Consider Phlebas

3. Clean Air Turbulence

“What!” roared Horza.

“Target/acqui—” the suit began again.

“Oh shut up!” Horza shouted, and started punching buttons on the suit’s wrist console, twisting this way and that, scanning the darkness around him. There ought to have been a way of getting a head-up display on the inside of the helmet visor to show him what direction the signals were coming from, but he hadn’t enough time to familiarise himself completely with the suit, and he couldn’t find the right button. Then he realised he could probably just ask. “Suit! Give me a head-up on the transmission source!”

The top left edge of the visor flashed. He turned and tipped until a winking red dot positioned itself on the transparent surface. He hit the wrist buttons again, and the suit hissed as it evacuated gas from its sole-nozzles, sending him shooting away under about one gravity. Nothing appeared to change apart from his weight, but the red light went out briefly, then came back on. He swore. The suit said:

“Target/acquisition—”

“I know,” Horza told it. He unslung the plasma pistol from his arm and readied the suit lasers. He cut the gas jets, too. Whatever it was coming after him, he doubted he’d be able to outrun it. He became weightless again. The small red light continued to flash on the visor. He watched the internal screens. The transmission source was closing on a curved course at about point zero-one lights, in real space. The radar was low frequency and not particularly powerful — all too low-tech to be either the Culture or the Idirans. He told the suit to cancel the head-up, brought the magnifiers down from the top of the visor and switched them on, aiming at where the radar source had been coming from. A doppler shift in the signal, still displayed on one of the helmet’s small internal screens, announced that whatever was producing the transmission was slowing down. Was he going to be picked up rather than blown apart?

Something glinted hazily in the magnifiers’ field. The radar switched off. It was very close now. He felt his mouth go dry, and his hands shook inside the heavy gloves of the suit. The image in the magnifiers seemed to explode with darkness, then he swept them back to the top of the helmet and looked out into the starfields and the inky night. Something tore across his vision, pure black, racing across the backdrop of sky in utter silence. He jabbed at the button which switched on the suit’s needle radar and tried to follow the shape as it passed him, occluding stars; but he missed, so there was no way of telling how close it had come, or how big it was. He had lost track of it in the spaces between the stars when the darkness ahead of him flared. He guessed it was turning. Sure enough, back came the radar pulse.

“Ta—”

“Quiet,” Horza said, checking the plasma gun. The dark shape expanded, almost directly ahead. The stars around it wobbled and brightened in the lens effect of an imperfectly adjusted warp motor in cancel mode. Horza watched the shape come closer. The radar switched off again. He switched his own back on, the needle beam scanning the craft ahead. He was looking at the resulting image on an internal screen when it flickered and went out, the suit’s hissings and hummings stopped, and the stars started to fade away.

“Sapping/effector/fi… re…” said the suit, as it and Horza went limp and unconscious.

There was something hard under him. His head hurt. He couldn’t remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. He only just remembered his name. Bora Horza Gobuchul, Changer from the asteroid Heibohre, lately employed by the Idirans in their holy war against the Culture. How did that connect with the pain in his skull though, and the hard, cold metal under his cheek?

He had been hit hard. While he still couldn’t see or hear or smell anything, he knew something severe had occurred, something almost fatal. He tried to remember what had happened. Where had he been last? What had he been doing?

The Hand of God 137! His heart leapt as he remembered. He had to get off! Where was his helmet? Why had Xoralundra deserted him? Where was that stupid medjel with his helmet? Help!

He found he couldn’t move.

Anyway, it wasn’t The Hand of God 137, or any Idiran ship. The deck was hard and cold, if it was a deck, and the air smelled wrong. He could hear people talking now, too. But still no sight. He didn’t know if his eyes were open and he was blind, or if they were shut and he couldn’t open them. He tried to bring his hands up to his face to find out, but nothing would move.

