He didn't say anything. He studied the forearm with precise assessment, then back at Tav.
"Walk me through it," he said.
"The catwalk? Two down, third secured."
"You."
"The forearm took an impact. Bruised. Not broken."
"Certain?"
"Yes."
"All right." He held the look longer. "All right." He glanced toward the exit. "He's really here."
"Yes," Tav said.
"He was really here." He looked at the platform. "He walked in there—"
"Yes."
"He knew exactly what it would mean," Alistair said. "To Cain. To the operatives. To the whole—" He stopped. "He planned for this moment for five years and he did it exactly right."
"Yes," Tav said. "He did."
Alistair was quiet.
"I need to tell him things," he said. "That I couldn't tell him on the phone. Things that need—"
"Time."
"You'll have time," Tav said. "The safe house."
"Yes." He looked at Tav. "You'll be there."
"Yes."
"All three of us."
"Yes. And Naomi, eventually."
Alistair's mouth curved. "And Naomi."
"Your roster has grown," Tav said.
"Our roster," Alistair said.
Tav looked at him.
"Yes," he said. "Our roster."
• • •
"He looked like you," Alistair said.
They were still on the platform — the last of them, the station's sounds having reduced to the procedural murmur of Lucien's network people managing the perimeter outside. The space was settling back into itself.
"The way he held himself in there." He stopped. "He was very still. He moved into the centre of the space and was completely still and let everything else move around him." He watched the floor. "That's how you are."
