Six days until Ravager.
Rama couldn't sleep. Again. Third consecutive night lying awake in New York hotel room staring at ceiling. Mind cycling through casualty projections. London's sixty-seven thousand. Tokyo's six thousand. Herald's forty-two. Numbers accumulating into weight that pressed against chest like physical force.
At 3 AM he gave up pretending rest was possible. Dressed. Left hotel. New York streets were empty. Evacuation had reduced population by half. Remaining residents stayed indoors after dark. Void entity paranoia was justified. Rational fear. Smart caution.
He walked toward Central Park. Needed space. Air. Distance from command center and tactical displays and projection models showing one thousand four hundred deaths in six days.
The park was dark. Silent. Abandoned. Perfect.
