“No.” The rain started. West pulled his collar up. “It can’t be stopped now. It’s going to happen regardless of your help.”

Paul noted that the scarred man’s eyes tracked the running lights of a plane knifing takeoff through the rain above.

“How?”

“Tell me about silver.” Paul turned to Benton, still on the ground, still in stark shadow. An instant, an instant and those blues were something else, a tugging, and gone.

“‘Au’ on the periodic table—”

“‘Ag.’”

“Art major.”

“Your silver. Tell me.”

“Invasive biological contaminant, airborne, replaces flesh with—”

“No.” She got up. “Go back further. When did you first think of it?”

He frowned. “Enemy? I don’t know; it’s been a long time since I really thought about—”

“That’s the danger of revision.” She shook her head. “You lose track of the beginnings. It all merges into one.”

“I don’t—”

“The sixth revision was the first time you wrote about it. You shifted focus from the mystical nature of Shadow drives to a hard-edged quantum physical explanation for the technology. Original versions of the book barely contained the word ‘silver.’ Where did your obsession come from?”

“It just…” He considered. “I don’t know.”

West wiped rain from his brow, fingers lingering momentarily over his temple code burn. “We do.”

And as the sun rose, he knew that he had to leave with them. Hope sat at his side, her head on his shoulder. He smoked his last cigarette. The storm had wet the beach; they were apparently alone on that strip. Clubs dead behind, early-morning traffic just beginning: an army of chambermaids and custodians. West stood down the beach, staring into the western remnants of night.

“I remember you.”

She looked into hazel. “I’m not her.”

“Maybe not here.” Inhale, pause, exhale. “But somewhere.”

Coffee, black, served in a chipped cup. There was sugar on the table, a dangerous little container of cream that he’d never trusted. He drank his coffee black.