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There was nothing for it. He'd drafted, three times, thank you emails to the cuffed volunteers, only to delete them in shame and humiliation. And here they were still stuck on the Island, an entire division already unstable in Taym's view driven nearly crazy by the lack of escape, especially now, when they needed it most. Caelius had robbed them of their leave before Taym had gotten involved, but maybe he'd forgotten, and even if he hadn't, maybe a little bit of groveling would mollify him anyway.

He'd thought about asking Mark for help. He hadn't quite forgotten, in a pain-hazed memory, that it had been Mark that had convinced Caelius to let up, Mark that had dragged him out of the classroom, Mark that had slapped a bandage on his shoulder before scurrying away. And that was only the one time that Taym knew he owed Mark his life--he suspected that Mark's life-saving moments were like especially benevolent cockroaches, and that for every one you saw a dozen more were bristling in the dark somewhere.

But trying to get Mark to focus on any task long enough was more patience than Taym had, and so he'd found a Sun hunter willing to part with a little bit of all-natural stress-reduction (at exorbitant cost), and he'd smoked it outside in his dirty clothes, then come inside, showered, and changed, because the last thing he wanted was to show up in Caelius's office reeking of dank. He took the time to make himself look as close to presentable as he ever did, and fifteen pounds up and freshly-shaved and with the raw edges of his nerves sanded down by the joint twenty minutes before he presented himself, almost normal-looking, at Caelius's office.

He knocked, and this time he'd learned his lesson from the last couple of times, and immediately circumvented snipey comments of "it's open, you ******** idiot" with a polite: "Should I let myself in, sir, or would some other time be better?"

It was to his credit that his voice didn't shake, although, despite his efforts, his hands did: a constant tremor of raw terror. The tiny bullet-hole scar in his shoulder throbbed in psychosomatic pain and his chest constricted and ached with fear.

He was more afraid of Caelius, he realized dimly, than he had been when he'd run into Lurks in the desert.

He tried not to look at the twitching golem parts, his bile rising; tried desperately not to think of his own face gazing blankly and stupidly back at him while he rocked back and forth in a corner underground. Give yourself ten minutes to not die horribly, he promised himself, and then you can go and throw up.

It grated, so ******** much, but he spoke up after a tense and nervy pause: "I came to address the last meeting we had, sir." The one where you ******** shot me, he thought but didn't say. "I was--" God. The words fairly choked him, all disgusting simpering, and he hated himself for every syllable of them even though lying for his own benefit was an old habit by now. "--I was wrong, sir. To question your wisdom or authority, especially in a public setting. It would be hard to do something stupider or more arrogant. I've also, accordingly, submitted reports as requested."

Which was true. Granted, the first wave had been accompanied by "under duress" bitching and hadn't contained very much of substance, and the second had been a dissertation that wasn't exactly titled "why Lawrence ought to be buried in a shallow grave" but might as well have been, but they were, in any case, reports. He was banking on Caelius already expecting him to fail so hard that the fact that he'd submitted anything at all would be a pleasant surprise.

And then, somewhat to his surprise, he found himself offering: "I left--I left field reports for my Sahara deployment, also, and a final report. I was under the understanding that they were being sent to Jane, but I felt it advisable to send them directly to you, also. I have not submitted a report on my interactions with Jane." But I could, if you wanted, was the unspoken addition.

He had no reason to throw Jane under the especially dangerous bus of Caelius's wrath (she'd sent him the video, and he would not forget that even if she'd also told him he'd be better off dead in the moment that it was most dangerous for him to hear it), but from his first day in the Sahara he'd carefully blind CC'd everything he'd sent to her to Mark and the official channels as well, and he still wasn't sure why he'd felt compelled. It was as likely that she was doing so herself, independently--he could not think that he'd learned anything vital enough to hide nor indeed to suspect that she would be inclined to hide it--but something about her made his skin crawl.

"I'm not expecting a pat on the head for my feeble attempts to do my job," he added flatly, before Caelius could accuse him of it. "But an apology and admission of guilt don't mean sh--don't mean anything, sir, without evidence of a changed outlook to back them up. I was only attempting to demonstrate my sincerity."

He had not expected it. It had been a shot in the total black, made for reasons he didn't understand; if anything he'd expected that the Death lead would bark at him that he was a ******** idiot for bringing up a Hunter so efficient, so discreet, so clearly superior to him in every way.

That was what he'd expected. He'd CC'd reports to Mark and to Caelius partly out of a spiteful distaste for Jane--much more for that than anything--and he'd had some lingering distrust of her that had been entirely personal but not at all professional. The only thing, he realized belatedly (it had been a subconscious knowledge; he had not thought to give it shape until now), that had disturbed him was this: Lawrence had been promoted.

