“The gathering was necessary,” he insists.

“What do you plan for them?”

“The human essences will go where all but one of my Prometheans have already gone. Their loyalty is now past question. They are our only hope against the parasite.”

“How?”

Only now does he turn and face me. His eyes are deep-sunk, empty. “They have been composed, you know that,” he says. The skin of his face creases like a drying fruit, beyond weariness, beyond emotion. If nothing else has persuaded Endurance, perhaps seeing him as he is now…? The Cryptum is now his only hope for recovery.

To emerge in time, healthy and strong—and sane?

“Your humans will find immortality as a new kind of weapon,” he explains, his voice low. “They are now Prometheans—an honor I have granted them, though they do not deserve it.”

“But why my humans?”

“Even as weak primitives, they retain a tremendous instinct for war. They will make formidable fighters. Their essences are being inserted into thousands more Prometheans—a force unlike anything the Flood has ever encountered.”

“So humans, your enemies, will share that honor with your old comrades. The essences of those who killed our children. That is … justice?”

Mention of our children evokes a mere quirk of expression, then a glance to one side, as if briefly distracted by the buzzing of a small, innocuous insect. But he does not deign to acknowledge the weapon. Clearly, he believes I am no threat.

I might as well not exist.

“They brought the parasite to our shores, now they will serve to cauterize it.,” he says.

I lift the weapon. My glove merges with the panel. We are one, armor, me, weapon. I can conceive of no better fate for him than long sojourn in the Domain, reacquaintance with ancestors, with our honor, our history.

Such as it may be. Away from this universe. Now he looks my way. Now he realizes.

I fire. The bolts wrap him in curls of positronic lightning. Wherever they touch, they paralyze, numb; they encircle his head last, and his eyes are fixed on me, expressing no surprise—expressing nothing.

After a moment of silent protest, he collapses to the floor. Even now, I wonder if he expected this, planned for it; ever the master at strategy, ever the genius at the finest of tactics.

* * *

Endurance walks around the Cryptum, the pallet that supports the stunned Didact and his folded armor. Her face is dark, stricken. “How long should the Didact rest?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“How long would you suggest?” I respond. I need to keep her balanced—and willing to proceed.

“From here, I’ll learn whether the Master Builder’s installations succeeded or failed. Whether the Flood has been destroyed. And whether you accomplished your re-seeding. We have the resources to wait many thousands of years, if necessary.”