“It’s Wren! She’s all right!”
Tom felt Hester’s hands tighten on his arm as she watched their daughter’s face swim up toward them out of the gray fuzz of the picture. “Wren,” she said. Her voice sounded shaky. “What’s she done to her hair? It’s all lopsided… And there, behind her, look! It’s Theo!”
ODIN zoomed again, and there was nothing on the screen except their daughter’s face. Tom went closer, pushing past the Stalker Fang, reaching out to touch the glass. At such close range the image started to grow vague; Wren’s face broke down into lines and specks and flares of light; this smudge of shadow an eye, that white smear her nose. He traced with his hands the curve of her cheek, wishing he could push through the screen somehow and touch her, speak to her. Surely she must be able to feel him watching her? But she only smiled and turned her head to say something to the boy behind her. Tom felt as if he were already a ghost.
The Stalker hissed like a kettle coming slowly to the boil. “Please don’t hurt her,” said Tom.
“She will die,” the Stalker whispered. “They will all die. For the good of the Earth. Your child will have a few years more, if she is lucky…”
“And what use will a few more years be if she’s starving and scared, watching the sky fill with ash?” asked Tom. He took another step toward the Stalker, excited by a sense that he was getting through to her, or to some weird, mechanized remnant of Anna Fang that nested within her. “Wren deserves to live a long time, in peace, and have children of her own, and see their children…”
“Sentimentality!” the Stalker sneered. “The life of a single child means nothing, compared with the future of all life.”
“But she is the future!” Tom cried. “Look at her! At her and Theo—”
“It is for the good of the Earth,” the Stalker repeated coldly. “They will all die.”
“You don’t believe that,” Tom insisted. “The Anna bit of you doesn’t. Anna cared about people. You cared about me and Hester enough to rescue us. Anna, don’t use the machine. Switch it off. Break it. Smash ODIN.”
He crumpled at the knees and would have fallen if Hester had not supported him. The Stalker was hissing angrily. Hester, thinking that she was about to attack, pulled Tom backward and turned so that her own body was between them. But the creature had swung away, flailing with one hand at its own skull. “Where is Popjoy?”
“Dead,” said Hester grimly. “You killed him. It’s the talk of Batmunkh Gompa.”
“Sathya, I…,” the Stalker said. “They must be exterminated. It is for the good of… Tom, Tom, Hester…”
That bony sound again; steel fingers on ivory keys. Green letters flicking up. “What is she doing?” asked Hester, afraid that the maddened Stalker was telling ODIN to drop fire on New London. Tom shook his head, as lost as her. The Stalker paused, studied a ribbon of green light that scrolled down another of her screens, typed again, hit a final key, and turned to them. She was trembling; a quick, mechanical vibration, like an engine pod on full power. Her marsh-gas eyes flared and flickered. She reached out to her guests with her long, shining hands.
“What have you done?” asked Tom.
“I have … she has … we have …”
From the far side of the room, through another doorway, they heard a crunch and slither of feet on broken tiles. The Stalker spun to face the noises, her finger-glaives sliding out, and Pennyroyal shouted out in terror as he stepped into the chamber and her green eyes lit up his face. He was holding the lightning gun in front of him, and as the Stalker tensed to spring at him, he squeezed the trigger. A vein of fire opened in the air, juddering between the gun’s blunt muzzle and the Stalker’s chest. The Stalker hissed and bared her claws, and Pennyroyal backed away from her wailing, “Argh! Poskitt! Please! Spare me! Help! Stay away!” and never taking his fingers off the trigger. The Stalker’s robes began to burn. Lightning was crawling across her calm bronze face, St. Elmo’s fire pouring from her finger-glaives. She fell heavily against the ODIN machinery, and the lightning wrapped that too. Stalker brains and Goggle Screens exploded, broken keyboards sent anagrams of ivory keys rattling across the floor like punched-out teeth, flames ran up the cables and set fire to the ceiling, and still Pennyroyal kept firing, and shouting, and firing, until the gun faltered and failed.
After a while, when they had started to grow used to the silence, he said, “I did it! I killed it! Me! You wouldn’t have a camera about you, I suppose?”
The Stalker Fang lay on her pyre of machinery. Tom waved away the smoke and went closer, watching her cautiously. Things were on fire inside her; he could smell the gamey stench, and see the firelight flicker beneath her armor. Her bronze mask had come off, baring the gray face beneath, shriveled and grinning. Tom tried not to feel disgusted as he looked at it; after all, he would soon be taking the same journey himself.
The dead mouth moved. “Tom,” sighed the Stalker. “Tom.”
Nothing more. The green glow in those headlamp eyes died to a pinprick, and went out.
Pennyroyal was staring at the spent gun in his hands, as if wondering how it came to be there. He dropped it and said, “There’s an air yacht moored down below. The keys are around that thing’s neck.”
It never occurred to Tom to ask him how he knew. He reached out and took the keys. They came away easily, for the cord they were threaded on had almost burned through.
“She is dead this time, isn’t she?” asked Pennyroyal nervously.
Tom nodded. “She’s been dead a long time. Poor Anna.” And then the pain came in his chest again and he couldn’t speak; he doubled over, groaning, while Hester clung to him and tried to soothe him.
“I say!” said Pennyroyal. “Is he all right?”
“His heart…” Hester’s voice was tiny, trembly; she’d not felt as helpless or as scared as this since she was a little girl watching her mother die. “Don’t die, Tom.” She groveled on the floor with him, holding him as tight as she could. “Don’t leave me, I don’t want to lose you again…” She looked up through her tears at Pennyroyal. “What shall we do?”
Pennyroyal looked as scared as she did. Then he said, “Doctor. We’ve got to get him to a doctor.”
“No use,” said Tom weakly. The worst of the pain had passed, leaving him white and frightened, shining with sweat in the light of the rising flames. He shook his head and said, “I saw a doctor in Peripatetiapolis, and he said it was hopeless…”
“Oh, oh …,” wept Hester.
“Great Poskitt!” cried Pennyroyal. “If this doctor of yours had been any good, he’d hardly have been working in a little place like Peripatetiapolis, would he? Come on, we’ll find you the best medicos money and fame can buy. I’m not having you die on me, Tom; you and Hester are the only witnesses I have to the fact that I’ve just killed the Stalker Fang! Wait until the world hears about this! I’ll be back at the top of the best-seller lists in a flash!” He held out his hand. “Give me the key. He’ll never make it across the causeway. I’ll bring the sky yacht down in the garden.”
Hester glowered at him.
“Well, all right,” said Pennyroyal, “you go and fetch the yacht, and I’ll stay here with Tom.”
“Please stay, Het,” Tom said weakly.
Hester passed the key to Pennyroyal, who said, “Hold on, Tom. Back in a jiffy. You might want to wait outside,” he added as he hurried away. “This building’s on fire.”
Carefully Hester began to drag Tom after him, along the villa’s moldering halls and out into the cold of the garden. They heard Pennyroyal’s footsteps crunching off along the causeway, then silence, broken only by the rush of the flames inside the house. Firelight lapped across the gardens, gleaming on frosted grass and the ice-hung branches of bare trees. Beside a frozen fountain Hester laid Tom down, pulling off her coat to make a pillow for him. “We’re going to get you to Batmunkh Gompa,” she promised. “Oenone will sort you out. She’s a brilliant surgeon; saved Theo’s life; mine, too, probably. She’ll make you well again.” She held his face between her hands. “You’re not to die,” she said. “I don’t ever want to be parted from you again—I couldn’t bear it. You’re going to be well. We’ll take the bird roads again.”