This was a ploy, he decided. Caelius was drawing him out, waiting for him to spill every stupid thing he knew in some sort of empty accusation so that he could be thoroughly taken to task for his idiocy.

He wracked his brain, and he remembered for one fleeting second a comment about an unstable weapon in unskilled hands, about nepotism, and after considering it for half a breath he shelved it. He knew nothing about Jane, and all his dislikes were intensely personal. He would not, could not, bring himself to use her as a scapegoat in the vanishingly small case that this was not some game to get him to be unusually stupid for Caelius, and if it was a ploy, he would, despite his quaking terror of Caelius, maintain his integrity.

"She was--helpful," he said carefully, attempting to remain factual, to remain neutral. "I was initially debriefed by Stephen and Jane, with--with Lawrence Weiman." He couldn't even say the name without the hate for the man leaking in around the edges, but it was rapidly stifled. "I requested from Jane the names of hunters previously deployed to the Sahara who might have useful information, and was directed to Graham Peasley and--and Leona Tavish. She--informed us that the Sahara deployment was an opportunity, not a punishment, but that we would do well to make ourselves useful enough to efface the--the strikes on our record, sir, while we were there."

He hesitated, swallowing hard. Stay neutral. Stay on topic. "I--was captured, as you know from the report, sir. I managed to get a message on the emergency line through and it was Jane who reminded me that this was an opportunity to--to do my job, as a Death hunter. To be useful. This I attempted to do, as you--as you also know. My interactions with Jane in a personal capacity," he added flatly, "have been non-existent. Her professional conduct has been secretive but no more so than--than many other people in this division, and possibly only because she feels the need to be circumspect. I have no complaints about her as a hunter."

And yet he hadn't trusted her. And yet his hackles had raised at the idea of sending her and her alone his reports. An unstable weapon in unskilled hands and he'd never asked her to clarify and once again he was suffering for it.

"I have been operating on the assumption, as mentioned in my report, sir," he said, after a nervous swallow, "that information about Lawrence Weiman's conduct in the Sahara has been kept from me by Jane in order to protect mission objectives. I would much prefer to believe that this is the case than believe that his retrieval of the--the--the..." he coughed, "--the clone was motivated by anything other than orders. Jane, as I say, has been unwilling to provide me with this information. If it's to be kept from me for the purposes of safety I make no further requests to review it. But if it is not, sir, I would dearly like to put to rest my fears that I was betrayed out there and that for some reason Jane finds it advisable to keep this to herself."

"I--"

He sat, as instructed, trying again not to look at the human-shaped non-human bits littering the office.

He hesitated, taken aback by the question but more taken aback--it was obvious; it was incredibly obvious that it had surprised him; he hadn't bothered to try and hide it--by the explanation beforehand. The words "unassigned mission" had been met with a blank, uncomprehending stare, and then with frank disbelief.

He tried to fumble his way back to his words, but found it even more difficult than usual, confounded, bewildered, suddenly tense.

"To me, sir, or to Deus?" he asked finally.

There was a long, long pause, during which Fiona frantically attempted to steer Taym away from blunt honesty, and failed.

"Permission to answer that question with the full honesty it deserves, without getting shot or--or thrown out a window or something similarly unpleasant, sir?"

A long silence again, and Taym did not show himself out, but breathed slowly, steadily, painfully, trying to level off his rising rage.

What work would satisfy you, sir? occurred to him, as did would accomplishments would you consider significant and is there nothing I can do to get you to just tell me, explicitly, what it is that you expect out of us?

He longed to argue. He longed to defend himself and to tell Caelius that he was terrified of him, in fact, in answer to his question, and that he desperately wanted to see Deus do great things but didn't see them doing anything useful when they were too busy trying to avoid drawing attention lest they find themselves minus a head. He wanted to address his own bewilderment over what it was that he was supposed to be doing with his time, over Jane, over Lawrence, over work rosters and repeated assessments of failure, and he wanted to ask about the giant ******** crater in the Sahara where a Lair used to be that Caelius undoubtedly knew about because he was holding the ******** report and ask if that was not an accomplishment, sir. A grand speech would have suited him fine. He wanted to tell him that people can be marvelously, wonderfully, astonishingly compliant and resourceful if equipped with direction and motivation, but that they were little better than dumb animals without any of the above, and that if Caelius felt he was constantly herding a bunch of dumb animals maybe he ought to examine that idea.

He had also wanted to bring up the topic of leave, of the fact that Caelius's hunters were climbing up the walls for lack of anywhere to put their heads.

"I will be transferring to Moon division as soon as I am able," he said, as he rose to go. "Sir."