Come to think of it, when Owen bobbed up and down like that, he reminded her of one of those weebles. Hadn't Max taken a hammer to the blandest one, a pearly pink hippo-like ballerina, to see what made it work? 'I like the trolls best,' he'd said. 'They're scary.'
It had begun snowing again by the time Laura and Owen reached Pringle Hill. Above her cupped cigarette Olivia gave her a look which, if poured into a car radiator, would have required antifreeze. Laura usually didn't drink much-training always made a good excuse, since Janey would undoubtedly maul any of her swimmers caught with alcohol-but by now Laura was cold and tired and just a bit edgy. She kept turning towards the stand of fir trees on the spine of the hill, visible only as a memory. Under the cloak of darkness the swirling snow hurled black-winged phantoms through the corners of her vision, though none with a sardonic smile and spice-filled laugh. After two downhill runs with Owen, she found herself sharing a flask of hot whisky punch, which burned straight through the single biscuit she'd nibbled in Owen's kitchen. Cheeks bright red and eyes glittering, Olivia spoke to her at last.
'Let the lads have a run on their own.' Olivia's message couldn't be plainer: you'd best listen to me if you value our friendship.
They stamped their feet to keep warm, the snow too thick and soft and fresh to squeak. Olivia jammed her torch upright into a drift and offered Laura another round from the flask, then asked, 'Lost your mobie?'
'Left it home.'
'This morning too?'
'No.' Laura took a swig of punch. 'Look, I don't want to lie to you. The truth is, I was ashamed to admit what I had to do after lunch.'
'Which was?'
'My mum's making me see this bloody therapist. Big Family Secret. Daughter who's going off the rails.'
'Sounds like something she'd do.'
'Yeah, well.'
'You could have told me instead of leaving me to wait in the cold.'
'Livs, I'm sorry, I really am.'
'Once upon a time we were friends who told each other everything.'
Were we really? Laura asked herself. Or was it only a fairytale we needed to believe? Aloud she said, 'I despise the bloke. A horrible little man with yellow pointy teeth and a goatee. Can you believe it? A real shrink's goatee.'
'Keep away from little men, I always say. They never think they measure up.' Olivia helped herself to more punch, then giggled. 'I hear Zach's got a good long one.'
Any guilt that Laura was feeling vanished. 'Don't be daft. I wouldn't go near him for a starring role in Kor's next film. Especially after everything that's happened.' She wondered how long the others would be. The snow was falling more heavily now, sledging would soon be impossible. She wanted to get out of the cold, she wanted her bed, she wanted . . .
'Why do you keep looking behind us?' Olivia asked. 'Is something out there?'
'Not bloody likely, at midnight in a snowstorm. I need to pee.'
They could hear Damien and Tim exchanging friendly insults in the distance, muffled by the snow. They must still be at the bottom of the hill. Having a snowball fight, from the sound of it. Olivia held out the flask, but Laura shook her head. Her stomach was beginning to slosh unpleasantly, and when she bent to scoop up a handful of snow to suck on, she lost her balance and pitched onto one knee. Olivia merely laughed, blast her, and upended the flask.
'What was it you wanted to talk about?' Laura asked, brushing off her ski trousers. 'The guys are going to come looking for us before long.'
'It's about Max.' Olivia suddenly sounded sober.
'My brother?'
'Know another Max?'
'I thought you said it was about Zach.'
'I did, and it is.'
Laura imagined a nice fat snowball-roughly the size of a football-landing on Olivia's over-endowed chest, and Olivia landing arsefirst on the ground. When they started eavesdropping on thoughts, Laura would ask for a lobotomy. Or something.
'Max has been going off with Zach on his motorbike,' Olivia said.
'What?'
'You heard me. A couple of times this week.'
'Rubbish. Somebody's spreading tales.'
'Nobody's spreading anything, at least not yet. But they will be, if you don't put a stop to it.'
'I don't believe it,' Laura said flatly.
Olivia gave her a withering look. 'Have it your own way. I tried.' She pulled off her cap, shook it free of snow, and jammed it back on her head again. Then she picked up her torch and set off, rather unsteadily, towards the level patch of trampled snow where they'd left the backpacks on a red plastic snow disc.
