"But why in the name of God would anyone have a security system like that?" Suddenly, staggeringly, it was Susan Van Bleeck's voice that echoed up from the floor of the pit, waspish and shrewd, but Stephen was still laughing, a cracked hilarity that was almost a sob. "What on earth could they be protecting?" Doctor Susan, a person Stephen had never met, from a time after he had been in his coma. Susan Van Bleeck, who was dead. "Have you got yourself involved with criminals, Irene?"

And for a moment she felt she could bear no more, that the horror was too great. Then, abruptly, she understood. Her fear became a little less, became a fear only for herself, but what diminished was replaced by a desolation so large as to be almost incomprehensible.

"You're . . . you're not Stephen, are you?" Abruptly, the voices died. "You never were Stephen."

The thing that looked like her brother still sat by the river, hunched, shadow-draped.

"What have you done with him?"

It did not reply, but seemed to grow less visible, as though slowly merging with the stone of the great pit. An expectant stillness grew in the air, the crackling tension before a lightning storm. Renie felt her skin tingle and crawl. Suddenly there did not seem to be enough oxygen to fill her lungs.

Anger began to rise again inside her, a bleak fury that this bizarre thing, this conglomeration of code, should pretend to be her brother—the same inhuman thing that had taken him in the first place. She pushed it down and concentrated on breathing. She was in the heart of it, somehow. Everything around her must be part of the Other, part of its mind, its imagination. . . .

Its dream. . . ?

She would accomplish nothing if she infuriated it. It was like a child—like Stephen at his very worst, two years old and full of screaming resentment, almost beyond language and rationality. How had she dealt with him then?

Not very well, she reminded herself. Patience—I was never as patient as I should have been.

"What . . . what are you, exactly?" She waited, but the silence remained unbroken. "Do you . . . do you have a name?"

The thing stirred. The shadows lengthened. Overhead, the stars seemed to grow fainter and more distant, as though the universe had suddenly hastened its expansion.

But it's not the real universe, she told herself. It's the universe inside . . . inside this thing. "Do you have a name?" she asked again.

"Boy," it said, using Stephen's voice again, but with a strange, hitching cadence. "Lost boy."

"Is that . . . is that what you want me to call you?"

"Boy." A trudging aeon seemed to pass. "Have . . . no name."

Something in the way it spoke pierced her own misery, her terror, even her rage at the theft of her brother.

"Jesus Mercy." Her eyes welled again with tears. "What have they done to you?"

The thing at the bottom of the pit seemed to become even less visible. The wash of the river was loud now, a continuous rush and mumble; Renie thought she could hear voices twining through it. "Where are we now?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Hiding."

"Who are you hiding from?"

It seemed to consider for another long moment. "The devil," it said at last.

For an instant, even though she did not know exactly what it meant, Renie felt she could feel what it felt—the hopeless, uncomprehending fear, the abused, devastated resignation.

Why me? she wondered. Why did it let me in? Into . . . whatever this is? Was it because of the way I feel about Stephen?

And even as she considered, her thoughts a thin membrane of rationality over deepening terror, she understood something about the thing that spoke to her—understood it in a deep, almost instinctual way.

It's dying. Its light, the flame of its existence, was flickering. Not just its words but everything around her, the lading light, the thinning air, proclaimed it. Such weariness could precede nothing but extinction.

It may be using Stephen to speak to me, she thought. Wearing him like a mask. But not just a mask. The way it reacted when I mentioned Papa, somehow it knows what Stephen knows, and even what I know. Feels what he would feel.

"I think you can get free." She did not entirely believe it, but she could not simply wait here for everything to end, abandon herself and her friends and all the children this thing had devoured to the destruction she felt sure would come if the operating system stopped functioning while they were still imprisoned inside it. "I think we can escape. My friends might even be able to help you, if you let us."

The shadowy shape moved again. "Angel. . . ?" it asked plaintively. The voice was less like Stephen's than it had been. "Never-Sleeps. . . ?"

"Certainly." She had no idea what it meant, but she could not let that stop her. She thought of how she had kept the Stone Girl moving even when the child was almost paralyzed with fear. Patience, that was all that worked. Patience and the illusion that a grown-up was in charge. "If you can come to me. . . ."

"No." The word was flat and weary.

"But I think I can help. . . ."

"Nooooooo!" This time the very walls of the pit seemed to draw closer, the shadows grown so deep that for a moment the darkness seemed too great for the space to hold The echo went on for a hideously long time, blending with the sound of the river as it died away, the river-tongues very clear now, cries of misery and fright and loneliness in a thousand different voices—children's voices.

"I want to help you," she said loudly, speaking as calmly as she could when what she really wanted was to shriek and then keep on shrieking until the air was gone. Her nerve ends were on fire—for a moment she had felt the grip of that cold fist again, the squeezing heart of nothingness. Patience, Renie, she told herself. For God's sake, don't push too much. But it was hard to hold back. Time was speeding away from them, the cries of the children desperate, hopeless. Everything was slipping away. "I want to help you," she called. "If you can just come closer. . . ."

"Can't get out!" the thing shouted. Renie fell to her knees, clapping her hands over her ears, but the excruciating voice was inside her, in her very bones, shaking her to pieces. "Can't! They hurt! Hurt and hurt!" The thing was building to a terrified rage, something that would crack the world in half. "Very angry!"

The voice—nothing like Stephen's now—thundered in her ears.

"Angry! Angry! ANGRY!"

Darkness lashed out at her with an obliterating hand.

Jeremiah sat staring at the clock on the biggest of the console screens, wiping the sleep from his eyes. 07:42. Morning. But what morning? What day? It was almost impossible to keep track, here in the pit under the mountain, hundreds of meters from the sun. He had tried, had managed to keep things ordered for weeks just as if he were still above ground, still living a life that made sense, but the events of the last several days had broken down all his careful arrangements.

Sunday morning, he decided at last. It must be Sunday morning.

Just a few short months ago he would have been up making breakfast in his clean, well-stocked kitchen. Then he would have washed the car before he and Doctor Van Bleeck went to church. Pointless, perhaps—Susan went out so little that the car seldom needed it—but it was part of the routine. Those days he had sometimes felt he was drowning in routine. Now it seemed like the most beautiful island a drowning man could imagine.

Long Joseph Sulaweyo should have been sitting at the monitors taking his turn on watch. Instead the tall man was sitting on the edge of the walkway, dangling his feet and staring at nothing. He looked lost and miserable, and not just because he had no wine to drink. Jeremiah and Del Ray had finally decided the only sensible thing they could do with the corpse of the mercenary Jeremiah had killed was to put it in one of the unused, unwired V-tanks. They had all done it together after wrapping it in a sheet, but as soon as the lid was bolted down and the seals airtight Joseph had walked away to sulk.