He dropped down over the road and stalled a couple of meters up, letting the ground-effectors set him down near the entrance to the lot. The MI idled silently before him, windows dark, doors closed, weapons blister retracted. A sign on a nearby guard rail played sponsored animations of a view from better days. Across the water, the wind farm turned its tattered blades in the breeze.

It had to be Clarke at the wheel. Lubin had watched Ouellette recode the lock, and she'd only authorized the three of them to drive. On the other hand, they'd disabled the cab's internal intruder defenses. It was possible, albeit unlikely, that Clarke was driving with a gun to her head.

He'd landed right beside the embankment that sloped to the shoreline. That was cover, if he needed it. He got out of the ultralight, ready to hit the dirt. He was at the far edge of Miri's diagnostic emanations. Her virtual guts flickered disconcertingly in and out of view. He killed his inlays and the distraction.

The MI's driver door swung open. Lenie Clarke climbed out. He met her halfway.

Her eyes were naked and brimming. "Oh God, Ken. Did you see?"

He nodded.

"I knew those people. I tried to help them, I know it was pointless, but I..."

He had only seen her like this once before. He wondered, absurdly, if he should put his arms around her, if that would provide some sort of comfort. It seemed to work with other people, sometimes. But Lenie Clarke and Ken Lubin had always been too close for that kind of display.

"You know it's necessary," he reminded her.

She shook her head. "No, Ken. It never was."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Why do you say that?"

She glanced back at the MI. Instantly, Lubin's guard snapped up.

"Who's with you?" he asked in a low voice.

"Ricketts," she told him.

"Rick—" He remembered. "No."

She nodded.

"He came back? You didn't call for containment?" He shook his head, appalled. "Len, do you know what you—"

"I know," she said, with no trace of regret.

"Indeed. Then you realize that in all likelihood, Freeport was burned because you—"

"No," she said.

"He's a vector." He stepped around her.

She blocked him. "You're not touching him, Ken."

"I'm surprised I even have to. He should have been dead days ag—"

I'm being an idiot, he realized.

"What do you know?" he asked.

"I know he's got incipient Seppuku. Sweating, fever, flushed skin. Elevated metabolism."

"Go on."

"I know that a few days ago, he had advanced Seppuku."

"Meaning—"

"So weak he could barely move. Had to feed on an IV. He had to use a saccadal keyboard to even talk."

"He's getting better," Lubin said skeptically.

"Seppuku's below ten to the second, and dropping by the hour. That's why I brought him back to Miri in the first place, Phocoena doesn't have the—"