The voices were human. There were several. They were speaking the Culture’s language, Marain, but that didn’t mean much; it had grown increasingly common as a second language in the galaxy over the last few millennia. Horza could speak and understand it, though he hadn’t used it since… since he had talked to Balveda, in fact, but before that not for a long time. Poor Balveda. But these people were chattering, and he couldn’t make out the individual words. He tried to move his eyelids, and eventually felt something. He still couldn’t think where he might be.

All this darkness… Then he remembered something about being in a suit, and a voice talking to him about targets or something. With a shock he realised he had been captured, or rescued. He forgot about trying to open his eyes and concentrated hard on understanding what the people near by were saying. He had used Marain just recently; he could do it. He had to. He had to know.

“…goddamn system for two weeks and all we get is some old guy in a suit.” That was one voice. Female, he thought.

“What the hell did you expect, a Culture starship?” Male.

“Well, shit, a bit of one.” The female voice again. Some laughter.

“It’s a good suit. Rairch, by the look of it. Think I’ll have it.” Another male voice. Tone of command; no mistaking it.

“…” No good. Too quiet.

“They adjust, idiot.” The Man again.

“…bits of Idiran and Culture ships would be floating all over the place and we could… that bow laser… and it’s still fucked.” Woman, different one.

“Our effector won’t have damaged it, will it?” Another male; young sounding, cutting across what the woman had said.

“It was on suck, not blow,” the captain said, or whatever he was. Who were these people?

“…of a lot less than grandad over there,” said one of the men. Him! They were talking about him! He tried not to show any sign of life. He only now realised that of course he was out of the suit, lying a few metres away from people probably standing around it, some with their backs to him. He was lying with one arm underneath his body, on his side, naked, facing them. His head still hurt and he could feel saliva dribbling from his half-open mouth.

“…weapon of some sort with them. Can’t see it, though,” said the Man, and his voice altered, as though he was changing position as he spoke. Sounded like they had lost the plasma gun. They were mercenaries. Had to be. Privateers.

“Can I have your old suit, Kraiklyn?” Young male.

“Well, that’s that,” the Man said, his voice sounding as though he was getting up from a squatting position, or turning round. It seemed he had ignored the previous speaker. “A bit of a disappointment maybe, but we did get this suit. Better get out now before the big boys show.”

“What now?” One of the females again. Horza liked her voice. He wished he could get his eyes open.

“That temple. Should be easy meat, even without the bow laser. Only about ten days from here. We’ll do a little bit more funding-up on some of their altar treasures and then buy some heavy weaponry on Vavatch. We can all spend our ill-gotten gains there.” The Man — Krakeline or whatever his name was — paused. He laughed. “Doro, don’t look so frightened. This’ll be simple. You’ll be thankful I heard about this place, once we’re rich. The goddamn priests don’t even carry weapons. It’ll be easy—”

“Easy out. Yeah, we know.” A woman’s voice; the nice one. Horza was aware of light now. Pink in front of his eyes. His head was still sore but he was coming to. He checked out his body, consciously calling on the feedback nerves to gauge his own physical readiness. Below normal, and it wouldn’t be perfect until the last effects of his geriatric appearance had faded away, in a few days — if he lived that long. He suspected they thought he was already dead.

“Zallin,” the Man said, “dump that weed.”

Horza opened his eyes with a start as footsteps approached. The Man had been talking about him!

“Aah!” somebody cried nearby. “He’s not dead. His eyes are moving!” The footsteps suddenly halted. Horza sat up shakily, narrowing his eyes in the glare. He was breathing hard and his head swam as he raised it. His eyes focused.

He was in a brightly lit but small hangar. An old, weather-beaten shuttle craft filled about half of it. He was sitting almost against one bulkhead; near the other stood the people who had been talking. Halfway between him and the group stood a large, ungainly youth with very long arms and silver hair. As Horza had guessed, the suit he had been wearing lay prone on the floor at the feet of the group of humans. He swallowed and blinked. The youth with the silver hair stared at him and scratched nervously at one ear. He wore a pair of shorts and a frayed T-shirt. He jumped when one of the taller men in the group, in the voice Horza had decided was that of the captain, said, “Wubslin,” (he turned to one of the other men) “isn’t that effector working properly?”

