CHAPTER 6

The humidity loop on string seventeen went down sometime on Friday night, they figured, and once again the backup protectives failed to come online. Saturday came in foggy, so at first no one noticed when the dish covers stayed dialed up to full transparency. But when the California summer sun finally burned through the fog that afternoon and hit the glass, the incubating cultures got it full force. Sirens cut loose back at the wharf. Scott and Ren roared out there at panic speed in the Zodiac, but by the time they got into their wet suits and into the water, they’d lost pretty much everything on the string. They paddled about a bit making sure, disconnected the system, and phoned the detail in to Nocera. Then they powered back to the wharf in glum and dripping silence. Scott didn’t need to voice what they both knew. Seventeen was loaded to the roots—it had about a quarter of the month’s crop on it. When Ulysses Ward got back from checking the deep trellis range and heard about this, he was going to go ballistic. It was the third time that summer.

“What happens when you buy your software out of fucking Texas,” grinned Nocera, feet up on the console while he and Scott sat waiting for some hired-down-the-wires San Diego machine consultancy to trace and fix the fault. “Ward’s never going to learn. You want Rim quality, you got to pay Rim prices.”

“It’s not the software,” Scott said, mainly because he knew it wasn’t, but also because he was getting tired of Nocera’s constant cracks. “It’s the seals.”

“It fucking is the software. Ward got cheap and cheerful from a bunch of Jesusland hicks probably think altered carbon’s what you buy for indoor barbecues. Those guys are running five years behind the stuff coming out of the valley now, minimum.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the software,” Scott snapped. “We had this same shit back in May and that was before the fucking upgrade.” Before you hired on, he didn’t add. And then his own language caught up with him and he colored with the shame. He’d never sworn like that before he started working out here.

“Yeah. Same shit, same shit software.” Nocera wasn’t going to shut up, he was on a roll. He gestured around the con room. “Ward buys his upgrades the same place he got the original system. Cow Tech, Kansas. Shat fresh out of a longhorn’s ass.”

“You said Texas a minute ago.”

“Texas, Kansas?” Nocera made a dismissive gesture. “In the end, what’s the fucking difference? It’s all—”

“Leave him alone, Emil. We all got to be born somewhere.”

Carmen Ren stood in the doorway of the control room, unlit spliff tucked into the corner of her mouth and hands in her coverall pockets. She’d stomped off as soon as she’d peeled off her wet suit, without a backward word. Scott knew by now not to go after her when she hit that mood. Not till she’d smoked it down a little, leastways.

Nocera sighed weightily. “Look, Carm, it’s not like that. I don’t get on Osborne here just ’cause he’s a fence-hopper. Lot of people would around here, but not me. I figure a man’s got to make a living, even if he has to tunnel under a fenceline to do it. But he’s not going to sit here and tell me that cheap crap they spin up in Jesusland works as well as Rimtech. Because it just ain’t fucking so.”

Ren gave Scott a weary smile.

“Ignore him,” she said. “With Ward out of sight, there’s no telling how much custom-nasty shit Emil here’s put up his nose today.”

Nocera wagged a cautionary finger at her. “You pick your chemicals, Carm. I’ll pick mine.”

“This?” Ren removed the spliff from her mouth and held it aloft for general scrutiny. “This is a cheap drug, Emil. I won’t be the one coming around begging for a sub the week before payday.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

She put the spliff back in her mouth, crushed the end to life between a callused thumb and forefinger, and drew hard. The ember flared up with a clearly audible splintering crack. She sighed out a cloud of smoke, looked at Nocera through it for a moment.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ve had better offers this week.”

“What, like from altar boy here?”

Scott felt himself flush again, hot on hot. Carmen Ren was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen in the flesh, and since they’d been on field maintenance together he’d been seeing a lot of that flesh. She stripped off in the tackle room with an utter lack of self-consciousness that he knew Pastor William would have called prideful and unwomanly. Scott politely turned his back whenever she got naked that way, but he still caught glimpses as she zipped herself into the wet suit or peeled unexpectedly to the waist in the Zodiac when it was hot. Her skin was like pale honey, and the curves of her body were subtle yet unmistakable even in the shapeless Ward BioSupply coveralls they all wore around the wharf. But more than all that, Carmen Ren had long, straight hair that spilled like black water onto her shoulders whenever she unpinned it from the spiderform static clip that kept it up, and a curious, negligent way of tipping her head to one side as she did it. She had liquid dark, ironic eyes that lifted delicately at the corners and cheekbones like ledges on some Himalayan peak, and when she concentrated on something, her whole face took on a porcelain immobility that splintered his heart like the sound of that ember in the spliff.

