“We were careful,” Tom assured him. “We took care of the surveillance cameras, we were wrapped in these optical camouflage suits securely enough that we didn’t leave any DNA, and the one place we removed them, we burned down afterward. Even the Interstice didn’t record our trip. That transmitter’s not controlling Yuri. It’s gone. Stick me in the census device, and I’ll show you, then you can approve him for a neural processor while there’s still time.”

Blackburn drew closer, shadows sliding over his scarred face. “And let’s say I do what you want. I inform higher-ups that Sysevich is no longer a threat. Then, I’m giving you a pat on the back for what you did. I’m rewarding you for this.”

Tom held his ground. “I realize you could probably let Vengerov kill Yuri. I also get that you are probably even capable of, I dunno”—he shrugged, never taking his eyes from him—“just killing someone who posed a threat to you somehow. . . .”

Blackburn’s shoulders tensed, and Tom knew he was wondering if there was more behind his choice of words.

“But I don’t think you’re gonna let Yuri die when there’s no reason for it.” Tom’s thoughts flickered back to Blackburn’s empty apartment, to that dumb candle. “You may not care what I think about you, or what anyone else thinks about you, but I don’t think you’re some unfeeling monster. If you turn around and let Yuri die, you know Wyatt will never get over it. She won’t forgive you. She won’t forgive herself. You’re not going to let that happen.”

Blackburn looked like some sort of statue. He didn’t move.

“And, hey, if you really need more incentive, then I can buy your agreement about Yuri’s new processor,” Tom said, inspired. “I have something else. Information. You’re gonna want this.”

“What?” Blackburn said quietly.

“Joseph Vengerov has a neural processor.”

Blackburn’s face froze.

“I figured you didn’t know. I didn’t.”

For a moment, Blackburn stood there. Then, “That’s impossible. He’s too old, Raines. It would have damaged his brain. No one would do that.”

“Well, it hasn’t. It’s there. It’s in his head. I saw it. That’s gotta be worth something to you,” Tom said, weary. He tossed the gear at him. Blackburn caught it automatically. “Think it over. I’m going to bed. I’m beat.”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and left Blackburn alone there by the armory in the shadowy Calisthenics Arena, stock-still, clutching the bundle of optical camouflage suits.

WITHIN HOURS OF receiving his new neural processor, Yuri began bucking against the ventilator, so it was replaced by a nasal cannula. The prongs in his nose gave him a decidedly less alien appearance than the giant tube down his throat had.