"You know how many battellites are still wobbling around up there, Ken. And you know I'm good enough to have got into at least a few of 'em. Not to mention all the repositories of chemical and biological weapons kicking around groundside after a hundred years of R&D. All those tripwires run right through my left ventricle, buddy. Lenie should thank the spirit of motherfucking entropy that she didn't kill me, or the heavens would be raining fire and brimstone by now."

Clarke tried to move. Her muscles buzzed, hung over. She could barely lift her arm. Not the usual med-cubby field by a long shot. This one had been cranked to quell riots. This one was industrial.

Still Lubin didn't speak. He managed a controlled stagger to the left, his arm still extended.

"Channels seven through nineteen," Desjardins told him. "Look for yourself. See the kill switches? See where they lead? I've had five years to set this up, Ken. You kill me, you kill billions."

"I— expect you'll find a number of those tripwires are no longer connected." Lubin's voice was thin and strained.

"What, your pack-hunting Lenies? They can't get into the lines until the lines open. And even then, so what? They're her, Ken. They're concentrated essence of Lenie Clarke at the absolute peak of her game. They get their teeth into a tripwire, you think for a second they won't pull it themselves?"

Lubin cocked his head slightly, as if taking note of some interesting sound.

"It's still a good deal, Ken. Take it. You'd have a hard time killing me anyway. I mean, I know what a tough hombre you are, but your motor nerves short out just the same as anyone else's. And not to put too fine a point on it, but you're blind."

Realization stabbed Clarke like an icicle: Achilles, you idiot, don't you know what you're doing? Haven't you read his file?

Lubin was speaking: "So why deal in the first place?"

"Because you are a tough hombre. You could probably hunt me down by smell if it came to that, and even though you're having a really off day I'd just as soon not take the chance."

You're talking to Ken Lubin, she raged silently, trapped in her own dead flesh. Do you actually think you're threatening him?

"So we disappear, you disappear, the world relaxes." Lubin wavered in and out of focus. "Until someone else kills you."

Clarke tried to speak. All she could force out was a moan, barely audible even to herself.

It's not a threat at all—

"You disappear," Desjardins said. "Lenie's mine. Saved her special."

It's an inducement...

"You're proceeding from a false premise," Lubin pointed out.

"Yeah? What premise is that?"

"That I give a shit."