The last few weeks, Scott had found himself thinking about Ren a lot when he went home at night, and in a way that he knew was sinful. He’d done his best to resist the urges, but it was no good. She floated into his dreams unbidden, in postures and scenarios that made him flush when he recalled them during the waking day. More than once recently he’d woken tight and hard from the dreams, his hands already on himself and the taste of Ren’s name in his mouth. Worse still, he had the feeling that when Ren looked at him, she could see right through him to that sweaty core of desire, and despised him for it.

Now she was smoking, looking down on Nocera as if he were something that had just leaked out of the mulch vats.

“You really are being a disagreeable little prick today, aren’t you.” She turned to Scott. “You want to go get a coffee up on the wharf?”

“Uh, with you, together, you mean?” Scott bounced to his feet as she nodded. “Sure. Yeah. Great.”

“Uhm, uh, with, uhm, you?” Nocera sneered, made dying-insect-leg motions with his arms. Cranked up a joke-Jesusland accent from network comedy stock. “Duh, darlin’, how kin ah refuse such a laidy. Uhm, praise, uhm, th’ everlovin’ Lord.”

Scott felt his fists clench. He’d been in enough scuffles back home to know he wasn’t much of a fighter, and to know from looking at Nocera that he was. He’d seen the scars when the older man was getting into and out of a wet suit, read it also in his stance and the blank challenge of the unkind eyes. It was like looking at a later edition of Jack Mackenzie’s older brother, the one who’d enlisted on his sixteenth birthday and come home a year later, sunburned and full of scalp tales from places none of them had ever heard of.

Still, he’d taken about as much of Nocera’s Rim superiority as he—

Ren glided into the gap almost before Scott realized he was turning to face the other man.

“I said a coffee, Scott. Not a broken nose.” She nodded at the door. “Come on. Leave this dickhead to play with himself.”

“Be a lot more fun than playing with you, Ren.” Nocera leaned past Ren’s hip, still in his chair, still grinning. “I’m telling you, kid, I know her sort inside out. Been there, eaten the pussy. You will have more fun jerking off.”

Scott surged forward, fists raised. The new flush slammed through him, itching at the roots of his hair and burning across his cheeks. He saw the grin slide off Nocera’s face, replaced with a sudden, speculative interest. The other man’s boots swung unhurriedly off the console to the floor. Scott knew then he was going to get a kicking, but fuck it—

And suddenly he was pressed up against Ren. Flash scent of her hair, still damp, warmth of skin and soft curves right underneath his eyes, and then she pushed him firmly back toward the door. The look on her face wasn’t friendly.

“Get out,” she said, firm as the hand on his chest. “Wait for me upstairs.”

He went, stumbling a little, shame and relief pulsing through him in about equal quantities. The door closed behind him, shutting down whatever Nocera was sneering to a barely audible murmur. Ren’s angry tones trod it down. He wanted to stay and listen but….

He went quietly along the bulb-lit metal corridor, up the clanking metal steps to the topside offices, and out into the late-afternoon sunlight, still breathing tightly. He crossed to the rail on one of the wharf’s access gantries and gripped the carbon-fiber weave in both fists as if he could crush it. He stared down at his whitened knuckles.

…fucking Nocera, fucking Rim assholes, fucking place…

But he’d known, a small, calm part of himself came and reminded him. He’d always known what it was going to be like. He’d known because Uncle Leland, who’d been Rimside before he was born, had told him all about it. Pastor William had told him, too, in bitten-off hellfire-tinged terms. His mother had wept and told him, again and again. His friends had jeered and told him.

Everyone had told him, because everyone knew what they thought of Republicans out on the godless Rim. Hard grind and hatred, it was all they’d offer him. They’d use him up, spit on him while they were doing it, and if the immigration bogeys didn’t get him, then debt and the gangmasters would. He’d have no rights there, no one to turn to. He’d be nothing, worse than nothing, one of the silent service underclass that were cheaper than machines and had to be as quiet, as uncomplaining and efficient or else bang, your average high-tech high-demand Rim citizen there just went right ahead and junked them for something that’d do the job faster, cheaper, better.

