He was up on his elbows, looking from the smaller cage into the larger one. "This whole set-up isn't bad. Way better than that priestly meat wagon."

It wasn't, of course. Phocoena's med facilities were rudimentary at best, far below what the MI could offer. "I'm afraid you'll have to stay in there for a while," Clarke said apologetically. "I know it's cramped, but the onboard's got games and shows, help you pass the time." She gestured at a headset hanging from the roof of the nook. "I can give you access."

"Great. Better'n an oven."

"Oven?"

"You know." He tapped his temple. "Microwaves. Give you a fine buzz if you jimmy the doors and stick your head just so."

Good trick, Clarke mused. Wish I'd known it when I was a kid.

Then again, maybe I did...

"What if I have to shit?" Ricketts wondered.

She nodded at a convex button set into the recessed bulkhead. "The pallet converts. Push that when you have to go. It's pretty straightforward."

He did, then let out a little yelp of surprise as the midsection of the pallet slid smoothly away underneath him. His ass bumped down on the wide rim of the bowl beneath.

"Wow," he whispered, impressed out of all proportion. Another press of the button and the pallet reintegrated.

"So what now?" he asked.

Now you get to be a lab rat. Now you'll go to some place where machines cut pieces out of you until either you die, or the thing inside of you does. Now, you'll be grilled on how long you hung around in Freeport, how many others you might have breathed on, how many others they might have. They'll find out about that asshole who beat you up and maybe they'll want to interview him. Or maybe not. Maybe they'll just decide it's already gone too far for pleasant interviews and nice individual extractions—because after all, if we have to sacrifice you to save Freeport, surely we also have to sacrifice Freeport to save New England now, don't we? That's the greater good for you, kid. It's a sliding scale. It's concentric.

And nobody's life is worth shit when they slap it onto the table.

She'd roll the dice. Maybe hundreds would die in flames. Maybe only Ricketts would, in pieces.

"Hello?" Ricketts said. "You here?"

Clarke blinked. "Sorry?"

"I said, what now?"

"I don't know yet," she told him.

Paranoid

Aaron had led to Beth. Beth had led to Habib, and Habib had led to Xander, and the whole lot of them had led to twenty thousand hectares of wasted New England countryside being put to the flame. And that wasn't all: According to the chatter on the restricted band there were at least three other operatives sweeping the field further south, Desjardins's preference for low profiles notwithstanding.

Eight days now, and Seppuku was living up to the hype. It was spreading faster than ßehemoth ever had.