Papa smiled to find one part of the world at least unchanged. «Jehovah’s fine, just having tests run.»

«How long was I out?»

«Five hours. I had them replace your pacemaker with one that’s Mycroft-proof.» He had the old one on the table beside him, flat like a cookie, its surface clouded with an organic residue my body had used to integrate this alien into itself. «How old were you when you designed that thing?» he asked. «Fifteen? Fourteen?»

«Fourteen…» The syllables were not easy, reader, nor would you speak with ease if you saw the better part of your heart severed on a table before you. It was the better part, not the clumsy meat pump biology had fit me with, but love’s creation, mine and Saladin’s, which Saladin planted to mark his territory, so every clock tick that measured my life’s hours was his as much as mine. I knew every wire of it, could smell in my mind the damp grass of our garden hideout where we planned its insides under the microscope, and practiced our laparoscopy on steaks and eggplants—happy years. «Did they replace the meat part of my heart too?» I asked.

«Just reinforced it. They said your heart’s not in bad shape considering, and so long as you can’t slip your tracker anymore, I’m content.»

The Cannergel was soft enough to let me test the motion of my shoulder, the muscles slow but responsive beneath the bandages. «Make sure there are no records of who performed the surgery.»

«Saladin still territorial?» he tested, smug. «I don’t know whether to be more impressed with you because you managed to keep me in the dark for thirteen years, or less impressed because you had help all this time.»

I avoided his eyes, studying the ceiling’s warren of clear tubes, through which U-beasts of all styles, from Bunnybots to flame-bright Fiberoptifoxes, bustled delivering snacks and pills and therapeutic cuteness. «I had a ba’sib once named Saladin,» I said.

Papa sipped his coffee. «No need to pretend. I’ll find them on my own, after we deal with this Bridger kid. No hurry.»

I felt my face harden. «Should I wish you good luck, then, hunting for a ghost? Or are you after Bridger so you can have them resurrect my dead ba’sib just to accuse them of conspiracy?»

He kept his laugh low. «Thisbe told me about the dog trick you used with Bridger. The rest is obvious. It’s unlike you using the same trick twice. Keep it up and you’ll be unmasked as the Anonymous in no time.»

«Ἄναξ Jehovah is the next Anonymous, not me.»

Papa shook his head. «Jehovah’s too busy. They say it should be you.»

Objections gathered within me, political and moral, but Papa was not the One to voice them to. «What happened to your face?» I asked.

Papa touched the bandaged scratches which striped his left cheek from eyebrow to chin. «Ganymede resisted arrest. I need you to look at something.»