Still, I won’t tell you not to go. Leland, the last week before Scott skipped, parked by Scott’s side on the split-rail fence, watching sunset smear the sky up over the mountains. He didn’t know it, but Scott had already paid the handler in Bozeman the upfront half. He was due on the truck next Tuesday. I won’t tell you not to go, because there’s nothing here for you that’s better. People hate the Rim, and there’s a pot of good reasons for that, but there’ll be chances out there you won’t get here if you stay your whole God-given life. The money hasn’t settled like it has here. It’s still moving, it’s not all classed up and fossilized. You can track it out there, go where it is. Get lucky, you can maybe carve some off for yourself. And if you stay, get legal, get a family, then your kids can maybe have even more. You know, schooling’s free in the Rim. I mean, really free, and real schooling, not the bullcrap we get here.

They sat for a while, and evening deepened the colors of the sunset. The air started to chill.

Why’d you come back then, Wallace? he’d asked finally.

Wallace grinned and looked down at his work-worn hands. You always ask the good ones, Scotty. Why’d I come back? I don’t know, maybe I just wasn’t strong enough to stay away. I missed this place something grim, you know. We both did, me and your pop. We always talked about coming back, and I think that’s what helped us stay away. Then when Daniel had his accident, there was no more talk, no one to talk to, and that missing started to really gnaw at me.

Scott knew the gnawing well. Sometimes he beat it, for days at a time, especially in the early days, the early shit jobs, when work wore him down and left him no strength or time for anything but itself and sleep. But the longing always came back, and now, now he had time, and money put away, he could feel the same crumbling that must have taken Wallace. He said his prayers every night, the way he’d promised Mom he would, went to a Christian church when he could find one, but lately he was confused in the things he thought about praying for.

“You okay now?”

He started. He hadn’t heard Ren come up behind him.

“Where I come from,” he said tightly, straight off, “you don’t talk that way in front of women.”

She inclined her head, gave him a gentle smile. “Well, where I come from we don’t segregate our speech. But thanks, anyway. It was a nice thought. Especially since Nocera would have walked all over you. He’s an asshole, Scott, but that doesn’t mean he can’t handle himself.”

“I know that. I seen his type before.”

“Have you?” She examined him closely for a moment. Raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you have, haven’t you. Well then, that was a very brave thing you tried to do.”

He felt the bloom of something inside. Felt it wither again as Ren shook her head at him.

“Pretty fucking dumb, but very brave. Shall we go and get that coffee?”

         

Ward BioSupply had begun life as one of several marine biotech startups working off the Kwok commercial wharf complex, but over time it had absorbed a lot of the neighboring competition and now sprawled across the north end of the complex in a patchwork collection of office prefabs, scaffolded sub docks, and newly built warehousing. To find anything that didn’t belong to Ulysses Ward, you had to walk one of the narrow linking gantries over to the south side, where a run of eateries with sea views catered to the wharf’s workers.

They ducked into a place called Chung’s, which was widely reckoned to be the best of the caffeine joints and had a set of displays running club footage from the Singapore bloodbeat scene.

“This is good,” Ren said, gesturing at the screens with her coffee mug. “Beats that saccharine shit they pipe in on site.”

“Yeah.” Gruffly—he was still smarting a little from her calling him dumb. Besides which, he quite liked the on-site music. And he didn’t really approve of the massed writhing bodies rubbing up against one another’s all-but-nakedness.

She drank, nodded appreciatively at the taste. “Yeah. Be good to be caffeinated, too, come to that. If Ward’s going to shout at us, I want to be awake when he does it. I’ve been up since four this morning.”

“Doing what?”

She shrugged. “Ah, you know how it is.”

By which he knew she meant she had another job. And was therefore illegal like him, because out here if you were legitimate, you’d get by pretty easily on a single wage. It was the standout difference between the Rim and the Republic.

The hint of solidarity softened his sulk.

“Things’ll smooth out when you’ve been here awhile,” he offered in return. “I was working every open-eye hour, three different places, till I hooked this gig. Ward likes to run his mouth when things go wrong, but he’s a pretty good boss under that.”