Don’t let them talk about you as though you aren’t here! He cleared his throat and spoke as loudly and as determinedly as he could. “There’s nothing wrong with your effector.”

“Then,” the tall man said, smiling thinly and arching one eyebrow, “you should be dead.”

They were all looking at him, most with suspicion. The youth near him was still scratching his ear; he appeared puzzled, even frightened, but the rest just looked as though they wanted rid of him as quickly as possible. They were all humans, or close to; male and female; mostly dressed in either suits or bits of suits, or T-shirts and shorts. The captain, now moving through the group, closer to Horza, looked tall and muscular. He had a mass of dark hair combed back from his brow, a sallow complexion and something feral about his eyes and mouth. The voice suited him. As he came closer Horza saw that he was holding a laser pistol. The suit he wore was black, and its heavy boots rang on the naked metal deck. He advanced until he was level with the young man with the silver hair, who was fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt and biting his lip.

“Why aren’t you dead?” the Man asked Horza quietly.

“Because I’m a lot fucking tougher than I look,” Horza said. The Man smiled and nodded.

“You must be.” He turned round and looked briefly back at the suit. “What were you doing way out here in that?”

“I used to work for the Idirans. They didn’t want the Culture ship to catch me, and they thought they might be able to rescue me later, so they threw me overboard to wait for the fleet. It’ll be here in about eight or nine hours, by the way, so I wouldn’t hang around.”

“Will it, now?” the captain said quietly, raising his eyebrow again. “You seem very well informed, old man.”

“I’m not that old. This was a disguise for my last job — an agatic drug. It’s wearing off. A couple of days and I’ll be useful again.”

The Man shook his head sadly. “No you won’t.” He turned and started back towards the other people. “Dump him,” he told the youth in the T-shirt. The youth started forward.

“Now wait a goddamned minute!” Horza shouted, scrambling to his feet. He backed against the wall, hands out, but the youth was coming straight at him. The others were looking either at him or at their captain. Horza swung forward and up with one leg, too fast for the young man with the silver hair. He caught him in the groin with his foot. The youth gasped and fell to the deck, clutching at himself. The Man had turned. He looked down at the youth, then at Horza.

“Yes?” he said. Horza got the impression he was enjoying it all. Horza pointed to the now kneeling youth.

“I told you — I can be useful. I’m pretty good in a fight. You can have the suit—”

“I’ve got the suit,” the captain said drily.

“So at least give me a chance.” Horza looked around them. “You’re mercenaries or something, right?” Nobody said anything. He could feel himself starting to sweat; he stopped it. “Let me join. All I’m asking for’s a chance. If I louse up first time, dump me then.”

“Why not dump you now and save the hassle?” The captain laughed, spreading his arms wide. Some of the others laughed too.

“A chance,” Horza repeated. “Shit, it isn’t much to ask.”

“I’m sorry.” The Man shook his head. “We’re overcrowded already.”

The silver-haired youth was looking up at Horza, his face twisted with pain and hate. The people in the group were smirking at Horza or talking quietly to each other and nodding at him, grinning. He was suddenly aware that he looked like just a skinny old man in the nude.

“Fuck it!” he spat, glaring right at the Man. “Give me five days and I’ll take you on anytime.”

The captain’s eyebrows went up. For a second he might have looked angry, then he burst out laughing. He waved the laser at Horza. “All right, old man. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.” He put his hands on his waist and nodded at the youth still kneeling on the deck. “You can fight Zallin here. You feel up to a rumble, Zallin?”

“I’ll kill him,” Zallin said, looking straight at Horza’s throat. The Man laughed. Some of his black hair spilled out of the back lip of his suit.

