Someone has to, Krok thinks. Someone has to blame him; the others won't. Fulcrum won't. And the others aren't to blame.

"Because it's my fault," Krok finally says, anguished. His arms tighten around Fulcrum and he digs his fingers in, briefly, a spasm that passes as quickly as it came. He's a strategist. He should have been able to find a better way.