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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
'Do you remember me? I know we were never properly introduced, but your father talked about you so much, I already feel like I know you. I'm Jim Sandoval.'
'I remember you. Chairman Sandoval.'
Actually I was trying hard to imagine what it could mean that he was here. All I really remembered of him was a gruff voice in the goat locker and that long-ago leap to the sub. The last time I had seen him was when he snubbed me going ashore. But I also dimly recalled that first night out on the deck, when he was surrounded by angry men-Fred Cowper chief among them-who seemed to think he was the reason we were locked out of the boat. He had betrayed them for SPAM. He was SPAM. I remember I had felt great empathy for Sandoval, not just because he was injured and helpless but because at the time I was being harassed by a hostile mob myself.
'I hope the ride wasn't too unpleasant,' he said. 'It's what passes for limousine service around here. Are you cold?'
'No.'
