Bugs in the software, cont.

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The narrow strip of skin visible through The Pain's mask was uneven, covered in welts long since solidified, like lava flows turned to basalt. Earlier curiosity had prompted Rakitin to take a closer look, but better sense had assured him staring would have been unforgiveably rude. However, now that consideration had been rendered moot. He noted with interest the thin zone of clarity encircling the Cobra's eyes, keeping visibility unobstructed. The damage must have been inflicted by his own companions. The Pain's place at the center of the hive had not come easily.

"I see," Rakitin said grimly.

He thought of the Ocelot boy who had taken Gurlukovich's death so badly. Had he been his lover? Either way, it was obvious he would lash out at anyone who became a convenient target, an outward direction for his pain. No doubt he wasn't alone.

Rakitin let the warning about The Fury pass him by. Warnings about the cosmonaut's madness were thick as flies on the ground. It was none of Rakitin's concern.

They called me mad, I called them mad, and damn them, they outvoted me.

He took the file, and frowned down at it. Dubious legibility was not enhanced by the dim light.

"Would you prefer, er, privacy?" Rakitin said, with a surreptitious glance at Krauss.

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"I wasn't fondling it," Ippolit muttered, reddening slightly, and followed Liadov out of the hangar.

He blinked away the sudden, sharp brightness. He hadn't noticed how pervasive the industrious hum of hornets was until the closing of the door cut it off.

The part of Rakitin that constantly weighed observations against one another wondered if it was unusual to be more intimidated by an aloof, fine-featured, perfectly normal man than one who commanded a swarm of semisentient war-trained insects, or whose joints didn't seem to bend the right way and who kept pointing crossbow bolts in one's face. Probably not. There was no way of knowing.