The Company had snuffed out the gaps. Redrawn the map, smaller and smaller. The end would come soon. And, too, because Chen was falling apart and though Moss could hold him together, against Charlie X’s curse, that, too, would come to pass, inevitable.

There was no path by which she could un-curse a genetic code so intimately tied to breath.

Nor could she deny what the fox had told her, what had finally decided her. They were running out of Cities, of Companies. Realities were finite. The fox had found their limit out on the edge of beyond, had let her into his mind enough to see. Slivers that ended with seven. All the slivers you could want, that math could provide, but only up to seven. And perhaps seven brave acts were necessary, too. Not just three. Infiltration from the sky, yes, but from the very rotting bones of the land. The carcass of a behemoth falling apart, rising up to meet the rain.

Reaching the outermost point, or at least the farthest that could be borne. In a suit, looking at rock, rock underfoot. Unsure if the formation was the suggestion of a helmet, of a face. Or just a coincidence, an outline that meant nothing.

Would never know.

But Moss knew.

Botch stopped writhing and twisting, settled unsettled deeper in the mud. But still she could not relax. There were things to plant in Botch’s brain and body that would feel for a time like worms eating flesh but were only Moss’s map. Were only a version of Moss.

You do not need to pretend with me.

Direct, into Botch’s brain. She could see into there, knew Botch pretended dumb animal but was not really that either.

A kind of shuddering shrug from the fish.

<<Danger. Too dangerous.>>

Moss projected a scene in Botch’s head. Just Botch wandering between the holding ponds. Just old reliable Botch, looking for food. Gobbling up misshapen mudpuppies and toads and worms and fellow fish. Just happy to come closer and closer to the Company. And who would really be able to tell the sheen of green atop Botch’s scales? A coat of algae picked up in some other pond. That sweet-sharp smell that wasn’t meant but similar. Should Botch smell good? And then the green mostly gone and Botch long since well away from danger.

<<Why should I?>>

To live. To thrive. To continue to rule over all of this. Botch could not botch that habitat more than the Company. It was contaminated, wild, always polluted but always resisting. Botch would grow huge and rule over all, a benevolent tyrant, and if, in the process, the Company—contaminated across all the versions—fell away, then maybe the foxes would dance across the floor of the dead Company building, but they would never have a use for the holding ponds.

Best you be ruled by your own.

<<I rule already.>>