'Wait!' Laura stumbled after Olivia, clutched her arm. 'How did you find out?'
'You know that stupid dog-walking job I've got after school?'
'The old Newfoundlander who can hardly move any more? I thought you were going to quit.'
'Yeah, well they begged me to stay on.' Olivia mimed crossing her palm with silver. 'Upped my maos. This week she's been worse than usual, they really ought to put her down. I can only manage to drag her through the churchyard, where she usually collapses against one of the gravestones.'
'And?'
'And that's where they meet. There's a lot of shrubs and trees, and it's obvious they don't want to be seen.'
'You're sure it's Max? Absolutely sure?'
'For fucksake, I've known your brother since he was in nappies. Of course it's him.'
'What are they up to?'
'Good question. Ask Max.' Olivia laughed, but her eyes flared code orange. 'Or Zach. Maybe he's training the next generation of terrs.'
The wind flung a fistful of snow into Laura's face, momentarily blinding her. She ducked her head and hugged herself, her mobile a small hard lump in the zipped pocket of her anorak.
'This cold is killing me,' Laura said. 'I've really got to pee.'
'Can't you wait? You're going to freeze your arse.'
'Can't. I'll wet my pants.'
'Frozen arse or frozen pants. OK, let's walk up towards the trees a bit.'
'Wait here and keep a lookout. You know what Tim's like.'
'Want the torch? You might get lost.'
'On Pringle Hill?'
Laura fought her way uphill against the wind. Within a few steps first Olivia and the backpacks, then the glow from the torch vanished like socks, one of a pair always missing through decidedly supernatural means. Abruptly Laura stopped, uneasy. Which of them would be lost, her or Olivia? The walls of Laura's hideout thrashed around her, and for a moment she was tempted to part the snowy white sheets and run from under the dining room table to her mum. Who even back then would have scoffed at Laura's fears.
After lurching up against a clump of wild holly, Laura hunched her back against the gusting snow, removed her mobile from her pocket, and peeled off a glove. She knew she shouldn't be doing this, their calls were certainly being monitored. But she could no more stop herself than drown in the club pool.
Pls cn i cu l8r? she texted.
Within a few seconds she had Zach's reply: no.
She tried again with pls urgent, but there was no further message. Their intermittent voices a beacon, she plunged back downhill to the others, who by now were downing a bottle of absinthe that Damien had nicked from his parents.
Chapter 18
While the dogs feed in the open, Zach and Lev set about unpacking their gear and securing the sledge. Lev cuts some blocks of snow to melt for water, and though not the usual Arctic practice, the huskies are allowed to join them inside the tent. After thwacking the snow from their boots and outer clothing, Lev installs a shivering Zach inside a down sleeping bag on top of several insulating pads, then hangs their clothing to dry from a line strung for that purpose. The temperature rises rapidly once Lev powers up the cunning little device on which their supper is now simmering, a stove which also provides heat and light and appears to work on a type of fuel cell. The tent is snug if a touch overcrowded; the dogs radiate considerable warmth of their own, having consumed a good meal of frozen caribou and fish. With one husky fewer, there are more than enough supplies, including two large sacks of dry nuggets, to last till they reach their destination, a hunters' settlement. Zach has been keen to curtail their rest since learning that a 'white seal' has recently been sighted there-a visitor, sacred in some way, and very beautiful-a piece of information which Lev hadn't scrupled to conceal earlier, and all he claims to know.
'I thought you're worried about being followed,' Zach says.
'We're well hidden here.'
They've pitched camp in the lee of a pressure ridge, a wind-sheltered site which a she-bear herself might have chosen as a maternity den. The snow is still falling heavily, and already their tracks have been obscured. Whereas the glow from their stove is sure to be visible at close range, it's unlikely that anyone will happen their way in near-blizzard conditions. There's no coaxing further information about unwanted visitors from Lev; no coercing, no tricking.
'Here,' Lev says, passing Zach a mug of a thick hot soup which smells similar to fresh-ground almonds. And though Zach doesn't recognise its ingredients, it tastes wonderful, with a gingery afterbite. He finishes it quickly, hungrily, wrapped in his sleeping bag.