“That’s the idea.” He looked at Horza. “I told you we’re already overcrowded. You’ll have to produce a vacancy.” He turned round to the others. “Clear a space. And somebody get this old guy some shorts; he’s putting me off my food.”

One of the women threw Horza a pair of shorts. He put them on. The suit had been lifted from the deck, and the shuttle rolled a couple of metres sideways until it clanged against the hull on the far side of the hangar. Zallin had finally risen from the deck and gone back to the others. Somebody sprayed anaesthetic on his genitals. Thank goodness for non-retractables, Horza thought. He was resting against the bulkhead, watching the group of people. Zallin was taller than any of them. His arms seemed to reach to his knees and they were as thick as Horza’s thighs.

Horza saw the captain nod towards him, and one of the women walked over. She had a small, hard-looking face. Her skin was dark, and she had spiky fair hair. Her whole body looked slim and hard; she walked, Horza thought, like a man. As she got closer Horza saw she was lightly furred on her face, legs and arms, which the long shirt she wore revealed. She stopped in front of him and looked at him, from his feet to his eyes.

“I’m your second,” she said, “whatever good that’s supposed to do you.”

She was the one with the nice voice. Horza was disappointed, even through his fear. He waved one hand. “My name’s Horza. Thanks for asking.” Idiot! he told himself. Tell them your real name, that’s it. Why not tell them you’re a Changer as well?

“Yalson,” the woman said abruptly, and stuck her hand out. Horza wasn’t sure if the word was a greeting or her name. He was angry with himself. As though he didn’t have enough problems, he’d tricked himself into giving his real name. Probably it wouldn’t matter, but he knew too well that it was the small slips, the seemingly inconsequential mistakes, that often made the difference between success and failure, even life and death. He reached out and clasped the woman’s hand when he realised that was what he was supposed to do. Her hand was dry and cool, and strong. She squeezed his. She let go before he had time to squeeze back. He had no idea where she came from, so he didn’t read too much into it. Where he came from that would have been a fairly specific sort of invitation.

“Horza, eh?” She nodded and put her hands on her hips in the same way as the captain had done. “Well, good luck, Horza. I believe Kraiklyn thinks Zallin’s the most expendable member of the crew, so he probably won’t mind if you win.” She looked down at his slack-skinned paunch and rib-skinny chest, and her brow furrowed. “If you win,” she repeated.

“Thanks a lot,” Horza said, trying to suck in his belly and push out his chest. He gestured over to the others. “They taking bets over there?” He tried to grin.

“Only on how long you’ll last.”

Horza let the attempt at a grin fade. He looked away from the woman and said, “You know, I could probably get this depressed even without your help. Don’t let me stop you if you want to go and put some money down.” He looked back at the woman’s face. He could see no compassion or even sympathy in it. She looked him up and down again, then nodded, turned on her heel and went back to the others. Horza swore.

“Right!” Kraiklyn clapped his gloved hands together. The group of people split up and moved around the sides of the hangar, lining two of them. Zallin was standing glaring at Horza from the far end of the cleared space. Horza pushed himself away from the bulkhead and shook himself, trying to loosen up and get ready.

“So, it’s to the death, both of you,” Kraiklyn announced, smiling. “No weapons, but I don’t see any referees, so… anything goes. OK — begin.”

Horza made a little more room between himself and the bulkhead. Zallin was coming towards him, crouched, arms out like a pair of oversized mandibles on some enormous insect. Horza knew that if he used all his built-in weapons (and if he had them all; he had to keep reminding himself they’d taken out his venom-teeth on Sorpen), he could probably win without too much trouble, unless Zallin landed a lucky blow. But he was equally sure that if he did use the only effective weapon he had left — the poison glands under his fingernails — the others would guess what he was and he’d be dead anyway. He might have got away with using his teeth somehow and biting Zallin. The poison affected the central nervous system, and Zallin would have slowed down gradually; probably nobody would guess. But scratching him would be fatal for both of them. The poison contained in the sacs under Horza’s nails paralysed muscles sequentially from the point of entry, and it would be obvious Zallin had been scratched by something other than ordinary nails. Even if the other mercenaries didn’t regard this as cheating, there would be a good chance the Man, Kraiklyn, would guess Horza was a Changer, and have him killed.

