Lexicon

sleek and clean with upturned wings. It was surprisingly large, too, although maybe that was because it was on a road, where it did not belong.
    He stopped beside Eliot. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. His breath fogged. “What now?”
    “Next car that comes along, I’m catching a ride. Then I’m going to get some breakfast. Bacon, ideally. Lots of bacon.”
    Wil shook snow from his boots. “Okay.”
    “That’s me, though. You can do whatever you like.”
    Wil squinted. “Say what?”
    “We’re done. This is it. You go your way, I go mine.”
    “What?”
    “It’s over.”
    “But the poets. Woolf . . . does she still want to kill me?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “So we have to hide. Go to more of your friends.”
    “There are no more friends.”
    Wil stared. “No?”
    “No.”
    “You mean your entire, what, resistance or whatever, got wiped out yesterday?
Everyone?
”
    “Yes.”
    “You don’t have a cell in another city or—”
    “No.”
    “Jesus.” Wil exhaled. “Then we need to stick together.”
    “Hmm,” Eliot said.
    “She’s coming after you, too, right? Woolf wants you dead.”
    “Yes.”
    “So?”
    “So from your point of view, I’m a guy who can keep you alive. But from my point of view, you’re a useless sack of shit. You don’t help me at all.”
    “You said I was important! You have to find out why I’m immune! To the words!”
    “That was before,” Eliot said. “Circumstances changed.”
    “I’m coming with you,” said Wil. “Wherever you’re going, I’m coming.”
    “No, you’re not.”
    “You can’t stop me. Your word voodoo, it doesn’t work on me. Right? So how do you think you’re going to—”
    Eliot produced a pistol. He didn’t seem to pull it from anywhere. He just suddenly had it.
    Wil’s eyes stung.
    “See?” Eliot put away the gun. “There are all kinds of persuasion.” He gazed at the horizon again.
    Wil’s breath steamed. “Okay. Okay.” Anger built inside him and he didn’t know what to do with it. “Fine. That’s how it is?” He walked back to the plane. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he could do it somewhere warm. He could do that. Halfway up the steps, he yelled, “What happened in Broken Hill? Woolf killed everyone, right?” Eliot didn’t move. “Yeah! So you go hide out while she does what she likes to the rest of us! You do that!” He shivered. He stomped up the steps.
    • • •
    Eliot stood on the road, scanning the horizon. His coat flapped around his legs. Wil would pop back out of that plane in about five minutes, by his estimation. That would be the point at which his fear of being abandoned surpassed his physiological desire for warmth. It would be useful if a car appeared before then. That way, Eliot could compromise the driver and be on his way without ever seeing Wil again.
    The wind stung his cheeks. He couldn’t resist the comparison any longer: the last time he’d stood like this, waiting and watching to see what came over the horizon, carrying a gun and hoping not to need it. A little over a year ago. He had been outside Broken Hill.
    • • •
    He put the air-conditioning on full, but it made no difference: The sun blasted through the windshield, broiling him inside his shirt. The kid he’d collected from the airport, Campbell, squirmed and twisted his tie and finally pulled off his linen jacket and hung it over the back of his seat. “The sun looks bigger,” he said. “Can it actually be bigger?”
    “It’s the ozone,” said Eliot. “There’s a hole.”
    “Do you get used to it?”
    “Not yet.”
    “When I left DC, it was twelve degrees,” said the kid, rolling up his sleeves. “Twelve.” He glanced at Eliot. “You miss DC?”
    “I visit.”
    “Yeah, but . . .” The kid looked out the window at the blasted soil rolling by. “How long have you been out here, in total? Three months?”
    “Seven.”
    “Yeah.” The kid nodded. “Of course. Well, after this, you can go home.” He smiled.
    Eliot looked at him. “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-one. Why?”
    “How much do you know about what you’re doing?”
    “Everything.” The kid laughed. “Eliot, I’m fully briefed. I’ve spent six weeks in intensive prep. I was selected for my talents. I know what I’m doing.”
    Eliot said nothing.
    “Four months ago, Virginia Woolf releases a bareword in Broken Hill, Australia, population three thousand. Now population zero. Official story, explosion in the ore