Starfish

"And what do we do when we get there? How would we make it past the Strip?"

Brander shrugs. "Sure. For all we know the refs could eat us alive, if our tubes don't choke on all the shit floating around back there. But really, Len, would you rather take your chances with a ticking nuke? It's not like we're drowning in options."

"Sure." Clarke moves one hand in a gesture of surrender. "Fine."

"Your problem, Len, is you've always been a fatalist," Brander pronounces.

She has to smile at that. Not always.

"There is also the question of food," Nakata says. "To bring enough for the trip will slow us considerably."

I don't want to leave, Clarke realizes. Even now. Isn't that stupid.

" — don't think speed is much of a concern," Brander is saying. "If this thing goes off in the next few days an few extra meters per hour won't to do us much good anyway."

"We could travel light and forage on the way," Clarke muses, her mind wandering. "Gerry does okay."

"Gerry," Brander repeats, suddenly subdued.

A moment's silence. Beebe shivers with the small distant cry of Lubin's memorial.

"Oh God," Brander says softly. "That thing can really get on your nerves after a while."

Software

There was a sound.

Not a voice. It had been days since he'd heard any voice but his own. Not the food dispenser or the toilet. Not the familiar crunch of his feet over dismembered machinery. Not even the sound of breaking plastic or the clang of metal under assault; he'd already destroyed everything he could, given up on the rest.

No, this was something else. A hissing sound. It took him a few moments to remember what it was.

The access hatch, pressurizing.

He craned his neck until he could see around the corner of an intervening cabinet. The usual red light glowed from the wall to one side of the big metal ellipse. It turned green as he watched.

The hatch swung open. Two men in body condoms stepped through, light from behind throwing their shadows along the length of the dark room. They looked around, not seeing him at first.

One of them turned up the lights.

Scanlon squinted up from the corner. The men were wearing sidearms. They looked down at him for a few moments, folds of isolation membrane draped around their faces like leprous skin.

Scanlon sighed and pulled himself to his feet. Fragments of bruised technology tinkled to the floor. The guards stood aside to let him pass. Without a word they followed him back outside.

* * *

Another room. A strip of light divided it into two dark halves. It speared down from a recessed groove in the ceiling, bisecting the wine draperies and the carpet, laying a bright band across the conference table. Tiny bright hyphens reflected from perspex workpads set into the mahogany.

A line in the sand. Patricia Rowan stood well back on the other side, her face half-lit in profile.

"Nice room," Scanlon remarked. "Does this mean I'm out of quarantine?"

Rowan didn't face him. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stay on your side of the light. For your own safety."

"Not yours?"

Rowan gestured at the light without looking. "Microwave. UV too, I think. You'd fry if you crossed it."

"Ah. Well, maybe you've been right all along." Scanlon pulled a chair out from the conference table and sat down. "I developed a real symptom the other day. My stools seem a bit off. Intestinal flora not working properly, I guess."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"I thought you'd be pleased. It's the closest thing to vindication you've got to date."

Neither person spoke for nearly a minute.

"I… I wanted to talk," Rowan said at last.

"So did I. A couple of weeks ago." And then, when she didn't respond: "Why now?"

"You're a therapist, aren't you?"

"Neurocognitist. And we haven't talked, as you put it, for decades. We prescribe."

She lowered her face.

"You see, I have," she began.

"Blood on my hands," she said a moment later.

I bet I know whose, too. "Then you really don't want me. You want a priest."

"They don't talk either. At least, they don't say much."

The curtain of light hummed softly, like a bug zapper.

"Pyranosal RNA," Scanlon said after a moment. "Five-sided ribose ring. A precursor to modern nucleic acids, pretty widespread about three and a half billion years ago. The library says it would've made a perfectly acceptable genetic template on its own; faster replication than DNA, fewer replication errors. Never caught on, though."

Rowan said nothing. She may have nodded, but it was hard to tell.

"So much for your story about an agricultural hazard. So are you finally going to tell me what's going on, or are you still into role-playing games?"

Rowan shook herself, as though coming back from somewhere. For the first time, she looked directly at Scanlon. The sterilight reflected off her forehead, buried her eyes in black pools of shadow. Her contacts shimmered like back-lit platinum.

She didn't seem to notice his condition.