He's actually helpless in a strange way; cut off from the rest of Beebe, deaf and blind to the presence of people who are by no means friends. Brander could come up behind him right now and plant a knife in his back. And yet everyone leaves him alone. It's as though his sensory exile, this self-imposed vulnerability is some sort of brazen dare that no one has the guts to take him up on. So Acton sits at the keyboard— tapping at first, now stabbing— in his own private datasphere, and his deaf blind presence somehow dominates the lounge out of all proportion to his physical size.

"FUCK!"

He tears the 'phones from his face and slams his fist down on the console. Nothing even cracks. He glares around the lounge, white eyes blazing, and settles on Nakata over in the galley. Lenie Clarke, wisely, has avoided eye contact.

"This database is fucking ancient! They stick us down this fucking black anus for months at a time and they don't even give us a link to the net!"

Nakata spreads her hands. "The net's infected," she says, nervously. "They send us scrubbed downloads every month or s—"

"I fucking know that." Acton's voice is suddenly, ominously calm. Nakata takes the hint and falls silent.

He stands up. The whole room seems to shrink down around him. "I've got to get out of here," he says at last. He takes a step towards the ladder, glances at Clarke. "Coming?"

She shakes her head.

"Suit yourself."

* * *

Caraco, maybe. She's made overtures in the past.

Not that Clarke ever took them. But things are changing. There aren't just two Karl Actons any more. There used to be; all of her partners have been twosomes, in fact. There's always been a host, some magnetic chassis whose face and name never mattered because it would change without warning. And providing continuity, riding along behind each twinkling pair of eyes, there's always been the thing inside, and it never changes. Nor, to be honest, would Lenie Clarke know what to do if it did.

Now there's something new: the thing outside. So far at least, it has shown no trace of violence. It does seem to have x-ray vision, which could be even worse.

Lenie Clarke has always slept with the thing inside. Until now, she'd always just assumed it was for want of an alternative.

She taps lightly on Caraco's hatch. "Judy? You there?" She should be; she's nowhere else in Beebe, and sonar can't find any trace of her outside.

No answer.

It can wait.

No. It's waited long enough.

How would I feel if—

She isn't me.

The hatch is closed but not dogged. Clarke pulls it open a few centimeters and peers inside.