I said it's better than freezing your ass off out on the ice hunting seal. That's what these guys would be doing now if we weren't working for the qallunaat." He pointed to their backs in turn. "This is Nulialik, and this little runt is my brother, Qanatsiak."
"You speak English."
"Shhh-don't tell anyone."
"Why tell me, then?"
"You're not one of them."
"How do you know?"
"I'm a spy." He winked at me.
"Give me a break."
"I'm spying on you right now."
"I'd believe that."
"But I'm also spying on them."
"The Moguls?"
"Kapluna. Qallunaat."
"What for?"
"Something big is going on. Bigger than all this. We want to know what it is."
From his grin, I couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. "Who's 'we'?" I asked.
"Ilagiit nangminariit-my extended family, and many others, led by an elder-the inhumataq. He believes we bear a special responsibility for all that is happening. We may be the only ones with the power to intervene."
"How so?"
"The indigenous peoples of the Arctic are now the dominant race on the planet. Our civilization is the most intact; the meek have inherited the Earth, just as Christ foretold. But this means nothing unless we can stop the tunraq kigdloretto that has been unleashed."
"The what?"
"Agent X. We call it a tunraq-a spirit invoked by a shaman. Usually it's a helper spirit, but if it is invoked for evil purposes, ilisiniq, it can get out of control and even turn on its user. The kigdloretto is this kind of rogue spirit."
"Okay…"
"My Netsilik ancestors routinely practiced female infanticide, and many of us now believe that it is the ghosts of these girls that are coming back to possess the living. We think they were released by an angotkok, a powerful shaman, who is practicing witchcraft."
"Do you really believe that?"
"All the Seal People were converted to Catholicism long ago, so there aren't many who remember the old ways. Most of what we know comes from legends we heard as children. But a lot of the legends are relevant-it isn't superstition to see connections where they exist. Is it a coincidence that menstrual blood was one of the most powerful instruments of ilisiniq?"
"But how does that help you? What is it you think you can do about it? Cast a spell or something?"
"You're humoring me, but I do believe the answer lies somewhere in our tradition. It won't be a matter of chanting some mumbo jumbo, but of taking rational, specific action at the right time and place. It's a question of recognizing the signs when we see them and interpreting them correctly."
"Good luck."
"It's not a matter of luck, but of fate. Whatever is supposed to happen will happen. Is it luck that all our hunting parties were pinned down by a blizzard on the day the women turned? We came back after a week to find our houses cold, our families gone. The few men and old people who survived told what they saw, showed us the blue bodies of the ghost ones, frozen while trying to break down the doors of the living. Many children, too. Whole towns were dead, and yet all the able-bodied men survived, far out on the sea ice. Was that luck? Some thought we were cursed to have survived. I knew it was for a reason, and when I heard that the qallunaat were arriving in great numbers, I realized it was connected to our purpose. We're here." He got up and threw the door open, admitting a blast of cold. Aircraft loomed around us like a forest.
I didn't want to move just yet. "How did you wind up working here?"
"I've worked for the qallunaat for a long time. I started by selling fossil ivory out of a kiosk in the BX, then served for eight years as Native Liaison and Labor Coordinator for the Danish Interests Office, which used to broadcast Danish Radio off a transmitter at Thule."
"Danish radio?"
"Kalaallit Nunaat-Greenland-is part of Denmark."
"No, I know, but you speak English."
"I grew up in western Canada, outside Yellowknife. There were Canadians and Americans here at Thule. It was what they call a 'joint-use facility.' I remember once a guy from Siorapaluk was caught toking up, and he told them that's what he thought it meant. They let him off the hook! We got along pretty well with the Air Force. I didn't like to see them slaughtered."
I thought of the frozen body parts at the perimeter wall. "What exactly happened?"
"Same as with my people. Piblokto. Madness. Starting with the women, the blue ones spread like lice, but the blizzard prevented them from getting far. There were not many women to begin with, mostly wives of officers. By the time it was over, the Base Commander's Office was being run by small fry like that Lowenthal, who kept issuing statements that help was coming, and the situation was 'well in hand.' When the first wave of planes landed, it seemed to be like he promised. The planes were full of important civilian men with a private army of their own.
