Still nervous, he swims back underneath the sphere. The air pocket shines silver in the reflected light. A black wraith moves into view within it, almost featureless except for two empty white spaces where eyes should be. It reaches out to meet his outstretched hand. Two sets of fingertips touch, fuse, disappear. One arm is grafted onto its own reflection at the wrist. Fingers, on the other side of the looking glass, touch metal.

He pulls back his hand, fascinated. The wraith floats overhead, empty and untroubled.

He draws one hand to his face, runs an index finger from one ear to the tip of the jaw. A very long molecule, folded against itself, unzips.

The wraith's smooth black face splits open a few centimeters; what's underneath shows pale gray in the filtered light. He feels the familiar dimpling of his cheek in sudden cold.

He continues the motion, slashing his face from ear to ear. A great smiling gash opens below the wraith's eyespots. Unzipped, a flap of black membrane floats under its chin, anchored at the throat.

There's a pucker in the center of the skinned area. He moves his jaw; the pucker opens.

By now most of his teeth are gone. He's swallowed some, spat others out if they came loose when his face was unsealed. No matter. Most of the things he eats these days are even softer than he is. When the occasional mollusk or echinoderm proves too tough or too large to swallow whole, there are always hands. Thumbs still oppose.

But this is the first time he's actually seen that gaping, toothless ruin where a mouth used to be. He knows this isn't right, somehow.

What happened to me? What am I?

You're Gerry, Shadow says. You're my best friend. You killed me. Remember?

She's gone, Gerry realizes.

It's okay.

I know it is. I know.

You helped her, Gerry. She's safe now. You saved her.

I know. And he remembers something, small and vital, it that last instant before everything turns white as the sun:

—This is what you do when you really—

Sunrise

The lifter was still reeling CSS Forcipiger up into its belly when the news appeared on the main display. Joel checked it over, frowning, then deliberately looked outside. Gray predawn light was starting to wash out the eastern horizon.

When he looked back again, the information hadn't changed. "Shit. This doesn't make any sense at all."

"What?" Clarke said.

"We're not going back to Astoria. Or I am, but you're getting dropped off over the conshelf somewhere."

"What?" Clarke came forward, stopped just short of the cockpit.

"Says right here. We follow the usual course, but we dip down to zero altitude fifteen klicks offshore. You debark. Then I go on to Astoria."

"What's offshore?"

He checked. "Nothing. Water."

"Maybe a boat? A submarine?" Her voice went oddly dull on the last word.