"That's fine," she says. "I can spare him."

"I wasn't asking for permission."

I grab his wrist and pull him from the chamber, into the narrow corridor, up the path toward the surface until I'm sure they can't hear us. Fairly sure, anyway. Ringer can probably hear a butterfly beating its wings in Mexico.

"What is it?" he asks, frowning, or maybe-frowning. I didn't bring a light; I can barely see his face.

That's a damn good question, kid. Once again, here I go, half-cocked and winging it. This should be a speech weeks in the making.

"You know I'm doing this for you," I tell him.

"Doing what?"

"Leaving you."

He shrugs. Shrugs! "You're coming back, aren't you?"

There it is: the invitation to a promise I cannot make. I take his hand and say, "Remember that summer you chased the rainbow?" He looks up at me, utterly baffled. "Well, maybe not. I think you were still in diapers. We were in the backyard and I had the sprayer. When the sunlight hit the water . . . you know, a rainbow. And I was making you chase it. Telling you to catch the rainbow . . ." I'm about to let loose with some waterworks of my own. "Kind of cruel when I think about it."

"Why are you thinking about it, then?"

"I just don't want . . . I don't want you to forget things, Sam."

"Things like what?"

"You need to remember it wasn't always like this." Making bombs and hiding in caves and watching everyone you know die.

"I remember things," he argues. "I remember what Mommy looked like now."

"You do?"

He nods emphatically. "I remembered right before I shot that lady."

Something in my expression must give me away. I'm guessing a mixture of shock and horror and a sadness that has no bottom. Because he turns on his heel and barrels back to the weapons chamber only to return after a minute with Bear in his arms.

Oh, that goddamned bear.

"No, Sams," I whisper.

"He brought you luck last time."

"He's . . . he's Megan's now."

"No, he's mine. He's always been mine." Holding him out to me.

I gently push Bear back into his chest. "And you need to keep him. I know you've outgrown him. I know you're a soldier or commando or whatever now. But one day, maybe there'll be a little kid who really needs Bear. Because . . . well, just because."

I kneel at his feet. "So hang on to him, understand? You take care of him and protect him and don't let anybody hurt him. Bear is very important to the grand scheme of things. He's like gravity. Without him, the universe would fall apart."

He stares at his big sister's face for a long, silent moment. Memorize it, Sams. Study every bruised, scratched-up, scarred, crooked inch of it. So you don't forget. So you never forget. Remember my face no matter what. No. Matter. What.

"That's crazy, Cassie," he says, and for an instant-and only an instant-the little boy is back, and I see in his now-face his then-face, hysterical with wonder and laughter, chasing rainbows.

60.

RINGER.

I HOP DOWN from the chopper. Zombie watches me sling the rucksack over my shoulder and says, "All done?"

"Done."

"How many you got left?" Nodding at the bag.

"Five."

He frowns. "Think it'll be enough?"

"It'll have to be. So, yes."

"Time to go, then," he says.

"Time to go."

Our eyes meet. He knows what I'm thinking. "I won't make that promise," he says.

"You can't come after me, Zombie."

"I won't make that promise," he says again.

"And you can't stay here. After the mothership drops the bombs, head south. Use the trackers I gave you. They won't mask you from IR or hide you from Silencers, but-"

"Ringer."

"I'm not finished."

"I know what to do."

"Remember Dumbo. Remember what coming after me cost. Some things you have to let go, Zombie. Some things-"

He grabs my face in both his hands and kisses me hard on the mouth.

"One smile," he whispers. "One smile and I'll let you go."

My face in his hands and my hands on his hips. His forehead touching mine and the stars turning over us and the Earth beneath us, and time slipping, slipping.

"It wouldn't be real," I tell him.

"At this point, I don't care."

I push him away. Gently. "I still do."

61.

THE BOMBS HAVE BEEN LOADED. Time to load Bob.

"You think I'm not ready to die?" he asks me as I escort him to his seat.

"I know you're not."

I strap him in. Through the open hatch, I can see Sullivan with Zombie, and she's trying very hard to stay composed. Cassie Sullivan is sentimental and immature and self-absorbed beyond belief, but even she knows we're crossing a threshold that we can't come back from.

"No plan," she whispers to Zombie. She doesn't want me to hear her and I don't really want to. Vosch's gift is a curse, too. "Nothing fated."

"No meant-to-be," Zombie says.

No plan. Nothing fated. No meant-to-be. Like a catechism or an affirmation of faith-or faith's opposite.

She rises on her toes and kisses his cheek. "You know what I'm gonna say now."

Zombie smiles. "He'll be fine, Cassie." He grabs her hand and squeezes hard. "With my life."

Her response is immediate and fierce. "Not with your life, Parish. With your death."

She notices me over his shoulder and pulls her hand away.

I nod. It's time. I turn to our one-eyed pilot. "Boot her up, Bob."

62.

THE GROUND RECEDES. Zombie dwindles, becomes a black dot against gray earth. The road swivels to the right like the second hand of the terrestrial clock, marking the time that's lost, the time that cannot be taken back. Turning north, climbing, the explosion of countless stars, and the burning center of the galaxy a backdrop for the mothership glowing phosphorescent green, its belly full of the bombs that will erase the last remaining footprint of civilization. How many cities in the world? Five thousand? Ten? I don't know, but they do. In less than three hours, in the utter silence of the void, the bay doors will slide open and thousands of guided missiles carrying warheads no larger than a loaf of bread will vomit forth. A single orbit around the planet. After ten centuries, all we had built will be gone in a day.

The debris will settle. Rains will bathe the scorched and barren ground. Rivers will revert to their natural course. Forests and meadows and marsh and grasslands will reclaim what was cut and razed, filled and leveled and buried beneath tons of asphalt and concrete. Animal populations will explode. Wolves will return from the north and herds of bison, thirty million strong, will again darken the plains. It will be as if we never were, paradise reborn, and there is something ancient inside me, buried deep in the memory of my genes, that rejoices.

A savior? Vosch asked me. Is that what I am?

Across the aisle, Sullivan is watching me. She looks so small in that oversized uniform, like a little kid playing dress-up. How odd we ended up together like this. She disliked me from the moment she laid eyes on me. About her, I just thought there wasn't much there there. I'd known a lot of girls like Cassie Sullivan, shy but arrogant, timid but impulsive, nave but serious, sensitive but flippant. Feelings matter to her more than facts, particularly the fact that her mission is a futile one.

Mine is hopeless. Both are suicidal. And neither is avoidable.

My headset crackles. It's Bob. "We've got company."

"How many?"

"Um. Six."

"I'm coming up."

Sullivan starts when I unbuckle. I pat her shoulder on my way to the copilot's seat. It's okay. We were expecting this.

Up front, Bob points out the incoming choppers on his screen.

"Orders, boss?" With only a hint of sarcasm. "Engage or evade, or you want me to set her down?"

"Hold course. They're going to hail-"

"Wait. They're hailing us." He listens. I have a visual on them now, dead ahead, flying in attack formation. "Okay," he says, turning to me. "Three guesses. First two don't count."

"They're ordering us to land."

"Now it's my turn: 'Up yours.' Right?"

I shake my head. "Say nothing. Keep flying."

"You do realize they'll shoot us down, right?"

"Just let me know when they're in range."

"Oh, so that's the plan. We're shooting them down. All six of them."

"My bad, Bob. I meant let me know when we're in range. What's our speed?"

"A hundred and forty knots. Why?"

"Double it."