"But no one was airlifted out, in fact it was the other way around. More and more newcomers arrived, setting up a separate command post outside the base perimeter. The planes just kept coming in, bringing everything you see now. The Air Force and Air National Guard people who went along with it all got promoted and rewarded, while the ones who complained or resisted were left to rule the empty remains of their base, totally isolated like the Vikings who perished here long ago.
"Since native workers became the only interface between the two systems, we saw it all go down: the frustration of the banished ones as they had to beg for supplies, and the feudal society of the domes. We knew it couldn't last, and it didn't."
"They killed them."
"Uh-huh. The second dome had just gone up, and all the military men decided enough was enough-they were going to march in and demand their rights. So they put on their dress uniforms, loaded their sidearms, and tried a show of force. But those automatic COIL weapons were already in place; there were not even any MPs to appeal to or intimidate. It lasted about two seconds. Not many under the dome even knew it happened."
"What happened?"
"Same as with your friend."
I had a horrible flash of Mr. DeLuca on the snowbank, just before… "I didn't really see that. It was too fast."
"It's a laser beam, like Star Wars. COIL stands for Chemical Oxygen-Iodine Laser. It's an anti-ballistic missile system, but it works just as good against people." Sounding awkward, he said, "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be sorry," I replied. "It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault. We're all just killing time until the end, I guess."
"No, I mean I'm sorry, but you have to get up. It's time to go."
"Oh."
Helping me out of the truck, he said, "We call winter here the killing time. But just as summer follows winter, we believe there will be a new season for us. For all people. We are chosen to be witnesses to the fall, so that we may tell the story-it's a great responsibility. This means you, too. You carry within you the story of your people and must pass it on."
"That's a little hokey, I'm sorry."
"Why? What do you think's going to happen?"
"I think spring is going to come, and the Xombies will finish taking over the world. The Moguls will either fight it out to the end or turn themselves into a better class of Xombie. There won't be any more babies, and eventually it'll all just sputter out. That's fine. I don't even care anymore."
"What do you mean, turn themselves into Xombies?"
"They're all Xombie wannabes in there. Maybe it's the blue blood. They tried to make a race of supermen and got Xombies instead. They're still at it."
We entered a tented area between jumbo jets, and Mr. Utik led me through a series of insulating flaps to a security station humming with electric radiators. I was reminded of the sub, of its cheap power in the hands of these people. We had come cheap, too, I guess. Armed sentries dressed in commando garb stole lewd looks at me but were outwardly respectful… if not outright nervous. I wondered if they saw me as some kind of a threat. Not as a potential monster, but as an elite sex slave, a concubine with royal privilege. It was strange to think about.
Utik left me there without a word, and I wondered if he had been mocking or testing me, but our conversation was already unreal and fading fast. I didn't have the capacity for worry that I once had; it just sloughed off. I felt slow and stupid, and liked it that way.
I climbed an enclosed ramp and boarded the plane. It was not a 747, but it was close-a seven-something-seven. After the fancy carriage ride, I was expecting the Palace of Versailles, but the interior of the jet was more low-key-not exactly understated, but of a more contemporary splendor. There was a wide-open seating area like a sleek hotel bar, with earth-toned carpeting and furniture, and aqua lighting from banks of TV monitors. At the back, a softly lit hallway like a modern-art gallery led past smaller compartments. Out of this hall emerged a lithe-looking older man. He was dressed in a striped satin robe as shiny as those Christmas ribbon candies, and his bald head gleamed intermittently in the spotlights, implant-free. He looked like he had just stepped out of the shower.
My snap judgment was, Well, could be worse. I was shaking like a leaf.
As he approached, I could see that despite his age and slight limp, he was quite handsome, with chiseled features and the unthreatening demeanor of a man sharing a laugh at his own expense. My hackles went up: Pervert. He looked at me in the eager, expectant way of some forgotten acquaintance-an elementary-school teacher or distant uncle. And I did know him. Why was he so familiar?
"Hello, Lulu," he said, gravel-voiced. "Welcome."
It was Sandoval.