She nodded. “I guess things must have been pretty grim where you’re from, right?” she said shrewdly. “Where is that? I’m guessing Nebraska? The Dakotas, maybe?”

“Montana.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Water war country. Man, that must have been tough growing up.”

“They got it worse in other places,” he said defensively, though he couldn’t have named any offhand. “Just, well, you know. Hard to get paying work, you don’t know the right people.”

She nodded. “Plus ça change.”

“Excuse me?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She watched the screens. “Ward say anything to you about when he’d be back?”

“Not really. Said it might be most of the day. I figure he’s got to be aiming on some serious overhaul work. Usually, trip like that, trellis check, he’d be out and back in not much more than a couple of hours.” He hesitated. “Carmen, you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” It was said absently; she wasn’t really paying attention.

“Where are you from?”

Sudden sidelong glance. Now he had her attention.

“That’s a long story, Scott.” She sipped her coffee. “You sure you want to be that bored?”

“I won’t be. I like hearing about places I haven’t been.”

“Makes you think I’m from someplace else?”

But she grinned as she said it, in a way that said he was supposed to join in. He grinned back, flushing only a little.

“Come on, Carmen. You wouldn’t be working for Ward if you were Rim born and bred. None of us would.” He nodded around at the clientele, dropped his voice a prudent couple of notches. “Everyone in this place is from someplace else. I don’t figure you for any different.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Detective, huh?”

“I just pay attention,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

“So come on—tell me. Where’d you swing in from?”

There was a long pause. Scott waited. He’d had these moments before with fellow illegals, the weightless gap before trust engaged, before each one shed the load of suspicion and talked together like two free Americans once would have done, back before the internationalist scum and the Chinese—political Chinese, he reminded himself, you’re not a racist, Scott—broke apart the greatest nation on the face of the Earth and cast down the fractured remnants like Moses breaking the tablets.

“Taiwan,” she said, and his heart welled up with the knowledge that yes, she did trust him. “You heard of Taiwan?”

“Right. I mean, sure.” Falling over himself in eagerness. “That’s in China, right? It’s, like, a Chinese province.”

Ren snorted. “They fucking wish. It’s an island, and it’s off the coast of China, you got that right. But we’re an independent state. Written that way into every Pacific Rim trade agreement and nonproliferation pact in the last hundred years. What you call a hothouse economy, same status as the Angeline Freeport, same hyperpowered output and no one wants to fuck with it in case they break it and the whole Rim feels the backwash. That’s where I grew up.”

“So why’d you leave?”

She gave him a sharp look, for all it had been an innocent question. Scott couldn’t see leaving a place that was doing that well for any reason on Earth, not if it was your home, not if you grew up there.

“I mean,” he stumbled. “I guess you weren’t happy there, right? But, you know, it sounds like the kind of place a person would be happy.”

She smiled a little. “Well, it has its upsides. But even in hothouse economies, you got losers as well as winners. I mean, not everyone in the Freeport’s a movie star or a nanotech licensee, right?”

“Got that right.” He’d worked in the Freeport on and off, would never go back if he didn’t have to.

“Okay, so like I said, winners and losers, if you’re the loser then—”

“You don’t want to talk like that, Carmen.” Scott leaned across the table, earnest. “You’re not a loser just on account of you gotta go somewhere else to make a better life for yourself. None of us is a loser here, we’re just looking for that opportunity to get back on the horse.”

For a moment, it got him a blank look. Then the confusion cleared from her porcelain face. “Ah, right. Culture gap. No, I’m not talking about losers the way you people do. I mean losers in the trade-off. Some win, some lose, the wheel goes ’round. That kind of thing.”

“You people?” He tried to hide the hurt. “What do you mean, you people?”

“You know, guys like you.” She gestured impatiently. “Old Americans, heart-landers. From the Republic.”

“Oh, okay. But look, Carmen.” He allowed himself a superior smile. “We’re not the old Americans, that’s the Union, that sell-out eastern scum, all their UN-loving pals. The Confederated Republic is the New America. We’re the Phoenix rising, Carm.”

“Right.”

