Someone's touching him. Lenie. Her hand is on his arm, and he knows it's impossible but he can feel the warmth of her body through his 'skin.

"Gerry."

"Yes?"

"Why wasn't she with her own family?"

"She said they hurt her. She always said that. That's how she got in. She used it, it always worked..."

Not always, Shadow reminds him.

"And then she went back," Lenie murmurs.

"I didn't mean to."

A sound comes out of Lenie's vocoder, and he has no idea what it is. "Brander's right, isn't he. About you and kids."

Somehow, he knows she's not accusing him. She's just checking.

"That's what you— do," he tells her. "When you really love someone."

"Oh, Gerry. You're so completely fucked up."

A string of clicks taps faintly on the machinery in his chest.

"They're looking for me," she says.

"Okay."

"Be careful, okay?"

"You could stay. Here."

Her silence answers him.

"Maybe I'll come out and visit sometimes," she buzzes at last. She rises up into the water, turns away.

"Bye," Shadow says. It's the first time she's spoken aloud since she came inside, but Fischer doesn't think Lenie notices the difference.

And then she's gone, for now.

But she comes out here all the time. Alone, sometimes. He knows it isn't over. And when she goes back and forth with the others, doing all the things he used to do, he'll be there, off where no one can see. Checking up. Making sure she's okay.

Like her own guardian angel. Right, Shadow?

A couple of fish flicker dimly in the distance.

Shadow...?

Ballet

Dancer

A week later Fischer's replacement comes down on the 'scaphe. Nobody stands watch in Communications any more; machines don't care if they have an audience. Sudden clanking reverberates through Beebe Station and Clarke stands alone in the lounge, waiting for the ceiling to open up. Compressed nitrox hisses overhead, blowing seawater back to the abyss.

The hatch drops open. Green incandescence spills into the room. He climbs down the ladder, diveskin sealed, only his face exposed. His eyes, already capped, are featureless glass balls. But they are not as dead as they should be, somehow. Something stares through those blank lenses, and it almost shines. His blind eyes scan the compartment like radar dishes. They lock onto hers: "You're Lenie Clarke?" The voice is too loud, too normal. We talk in whispers here, Clarke realizes.

They are not alone now. Lubin, Brander, Caraco have appeared at the edges of her vision, drifting into the room like indifferent wraiths. They take up positions around the edge of the lounge, waiting. Fischer's replacement doesn't seem to notice them. "I'm Acton," he tells Clarke. "And I bring gifts from the overworld. Behold!" He extends his clenched fist, opens it palm up. Clarke sees five metal cylinders there, each no more than two centimeters long. Acton turns slowly, theatrically, showing his trinkets to the other Rifters. "One for each of you," he says. "They go into your chest, right next to the seawater intake."