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their weapons at me; the rest are gazing down with mixed expressions of pity and confusion.
    “A farm girl?” asks one of the men.
    “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” says another. “It doesn’t matter either way. She will not survive long from those injuries.”
    “Someone should put her out of her misery,” murmurs one of the men.
    “I will do it.” I see boots step toward me and hear the snap-clack of an automatic rifle being cocked.
    “Wait!” calls a voice. Boots crunch through the snow, and the circle is broken by yet another man. He’s dressed in the same winter-camouflage uniform as the others, but this man is heavyset and older than the rest. His face looks weathered by experience, and his large belly makes his padded jacket bulge over his belt. He looks down at me and appears to be pondering my fate as he sips hot liquid from a steaming metal cup.
    “Bring her . . . ,” he says in a low, gravelly tone, “and link the computer to the satellite. If they sent this girl, our employer may want to see her face before she dies.”
    The fat man turns and walks away while I’m rolled onto my back and lifted into the arms of two men. I don’t have the means or the energy to struggle. It was a mistake to come here. I know that now. My new obsession with Richard Blackstone is going to cost me my life. I look at the sky while I’m being carried. As gray as it may be, it looks so clean and clear and beautiful. I wish I could rise out of the grasp of these men and fly away to safety. Fly into the air, free like a bird. Like the bird I see flying above me, its wings black against an expanse of gentle gray. I watch it move across the sky, and my heavy eyelids close for a moment. When I open them again, the bird has stopped in midair and, strangely, has doubled in size. In fact, it’s getting bigger by the second.
    That’s when I receive another message.
    I don’t hear it in my head like I do when the Commander transmits orders to me. This is different. This is a message that I sense with my whole body. It’s a stern feeling of reassurance, a feeling of hope, and an urgent, almost angry insistence to hold on and not give up. There’s only one person I know who communicates without words like that. I manage the faintest of smiles. My combat partner has arrived.
    Zero is here.
    I try to keep my eyes on the dark shape overhead, and as it steadily grows larger, a faint hum causes the men to look skyward. There are pointing fingers and heated questions as they discuss who the transport might belong to. Is it friendly or not? Is this their employer paying a visit? No one seems to know. Even the fat leader is unsure. Rifles aim warily toward the shape as the two men carrying me quicken their pace, jostling me roughly as they go. All of a sudden, the transport descends so quickly it seems to fall from the sky, and the hum of the engines becomes the droning roar of thrusters as the huge aircraft comes to a hovering halt just above the treetops. The men are still watching it closely when a flare of light erupts from the transport’s undercarriage and a thudding line of pockmarks drums across the frozen earth. Puffs of snow and dirt burst all around the soldiers, and three of them are instantly cut down in the hail of heavy gunfire. Through the sound of whining turbines, I can hear the panicked shouts and the rapid beats of machine guns as the remaining men shoot into the air.
    Another feeling ripples through me. “Hold on,” it seems to say.
    “Hurry,” I whisper out loud, and almost as if my plea has been heard, two points of light flash on the side of the transport, and two black dashes streak through the air.
    One of the soldiers bellows, “Get down!” and my captors suddenly dive away, dropping me roughly onto my stomach as the missiles hit the cabin and detonate with a bone-shaking explosion.
    TA-TOOM!
    I feel the heat on my face. Wood and masonry fly in every direction. Soldiers shield their heads with their