Vosch holds out his hand. In his palm is a shiny green object the size and shape of a large gel capsule. A hair-thin wire protrudes from one end. “This is the message.”
The lights dim. The screen flickers to life. The camera soars over a winter-killed field of wheat. In the distance, a farmhouse and a couple of outbuildings, a rusty silo. A tiny figure stumbles from a stand of trees bordering the field and lurches through the dry and broken stalks toward the cluster of buildings.
“That is the messenger.”
From this height, I can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl, only that it’s a small child. Nugget’s age? Younger?
“Central Kansas,” Vosch goes on. “Yesterday at approximately thirteen hundred hours.”
Another figure comes into view on the porch steps. After a minute, someone else comes out. The child begins to run toward them.
“That isn’t Teacup,” I whisper.
“No.”
Crashing through the brittle chaff toward the adults who watch motionlessly, and one of them holds a gun, and there is no sound, which somehow makes it more terrible.
“It’s the ancient instinct: In times of great danger, be wary of strangers. Trust no one outside your circle.”
My body tenses. I know how this ends; I lived it. The man with the gun: me. The child crashing toward him: Teacup.
The child falls. Gets up. Runs. Falls again.
“But there’s another instinct, far older, as old as life itself, nearly impossible for the human mind to override: Protect the young at all costs. Preserve the future.”
The child breaks through the wheat into the yard and falls for the last time. The one with the gun doesn’t lower it, but his companion races to the fallen child and scoops it off the frozen ground. The gunman blocks their way back into the house. The tableau holds for several seconds.
“It’s all about risk,” Vosch observes. “You realized that long ago. So of course you know who will win the argument. After all, how much risk does a little child pose? Protect the young. Preserve the future.”
The person carrying the child sidesteps the one with the gun and rushes up the steps into the house. The gunman drops his head as if in prayer, then lifts his head as if in supplication. Then he turns and goes inside. The minutes spin out.
Beside me, Vosch murmurs, “The world is a clock.”
The farmhouse, the outbuildings, the silo, the brown fields, and the blur of numbers as the time display at the bottom of the screen ticks off the seconds by the hundredths. I know what’s coming but still I flinch when the silent flash whites out the scene. Then roiling dust and debris and billowing smoke: The wheat is burning, consumed in a matter of seconds, tender fodder for the fire, and where the buildings used to be, a crater, a black hole bored into the Earth. The feed goes black. The screen retracts. The lights stay dim.
“I want you to understand,” Vosch says gently. “You’ve wondered why we kept the little ones, the ones too young to fight.”
“I don’t understand.” Tiny figure in acres of brown, dressed in denim overalls, barefoot, running through the wheat.
He misreads my confusion. “The device inside the child’s body is calibrated to detect minute fluctuations in carbon dioxide, the chief component of human breath. When the CO2 reaches a certain threshold, indicating the presence of multiple targets, the device detonates.”
“No,” I whisper. They brought him inside, wrapped him in a warm blanket, brought him water, washed his face. The group gathered around him, bathing him in their breath. “They’d be just as dead if you dropped a bomb.”
“It isn’t about the dead,” he snaps impatiently. “It never was.”
The lights come up, the door comes open, and Claire comes in wheeling a metal cart, followed by her white-coated buddy and Razor, who looks at me and then looks away. That got to me more than the cart with its array of syringes: He couldn’t bring himself to look at me.
“It doesn’t change anything.” My voice rising. “I don’t care what you do. I don’t even care about Teacup anymore. I’ll kill myself before I help you.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not helping me.”
57
CLAIRE TIES a rubber strap around my arm and taps the inside of my elbow to bring up a vein. Razor stands on the other side of the bed. The man in the white coat—I never got his name—is by the monitor, holding a stopwatch. Vosch leans against the sink, watching me with bright, flinty eyes glittering, like the crows’ in the woods on the day I shot Teacup, curious but curiously indifferent, and then I understand that Vosch is right: The answer to their arrival is not rage. The answer is rage’s opposite. The only possible answer is the opposite of all things, like the pit where the farmhouse once stood: simply nothing. Not hate, not anger, not fear, not anything at all. Empty space. The soulless indifference of the shark’s eye.
“Too high,” murmured Mr. White Coat, looking at the monitor.
“First something to relax you.” Claire slides the needle into my arm. I look at Razor. He looks away.