“¡No!” Cato wriggled like a scooped-up puppy, protest without real hope of escape. “Cardie—Ojiro—Don’t make me, I can’t face—”

“¿The Utopians?” Sniper supplied, cold. “¿Afraid they’ll treat you as a traitor? ¿Letting them think of you as almost one of them all these years? ¿Or is it your students you can’t face? ¡When they find out what your science was really for!”

The words, more than Sniper’s grip, forced Cato to the floor. “This isn’t what it’s for,” he whimpered. “It shouldn’t be. It should be for the future, for Space, and Mars, and medicine, and talking to dolphins, and finding what the universe is made of. That’s what I should have been, but I can’t look at a spool of tape without thinking how to hide poison in the glue, or plant a pathogen in the fibers. ¡You made me into this!”

Sniper grunted, its injured shoulder straining as it strapped Cato methodically to a table leg. “We’re all living weapons, Cato. That’s why humans are born with fangs and claws. You can have a few hours to think about your choice.”

“¿Choice?” Cato flexed to test his bonds. “You’re not leaving me any choice. You never have.”

Sniper straightened. “I am this time, Cato. That’s your punishment: you get to choose. You can stay here, and stand trial, and see how sympathetic your precious public is when they hear your sob story about how you never wanted to commit mass murder, or you can come with me, and keep doing what you’re so good at doing, to protect the world now that it needs us more than ever.”

“It never needed us.”

“It did. You know it did. And it does now. You may not care about the Humanists, but you can’t honestly believe this mess won’t touch Utopia. Once Ockham’s arrested, Utopia will take over our cars. ¿Do you think the world won’t see that as a coup? They helped the police unmask us, that’s three billion very angry Humanists, Mitsubishi, and Europeans against half a billion Utopians. ¿You really want to sit back and trust it’ll end well?”

Cato shivered like a fly in a web. “They’re not involved. They’re clean. This is our sin, everyone’s but theirs. The world can’t turn around and attack the only innocents. ¿Can they?”

Sniper fished a rag from the invention bin and wound it into a gag. “I don’t expect you’ve got the guts to bite out your own tongue, but I don’t have time to babysit you, and I’m not taking the risk.”

“¡I’m not what the world needs!” Cato cried. “The world needs a real mad scientist, someone who could concoct something to save everyone, some world-saving wonder, not just death. If I were that—”

“You’re not.” Sniper forced the gag between Cato’s teeth. “I’ll be back by dawn. Have an answer ready: stay with me in O.S. and save the world, or rot.”

I CANNOT SAY THE SIXTH DAY EVER REALLY ENDED, BUT HERE, WITH DISASTER’S BREATH UPON THE WIND, THE SLEEPLESS EARTH SPUN ON TO THE SEVENTH AND LAST DAY OF MY HISTORY.