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Rakitin stared at Liadov, his stomach clenched into a ball of ice.

Slowly, as he studied Nika's expression, he realized something.

Someone was striking derision and a wall of cold rejection, someone was where they weren't wanted, and it wasn't Polya.

How strange.

In the wash of relief and something else (acceptance? No, that was absurd), he felt an undercurrent of sympathy for the supply captain.

For the first time, it occured to him that he could play along.

Polya looked met Utrov's eyes and smiled a little, shyly.

The secret was shared, after all.

"You know, I think he does."

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"Da," Polya said. "I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to hear from you."

He paused, brows lifting in mild affront.

"There's no need to fear me shooting you in the back. I would shoot you in the front, like a gentleman."

Rakitin turned to the route that would take him through the shadows to the shooting range. Creatures that lurked in the darkness were nothing to those that emerged smiling into the light. By day, the murderer they hunted walked among them, the same as any other but for the sickness beneath the skin. That frightened Polya more than the stalker in the night.

Probably he should take more precautions. If he was killed by the person he was sent here to help look for, he would feel very silly, and probably anything he found out in the process would go to waste. Hardly anyone listened to dead people these days.

"I should say the same thing," he said, giving Deimos a long, not entirely antagonistic stare. "Be careful."