A Changer was a threat to anybody who ruled by force, either of will or of arms. Amahain-Frolk had known that, and so would Kraiklyn. There was also a degree of human-basic revulsion reserved for Horza’s species. Not only were they much altered from their original genetic stock, they were a threat to identity, a challenge to the individualism even of those they were never likely to impersonate. It had nothing to do with souls or physical or spiritual possession; it was, as the Idirans well understood, the behaviouristic copying of another which revolted. Individuality, the thing which most humans held more precious than anything else about themselves, was somehow cheapened by the ease with which a Changer could ignore it as a limitation and use it as a disguise.

He had Changed into an old man, and that legacy still lay with him. Zallin was getting very close.

The youth lunged, using his huge arms like pincers and making an ungainly grab for Horza. Horza ducked and jumped to one side, faster than Zallin had anticipated. Before he could follow Horza round, the Changer had landed a kick on the youth’s shoulder which had been aimed at his head. Zallin swore. So did Horza. He’d hurt his foot.

Rubbing his shoulder, the youth came forward again, almost casually at first, then suddenly swinging one long arm out, hand fisted, and very nearly catching Horza’s face. The Changer felt the wind of the scything swing on his cheek. If the blow had landed, it would have finished the fight. Horza dummied one way, then leapt in the other direction, pivoting on one heel and lashing out again with a foot aimed between the youth’s legs. It landed, but Zallin just smiled painfully and grabbed at Horza again. The spray must have deadened all feeling.

Horza circled the youth. Zallin was staring at him with a look of intense concentration on his face. His arms were still bowed out in front of him like pincers, and at their ends his fingers flexed every now and again, as though desperate for the feel of Horza’s throat. Horza was hardly aware of the people standing around him, or the lights and fittings of the hanger. All he could see was the crouched, ready young man in front of him, with his massive arms and silvery hair, his frayed T-shirt and light shoes. The shoes squeaked on the metal deck as Zallin lunged again. Horza spun and flicked out with his right foot. It caught Zallin across his right ear, and the youth pranced away, rubbing his ear.

Horza knew he was breathing hard again. He was using up too much energy just staying at maximum tension, ready for the next attack, and in the meantime he just wasn’t hurting Zallin enough. At this rate the youth would soon wear him down, even without coming at him. Zallin spread his arms again and advanced. Horza skipped to one side, his old muscles complaining. Zallin swivelled. Horza leapt forward, pivoting again on one foot and swinging the other heel at the youth’s midriff. It connected with a satisfying thump, and Horza started to jump away, then realised his foot was caught. Zallin was holding it. Horza fell to the deck.

Zallin was swaying, one hand down at the base of his ribcage. He was gasping, almost doubled up, and staggering — Horza suspected he’d cracked a rib — but he held Horza’s foot with the other hand. Twist and pull as he might, Horza couldn’t loosen the grip.

He tried a sweat-pulse in his lower right leg. He hadn’t done that since single-combat exercise in the Academy in Heibohre, but it was worth a try; anything was, if it had a chance of loosening that grip. It didn’t work. Perhaps he had forgotten how to do it properly, or perhaps his artificially aged sweat glands were incapable of reacting that fast, but either way he was still trapped in the youth’s grip. Zallin was recovering now from the blow Horza had landed. He shook his head, the hangar lights reflecting on his hair; then he took hold of Horza’s foot with his other hand.

