He was struck with, the thought that Proteus was a fugitive now too. Proteus was running with them, was here to protect them so they could escape from the Alliance government. That made him a traitor and a fugitive from “justice.” He wanted to laugh but did not have the energy, and he fell asleep before he could frame even a fragment of another train of thought . . .
It was not a quiet sleep.
This was not the time for that.
There were dreams:
He was in a house made of ice, each room a frigid cubicle without differentiation. He was naked, and his skin was growing blue, numbing, lacing over with glittering particles of frost . . .
He was trying to find the doorway . . .
There did not appear to be one.
It grew colder and colder until, shimmering out of nothingness, stalactites and stalagmites formed in the room, made of ice, effectively barring his way and making him a prisoner of this one chamber.
Then, as he crumpled on the floor and felt his strength ebbing out of him, one spot in the wall began to melt, the water running down and puddling around him, warm and pleasant, life-giving. A portal appeared in the wall, and Leah was there, smiling. She walked toward him, seeming to skim on the water, and the ice melted around her and the cold air became warm. He grasped her, and feeling returned to his flesh.
And just as they were kissing, a man without a face, dressed in a blue uniform with brass buttons, tapped Davis on the shoulder, separated him from Leah, and started leading her away.
The ice began to reform.
The flesh that had been warm grew cold again.
He raced frantically after the uniformed man and the girl, trying to regain her, but his feet kept freezing to the floor, slowing his progress, while they moved swiftly, the ice melting before them and solidifying behind . . .
He wasn’t going to catch her.
Never . . .
Ever . . .
He opened his mouth to scream, wondering if that would crack the ice watts of his prison . . .
. . . and was awakened by the boom of a pistol shot fired very nearby . . .
He grabbed for his own gun, slapping his hand against an empty holster. He had confiscated the weapon from the Alliance representative at the Sanctuary, and now someone had confiscated it from him, in turn. He looked about the lean-to and saw Proteus; nodes gleaming all colors as the machine bobbled irritably, swayed from side to side as it tried to ascertain just what sort of role it should play in the transpiring events. Leah was near the left opening of the shelter, and it was she who had lifted his pistol from the holster and had been using it. She held it in both hands, as if it were too heavy for her to manage in one, and pointed it at the white landscape beyond the entrance.
“What is it?” he asked. Suddenly, it seemed as if they must have been mad to stop and sleep.
“Wolves,” she said.
He relaxed a little. Wolves might be cunning and powerful, but not so cunning and not so powerful as a man with a gun or a vibra-beam weapon working as a soldier of the Alliance. He moved over to where she sat, looked through the opening. Not more than six feet away, a great gray-brown wolf, much like those that Proteus had fought off the day before, sprawled in the thick carpet of snow, great red blotches of blood staining the purity around it. Its mouth was open, its tongue lolled to the side.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” she said. “I thought this might be equipped with a built-in silencer. It wasn’t.”
“I didn’t know you could use a gun,” he said.
“Everyone was a soldier in the last days of the war.”
“I guess so.”
“There are others,” she said quietly, staring intently at the clumps of brush that pushed through the snow.
“Where?”
“They scattered when I shot. But they’re not too far away. You can be sure of that.”