“I mean, uhm,” he stumbled again, looking for language that wouldn’t offend. “Look, I know probably you didn’t go to a church the same way I always did, guess for you it was some kind of temple or something, but in the end it’s the same thing, right?” Pleased with himself for the way he’d eased out from under Pastor William’s unremitting hellfire and One True Christ ranting, seen a better light in the succession of more moderate churches he’d had to make do with over the last couple of years. “I mean whatever you call God, if you accept that God as your guiding principle the way the Republic does, then any nation that does that has to succeed, right? Has to rise up in the end, no matter what Satan does to lay snares in our path.”

Ren looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you really a, uh, a Christian?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So you belie—”

Her phone blipped at them. She fished it out and put it to her ear.

“Yeah?” Features tautening, the way he’d seen it that morning when the news about the humidity loop came through. “Got it. Be right there.”

She snapped the phone off again.

“Ward,” she said. “He’s back, and he’s pretty fucking pissed off.”

         

Pretty pissed off was about right. Scott could hear Ward’s bellowing through the metal walls of the con room while they were still at the far end of the corridor. He followed Ren along the narrow space, hurrying to keep up with her curiously long, rapid strides. He would have tried to get ahead of her, to go first in case Nocera was still behaving like an asshole, but there was no room to pass, and anyway…

The door sliced back to admit them. Ward’s rage boiled out, suddenly on full audio. Scott was used to the sound, but this time he thought there was an edge on the voice he hadn’t heard before, something that went well beyond anger.

“…the fucking point of all this planning if we’re—”

He shut up as he saw them. Ulysses Ward was a big, bearish man, muscular from the constant sub-aqua and surface swimming time the business demanded, balding in a way you didn’t see so much of on this side of the fenceline. He flushed when he got angry, as he was now, and he punctuated his speech with aggressive motion of limbs and head. Scott had never seen him actually hit anyone, but he often gave the impression that it wasn’t entirely out of the question. Nocera, perhaps wisely, had given him center stage in the con room, and he stood there now, fists clenched.

“We’re back,” said Ren superfluously.

“So I fucking see.” Ward seemed to notice Scott for the first time. “You, get down to the sub dock and take a look at the air scrubbers on Lastman. Felt like I was breathing farts and fumes the last hour back, I nearly fucking had to surface it got so bad.”

For about half a second, before he spotted the idiocy of it, Scott thought about refusing to leave Ren until Ward had calmed down. He swallowed instead, said: “Might be a compatibility problem, all that software we took out of, uh, Fell 8 was—”

Ward pinned him with a glare. “And can you fix that for me if it is?”

“Well, no, but—”

“No, that’s right. Because I didn’t fucking hire you as a software specialist. So why don’t you get the fuck down there like I asked you to and take a fucking look at what you can fucking fix for me. All right? Simple enough for you?”

Scott looked at him, knowing he was flushing. Breathed in hard, nodded on clenched teeth and lips pulled tight.

“Good, then why are you still standing here?”

Scott wheeled about and plunged back into the corridor, fury rising through him like heat. One more month, he promised himself silently. One more fucking month, and out. Before today, he’d thought Ward was okay, he’d thought the man was an American. Guy lost his temper now and then, but what real man didn’t. Point was, he knew where the lines were. But now, talking that way, treating Scott like he was some just-over-the-fence liability who’d fucked up when all the time it was Scott had been warning Ward that if you were going to cannibalize plug-ins from one sub to another, you couldn’t just expect that the systems would fall in love with each other without you ran a whole slew of up-to-date compatibility patches.

He was on the stairs down to the dock when he became aware that something had changed fractionally in the light in the corridor behind him.

He stopped on the first step, looked back.

Saw a tall figure advancing down the passageway from the other end, darkening the view along the narrow perspectives as it passed under each overhead bulb and got between Scott and the light source. This guy really was tall, and big with it, and advancing with inexorable calm. Someone not used to being stopped, someone who must not have liked the signs all over the topside offices that asked you to buzz and take a seat while you waited, one of our staff will be with you shortly, must instead have decided to just come down anyway and find whatever he was looking for.

Scott lifted an arm and waved.

“Uh, hey,” he called.

The figure gave no indication that it had seen or heard him. It moved steadily along the corridor toward the con room door, seemed to be wearing a long coat and had one hand held stiffly down inside the folds of the garment—

And suddenly, out of nowhere, a lever tipped over in Scott’s guts. Something was wrong. This was trouble.