Horza was walking on his hands round the youth, one leg gripped, the other hanging down, trying to take some weight on the deck. Zallin stared at the Changer and whipped his hands round, as though trying to twist Horza’s foot right off. Horza read the motion and was throwing his whole body round even as Zallin started the manoeuvre; he ended up back where he’d started, his foot held in Zallin’s hands and his own palms crabbing across the deck as he tried to follow the movements of the youth. I could go for his legs; sweep in and bite, Horza thought, desperately trying to think of something. The instant he starts to slow down I’d have a chance. They wouldn’t notice. All I need is— Then, of course, he remembered again. They had taken those teeth out. Those old bastards — and Balveda — were going to kill him after all, in Balveda’s case from beyond the grave. As long as Zallin had his foot like this, the fight was only going to go one way.

What the hell, I’ll bite him anyway. He surprised himself with the thought; it was conceived and acted upon before he had time really to consider it. The next thing he knew he had pulled on the leg which Zallin held and pushed as hard as he could with his hands, flinging himself between the youth’s legs. He fastened his remaining teeth into the boy’s right calf.

“AAH!” Zallin screamed. Horza bit harder, feeling the grip round his foot slacken slightly. He jerked his head up, trying to tear the youth’s flesh. He felt as though his kneecap was going to explode and his leg would break, but he worried the mouthful of living flesh and punched up towards Zallin’s body with all his might. Zallin let go.

Horza stopped biting instantly and threw himself away as the youth’s hands came slamming down towards his head. Horza got to his feet; his ankle and knee were sore, but not seriously injured. Zallin was limping as he came forward, blood pouring from his calf. Horza changed tactics and pounced forward, striking the youth square in the belly, beneath the rudimentary guard of his huge arms. Zallin put his hands to his stomach and lower ribcage and crouched reflexively. As Horza went past he turned and brought both hands down on Zallin’s neck.

Normally the blow would have killed, but Zallin was strong and Horza was still weak. As the Changer steadied and turned he had to avoid colliding with some of the mercenaries lining the bulkhead; the fight had traversed the hangar, from one end to the other. Before Horza could get in another blow, Zallin was upright again, his face contorted with frustrated aggression. He screamed and rushed at Horza, who sidestepped neatly. But Zallin stumbled in his headlong rush, and by pure luck his head thumped into Horza’s stomach.

The blow was all the more painful and demoralising for being unexpected. Horza fell and rolled, trying to send Zallin straight over the top, but the youth fell on him, pinning him to the deck. Horza wriggled, but nothing happened. He was trapped.

Zallin raised himself up on one palm and drew the other hand up behind him into a fist as he leered at the face of the man beneath him. Horza realised suddenly that there was nothing he could do. He watched that massive fist go up and back, his own body flattened, his arms pinned, and knew it was over. He’d lost. He got ready to move his head as fast as possible, out of the way of the bone-splintering punch he could see would be unleashed at any moment, and tried again to move his legs, but knew it was hopeless. He wanted to close his eyes, but knew he had to keep them open. Maybe the Man will take pity. He must have seen I fought well. I was just unlucky. Maybe he’ll stop it…

Zallin’s fist paused, like a guillotine blade raised to its highest point, just before release.

The blow never fell. As Zallin tensed, his other hand, taking the weight of his upper body on the deck, skidded; it went shooting out from under him as it slipped on some of the youth’s own blood. Zallin grunted in surprise. As he fell towards Horza his body shifted, and the Changer could feel the weight pinning him lessen. He heaved himself out from underneath Zallin as the youth rolled. Horza rolled in the other direction, almost into the legs of the mercenaries who stood watching. Zallin’s head hit the deck — not hard, but before the youth could react Horza threw himself onto Zallin’s back, locking his hands round his neck and bringing the youth’s silver-haired head back. He slid his legs down either side of Zallin’s body, straddling him, and held him there.

Zallin went still, a gurgling noise coming from his throat where Horza’s hands held him. He was more than strong enough to throw the Changer off, to roll on his back and crush him; but before he could have done anything, one flick of Horza’s hands would have broken his neck.

Zallin was looking up at Kraiklyn, who stood almost right in front of him. Horza, too, lathered in sweat and gulping air, looked up into the dark, deep-set eyes of the Man. Zallin wriggled a little, then went motionless again when Horza tensed his forearms.

