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The Bringer of Light
     
    -Cn u c hm?
    -Reckoned
    -He’s there!
    -Stars
    -I c hm nw
    -C hm
    -He’s there fo sho
    -Stars: fit
    -Beard?
    -Maybe hat
    -Definitely there
    -C him
    -Not yeti?
    -Him
    -Defntly him
    -Stars. Big guy
    -Strong
    -Excitin!
    -Speak to her maybe?
    -Excited 2
    -I’m coming
    -Oh god so am I
    -Wait for me
    -Oh stars I’m coming too
    -Coming
     
                                                  **************
     
    Cutwater adjusted the goggles, bent his frame against the blizzard and kept moving. The sled had long been ditched, a burden that might have ended his journey sooner rather than later. He’d given it one last look before disappearing over the edge of a bluff; already, the pink hull was feathered with snow, its shocking hue muted.
    And now for the real cold, he thought, gazing into the grey haze in front of him. Here at last, he became aware of the bones sheathed in his skin, the muscles not thick enough to swaddle them. Something in him cried for cushioning, and he envied the blubber of those he’d left behind. Thick, fur-fringed boots plunged on into the snow, deeper with every step. He could not stop until he reached the mountain, a looming shadow somewhere up ahead, with its possibility of shade and shelter.
    Cutwater had known this time would come. The body was only meant to take so much. Soon there would come a time when he went beyond cold, when his body began to speak to him in softer tones. Lie down , it would whisper. Lie down and sleep .
    He angled his bod against the wind and carried on, breath creaking in his lungs. How many miles now to the peaks? Three? Four? In the blizzard he began to fear for his bearings. If night fell and he was not under cover…
    He ignored the high-pitched whining at first, supposing it to be an acoustic by-product of the shrieking wind. It grew in intensity, and Cutwater turned to face it.
    A familiar dread added heft to his physical burdens.
    Dread… and a shameful sense of relief.
    The orange-tinged heat shield reminded Cutwater of the old halogen lamps he’d seen in the jungle cities years before, coronas of dull light that had once lit up whole hillsides, building up panoramas of weird, flickering flame. The glow from the shield was circular, but steady, only the disconcerting slant of the snow obscuring it as it ambled up the hillside, a serene will o’ the wisp melting the snowflakes to steam in an instant.
    Inside the shield, stood on a pedestal-like generator floating three feet off the ground, was a girl, certainly no more than 22 or 23; thin and pointy-featured with jagged, blood-red spikes angling from her scalp. Striking, in her way, and beaming like a child. She looked like she could have been famous, a screen idol or a singer in another age; redundant terms in this one. Looping over her ear, and covering one of her eyes in an oily black pool, was a Unix set. Naturally.
    “What do you want?” His voice was torn away on the winds.
    “Reckoned!” she cried, waving, as he felt the blessed warmth of the heat shield slap his face. “Do you want to come inside?”
    “No, I do not! What are you doing here?”
    “I have to see you.”
    “No you don’t. Go back where you came from.”
    “Oh, Cutwater. Don’t be like that! You know the trouble I went to, coming all the way out here?” 
    “Which hardware provider sent you? Gilder? Gullwings? How many times do I have to tell you people? I’m not interested.”
    “I’m not from anyone.”
    “Rubbish. You people are never alone.” He stumbled in the deep snow, and for a moment he feared he would pitch forward onto his face. Slowly, he righted himself, backpack straining the muscles of his lower back.
    “Are you alright?” The heat shield – blessed, golden as a full fire in the grate and just as heavenly on his wind-scuffed cheeks – came closer. Within the glowing bubble, the girl reached out a hand. “Come in. Please, don’t be silly.