'What is it?' Zach asks, holding out his mug for a refill.
'Quarsh. A particularly nutritious grain.'
They drink in silence, companionably enough, while the dogs shift and snuffle, the stove hisses, the wind mutters. While Zach mulls Lev's words.
'Where's it from?' Zach eventually asks.
'Quarsh?' At Zach's nod, Lev says, 'It's native to a high-mass, slightly warmer world than yours.'
'Don't you reckon it's time you finally explain who you are? Or is there some magic number of times I've got to ask?'
Perhaps their isolation-their forced intimacy-induces Lev to answer. Or perhaps he too is simply lonely and needs to speak.
'A facilitator of sorts, I suppose you'd call me.'
Zach laughs. 'I wouldn't, I hate their psychospeak.'
'Nothing to do with Fulgur, and it does fit, but if you prefer, think of me as a gatekeeper.'
'To where?'
'You wouldn't believe me-not yet.'
'I'm starting to think I'd believe anything of you.'
'Is that a vote of confidence or condemnation?'
Zach shifts inside his sleeping bag, then unzips it partway. The tent is so warm that he's beginning to sweat.
'Why don't you just tell me?' Zach asks, though not belligerently. At this rate he'd soon qualify for the diplomatic corps, he thinks wryly. Not that they accept any of his kind.
'Your kind isn't all that different from those you despise.'
Zach shoots him a startled look. 'You can read my thoughts.'
'Only a few of the stray surface ones. And only because you're a cognoscens. The sapiens neural network is too rudimentary.'
'Then don't lump us together with the fucking croakers.'
Lev leans forward and throws a handful of herbs into the boiling kettle, then lowers the power source on the stove. In the dim light his face is shadowed, and weary. Silently he completes a few housekeeping tasks, then without embarrassment hands Zach a squat wide-mouthed plastic jar with a screw-top, not much smaller than the canteen size used for pickles or ketchup. 'To relieve yourself.' Only one of the dogs pricks its ears as he pours two mugs of herbal tea. 'Drink it hot, it'll help you to sleep. I want to get an early start.' He avails himself of a second jar, climbs into his own sleeping bag, and douses the light. 'Goodnight,' he says without much warmth.
'Look, can you blame me?' Zach asks. 'They treat us like crap. And remember what Chloe did to me.'
For a while Zach waits for a response, then gives up and drinks his tea, settles into a comfortable position, and is just drifting off to sleep when Lev's voice jerks him back. 'You don't understand about Chloe and Ethan.'
'What's to understand? Two twisted minds who deserve a life sentence, not rehabilitation.'
'Yeah, well, you've got your wish.'
'What are you talking about?'
Several dogs stir at his sharp tone. From the way Lev turns his head to regard them in the residual glimmer from the stove, murmuring reassurance, his eyesight must be at least as acute as Zach's own.
'Chloe and Ethan are prisoners here. They can't return, because there's nothing to return to.'
'Nonsense. It's only a temporary upload.'
'That's where you're wrong. Fulgur has been systematically destroying experimental subjects to test the viability of memory and personality in a virtual environment.'
Bella, who seems to have taken a liking to Zach, presses closer, lays a paw on his chest, and licks the side of his jaw. His skin prickles at the rough sensation.
Can it be true? Maybe all business moguls are megalomaniacs, but Randall's in a class of his own. Damn the lying, murdering bastard! With little reason to care about the fate of the offenders-of sapiens altogether-Zach doesn't fancy himself an assassin, even at a twofold remove. Though one tidy bullet to Randall's temple . . . No wonder Fabio hates to be associated with Fulgur. Once again he's seen it coming: 'Whoever owns the Fulgrid, owns the future.' But he, Zach, is through with all that. Let someone else fight the good fight, let someone else take back what rightly belongs to the simus, let someone else break himself (and those he cares about) trying to break the Fulgur monopoly on the interface. Let someone else be the fucking hero.
'Immortality?' he finally asks.
'Consciousness is far too complex to be replicated like a gene. Chloe has already begun to deteriorate. Hence her actions.'
