Nemesis. That was the gaiaphage’s name for him: Nemesis.
Nemesis with infinite power held in check only by the twists and turns, the blind alleys and sudden high walls inside his own damaged brain.
Nemesis and Healer, used and brought together here, in this way, to make the gaiaphage unstoppable, unkillable.
Only one piece was missing. The food. The fuel.
It is coming, the gaiaphage said.
Soon.
Someone had shot Edilio. And had tried to shoot Dekka.
Lana’s shattered, overwhelmed mind, flooded with the gaiaphage’s plans, held on to that single fact.
Someone had . . .
From far, so far away, she felt the gun buck in her hand as she squeezed the trigger.
No. No.
Edilio falling.
No.
Lana’s mind exploded in a wave of fury so powerful that the gaiaphage’s imagery faltered. The fire hose flow of plans and details faded.
I hate you! Lana screamed wordlessly.
The gaiaphage pushed back, forced her down inside her own brain.
But more slowly than it had before.
“He’s going to go after you, Caine,” Diana whispered in his ear.
Caine’s arms ached. He could no longer feel his hands. Holding them up. Using the power. Using it to carry . . .
“Drake will try to kill you,” Diana said urgently. “You know it’s true.”
Caine heard her. But her voice was so tiny, her warning so insignificant compared to the steady throbbing pressure inside his chest.
The gaiaphage’s hunger was his hunger now. Feeding it would be feeding himself.
Not true, Caine told himself.
A lie.
“Do this, and you will die, Caine,” Diana pleaded. “Do it, and I’ll die.
“Stop, Caine.
“Don’t do it.”
Caine tried to answer, but his mouth was dry and clenched.
Step by step. Up the trail. To it. To him.
Jack was up there. And Drake. Drake talking to Jack. There was a dead coyote lying in the path, headless.
And Dekka, maybe alive, maybe not. Not his concern. Her problem. Shouldn’t have backed Sam. Shouldn’t have fought against Caine.
Not his problem.
He reached the top of the trail. There was the mine shaft entrance.
The fuel rod hovered in the air.
Feed me.
Caine moved closer.
“Do it!” Drake cried.
“Caine, stop!” Diana said.
Caine moved more easily now on level ground. Closer. Close enough. He could hurl the rod from here. Like a javelin. Right into the shaft.
Like a spear.
Easy.
“Don’t,” Diana said. Then, “Jack. Jack, you have to stop this.”
“No way,” Drake snarled.
“Shut up, you psychotic!” Diana shouted in sudden rage, all subtlety abandoned. “Go die, you filthy, stupid thug!”
Drake’s eyes went dead. The dangerous, giddy light went out in them. He stared at her with black hatred.
“Enough,” Drake said. “I was going to wait. But if it has to be now, let’s do it.”
His whip lashed out.
FORTY-THREE
13 MINUTES
DRAKE’S WHIP HAND spun Diana like a top.
She cried out. That sound, her cry, pierced Caine like an arrow.
Diana staggered and almost righted herself, but Drake was too quick, too ready.
His second strike yanked her through the air. She flew and then fell.
“Catch her!” Caine was yelling to himself. Seeing her arc as she fell. Seeing where she would hit. His hands came up, he could use his power, he could catch her, save her. But too slow.
Diana fell. Her head smashed against a jutting point of rock. She made a sound like a dropped pumpkin.
Caine froze.
The fuel rod, forgotten, fell from the air with a shattering crash.
It fell within ten feet of the mine shaft opening. It landed atop a boulder shaped like the prow of a ship.
It bent, cracked, rolled off the boulder, and crashed heavily in the dirt.
Drake ran straight at Caine, his whip snapping. But Jack stumbled in between them, yelling, “The uranium! The uranium!”
The radiation meter in his pocket was counting clicks so fast, it became a scream.
Drake piled into Jack, and the two of them went tumbling.
Caine stood, staring in horror at Diana. Diana did not move. Did not move. No snarky remark. No smart-ass joke.
“No!” Caine cried.
“No!”
Drake was up, disentangling himself with an angry curse from Jack.
“Diana,” Caine sobbed.
Drake didn’t rely on his whip hand now, too far away to use it before Caine could take him down. He raised his gun. The barrel shot flame and slugs, BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.
Inaccurate, but on full automatic, Drake had time. He swung the gun to his right and the bullets swooped toward where Caine stood like he was made of stone.
Then the muzzle flash disappeared in an explosion of green-white light that turned night into day. The shaft of light missed its target. But it was close enough that the muzzle of Drake’s gun wilted and drooped and the rocks behind Drake cracked from the blast of heat.
Drake dropped the gun. And now it was Drake’s turn to stare in stark amazement. “You!”
Sam wobbled atop the rise. Quinn caught him as he staggered.
Now Caine snapped back to the present, seeing his brother, seeing the killing light.
“No,” Caine said. “No, Sam: He’s mine.”
He raised a hand, and Sam went flying backward along with Quinn.