"Do you know who I am, you miserable fetus-fucker?" the demon spat.

No, she thought.

"I'm Lenie Clarke!"

The system crashed.

"Yeah," Clarke said softly. "Right."

She traded a dark view for a brighter one. Phocoena's viewport looked out on a muddy plain, not quite featureless; the muddy tracks of tunneling animals, the holes of invertebrate burrows stippled the bottom. A lone crab scuttled lethargically in the dim distance.

The ocean overhead was murky green, and growing brighter. The sun must be rising.

"What...?"

She hung the headset on the armrest and turned in the copilot's seat. Phocoena was too small to warrant a dedicated med cubby, but the fold-down bunk on the starboard side pulled double-duty in a pinch. It tucked away into the same kind of molded indentation that held the bunks on the opposite bulkhead; unlike its counterparts, though, its thicker base bulged from the wall in a smooth distension of plumbing and circuitry. When in use it folded down like a wide, short drawbridge, hung by twin monofilament threads spooled from its outer corners. Those threads, the edges of the pallet itself, and the overhanging bulkhead formed the vertices of a little tent. Isolation membrane stretched across the planes between.

Ricketts was trapped within. He lay on his side with one arm flopped against the membrane, distending it outward.

"Hi," Clarke said.

"Where's this?"

"We're underwater." She climbed back from her seat into the main cabin, keeping her head low; the curving hull didn't leave a lot of headroom.

He tried to sit up. He had even less headroom than she did. "What am I, you know..."

She took a breath. "You've got a—a bug. It's contagious. I thought it would be best to keep you isolated."

His bruises were already healing, thanks to Miri's attentions. The rest of his face paled behind them. "The witch?" And then, remembering: "But I brought you that cure, right...?"

"The cure wasn't—all we'd been hoping for," Clarke said. "It actually turned out to be something...else..."

He thought about that a moment. He pushed his splayed fingers against the membrane. The membrane stretched, iridescing.

"You saying...you saying it's like another disease?"

"Afraid so."

"So that explains it," he murmured.

"Explains what?"

"Why I been so weak the last coupla days. Prob'ly still have my bike if I'd been just that much faster." He frowned at her. "So you go around broadbanding how this germware kicks ßehemoth's ass and how we're supposed to like, collect it and all, and it's really just another bug?"

"Sorry," she said softly.

"Fuck." Ricketts lay back on the pallet and threw one arm over his face. "Ow," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Yeah, your arm's going to be sore for a bit. You were pretty badly beat up, the MI can't fix everything just like that."

He held up the limb and examined it. "It does feel a lot better, though. Everything feels better. Thanks."

Clarke forced a smile.