He hopped off the step and jogged back up the corridor, toward the newcomer. He didn’t call out again; there was no point. He knew from experience how voices boomed and echoed in the metal confines of the corridor—this guy had heard him well enough. And yes, there was definitely something in that coat-shrouded hand, he saw the way the material wrapped stiffly around it. He dropped the jog, kicked into a sprint.

They met at the door. Scott’s sprint died, puddled right out of him. What he had to say dried up in his mouth. He gaped.

It was the face. His mind seemed to gibber it. It was the face, the face.

Right out of the End Times comics they gave out every fourth Sunday in church, the ones the little kids got nightmares over and the older kids had to earn with red ticks in Pastor William’s Book of Deeds. It was the same hollow-cheeked privation and clamped mouth, the long, untidy hair hanging past the hard-angled bones of cheeks and jaw, the same burning eyes—

The Gaze of Judgment. Right out of Volume II Issue 63.

His knees trembled. His mouth worked. He couldn’t—

The door hummed—he’d never noticed the noise before now—and slid back. Voices within, still angry.

The coat swirled, the stranger’s right arm came free, came up swinging. Something hit Scott in the side of the head and he stumbled, went down in an awkward, twisted-limb sprawl. Lightning switched through his head, left sparks and a wow-and-flutter effect in his ears. The Gaze lit on him briefly, then swung away again, left and into the opened con room. The stranger stepped through.

Yells erupted. Nocera and Ward, almost in unison. “This is private fucking property, asshole, what do you—”

A sudden silence that sang above the numbness in his head where he’d been hit. Then Ward again, raw disbelief.

“You? What the fuck are you doing in here? What—”

Deep, soft cough—a sound he knew from somewhere.

And the screaming started.

Scott felt the sound wring sweat from his pores, turn his skin shivery-ticklish with horror. Like the time Aaron got his arm trapped in the teeth of Dougie Straker’s rock breaker, exactly the same feeling—the sound of agony, of damage so massive it ripped register and recognition out of the voice that made it, left only a flayed shriek of denial that could have belonged to anyone and almost anything.

Carmen!

Scott flailed about. Panic for her got him to his knees, got him to his feet. He felt blood trickling in his hair. He stumbled and almost fell, braced himself on the edge of the door just as it started to slide closed again. The mechanism trembled against his grip a moment, then gave and sank back to full open. Scott shoved himself upright and staggered through.

He had time for one flash-burned glimpse.

Blood, everywhere, the siren color of it shocked onto the consoles and wall, what looked like a couple of fistfuls of offal from the discount end of a butcher’s counter drip-sliding down the screens. Nocera was down, face turned awkwardly sideways, eyes open, cheek pressed hard to the ill-swept, dusty floor as if he were listening for rats in the understructure. More blood, a broad, wine-dark puddle of it leaking out around his midriff, tongues of the stuff twisting out through the scattered dust. Over his body, Ren and the stranger wrestled for a squat-barreled weapon—Scott made the match with the soft impact he’d heard, one of the Cressi sharkpunch guns from the cabinet upstairs. Supposed to be locked, he was always telling Ward that, but—

Ward lay on his back beyond.

More blood again, the big man thrashing and slithering in it, clutching, Scott saw with numb horror, at a raw red hole where his belly had been. Shredded tissue hung in ropes out of him, was clotted on the floor and smeared on his fingers like some red-stained cake mix he’d stuck his hands into. Ward’s mouth was a gaping pink tunnel—you could see right down to the molars and a trembling whitish yellow tongue—and the screams came up out of it in sickening waves. His eyes clawed onto Scott as he stood in the doorway, nailed him there. Wide and pleading, crazy with pain, Scott couldn’t know whether his boss knew him or not. He made to throw himself forward into the fray, threw up instead, with punishing, gut-wrenching force. Vomit splattered in Nocera’s pooling blood.

Carmen yelled, desperate.

Cough of the sharkpunch.

Another impact, this time in his neck below the ear. He grabbed for something, anything. The floor came up. Blood and vomit, warm and wet in his face as he hit. He tried to get his mouth closed or twisted clear, failed in the attempt. The hot acid stink and taste—his stomach flipped again, weakly. His legs flexed like a crippled insect’s. Vision dimming out on a pool of red and flecks of yellow-white. He groped after a prayer, fumbled it, couldn’t get his mouth to work, made a handful of scrabbling words in his head—

Our Father…deliver me not…

And black.