Q44 began the final adjustments on the card.
“Here's my idea,” the Destroyer asked.
“Here’s my idea,” Jeska said. She checked her cards again and felt confident. “You win this round, I won’t speak for a week. You lose, you don’t get to talk for a week.”
“As if I’d need to talk to you,” the Destroyer said.
“I don’t think you could stop talking for three minutes,” Jeska said.
“He’s … done … it … once … or … twice,” Anderson said. “The … few … times … he … lost … a … bet.”
“I take all stupid games very seriously,” the Destroyer said. “Pac-Man more so.”
“Deal?” Jeska said.
“Fine,” the Destroyer said. "You won't talk for a week, when I win."
"And?" Jeska asked.
"Something about me not talking," the Destroyer said.
"Say it," Jeska said.
"I won't talk if you win. Which will not happen," the Destroyer said.
"Good," Jeska said.
Q44 signaled the Destroyer; the weapon was finished.
The Destroyer admired the cloud's handiwork. What had been the Ace of Spades shined in the light—it didn’t look anything like a playing card anymore. Four inches tall and half an inch wide, it was a thin, polished arrowhead with lines and grooves etched into its sides.
Still made of paper, still white and black. But because of its rearranged molecules, the card was now the sharpest object on the station.
Perfect, the Destroyer's minds agreed.