They were all looking at him — all the mercenaries, all the pirates or privateers or whatever they wanted to call themselves. They stood round the two walls of the hangar and they looked at Horza. But only Kraiklyn was looking into Horza’s eyes.

“This doesn’t have to be to the death,” Horza panted. He looked for a moment at the silver hairs in front of him, some of them plastered with sweat to the boy’s scalp. He looked up at Kraiklyn again. “I won. You can let the kid off next place you stop. Or let me off. I don’t want to kill him.”

Something warm and sticky seemed to be seeping from the deck along his right leg. He realised it was Zallin’s blood from the wound on his leg. Kraiklyn had a strangely distant look on his face. The laser gun, which he had holstered, was lifted easily back out of its holster into his left hand and pointed at the centre of Horza’s forehead. In the silence of the hangar, Horza heard it click and hum as it was switched on, about a metre away from his skull.

“Then you’ll die,” Kraiklyn told him, in a flat, even voice. “I’ve no place on this ship for somebody who hasn’t the taste for a little murder now and again.”

Horza looked into Kraiklyn’s eyes, over the motionless barrel of the laser pistol. Zallin moaned.

The snap echoed round the metal spaces of the hangar like a gunshot. Horza opened his arms without taking his eyes off the mercenary chief’s face. Zallin’s limp body tumbled slackly to the deck and crumpled under its own weight. Kraiklyn smiled and put the gun back in its holster. It clicked off with a fading whine.

“Welcome aboard the Clear Air Turbulence.” Kraiklyn sighed and stepped over Zallin’s body. He walked to the middle of one bulkhead, opened a door and went out, his boots clattering on some steps. Most of the others followed him.

“Well done.” Horza, still kneeling, turned at the words. It was the woman with the nice voice again, Yalson. She offered him her hand once more, this time to help him up. He took it gratefully and got to his feet.

“I didn’t enjoy it,” he told her. He wiped some sweat from his brow with his forearm and looked into the woman’s eyes. “You said your name was Yalson, right?”

She nodded. “And you’re Horza.”

“Hello, Yalson.”

“Hello, Horza.” She smiled a little. Horza liked her smile. He looked at the corpse on the deck. Blood had stopped flowing from the wound in one leg.

“What about that poor bastard?” he asked.

“Might as well dump him,” Yalson said. She looked over at the only other people left in the hangar, three thickly furred and identical heavy-set males in shorts. They stood in a group near the door the others had left by, looking at him curiously. All three had heavy boots on, as though they had just started to suit up and had been interrupted at the same moment. Horza wanted to laugh. Instead he smiled and waved.

“Hello.”

“Ah, those are the Bratsilakins,” Yalson said, as the three furry bodies waved dark grey hands at him, not quite in synch. “One, Two and Three,” she continued, nodding at each one in turn. “We must be the only Free Company with a clone group that’s paranoid.”

Horza looked at her to see if she was serious, just as the three furry humans came over to him.

“Don’t listen to a word she says,” one of them said, in a soft voice Horza found surprising. “She’s never liked us. We just hope that you’re on our side.” Six eyes looked anxiously at Horza. He did his best to smile.

“You can depend on it,” he told them. They smiled back and looked from one to another, nodding.

“Let’s get Zallin into a vactube. Probably dump him later,” Yalson said to the other three. She went over to the body. Two of the Bratsilakins followed her, and between the three of them they got the limp corpse to an area of the hangar deck where they lifted some metal planks up, opened a curved hatch, stuffed Zallin’s body into a narrow space, then closed both hatch and deck again. The third Bratsilakin took a cloth from a wall panel and mopped up the blood on the deck. Then the hairy clone group headed for the door and the stairs. Yalson came up to Horza. She made a sideways gesture with her head. “Come on. I’ll show you where you can clean up.”

He followed her over the hangar deck towards the doorway. She turned round as they went. “The rest have gone to eat. I’ll see you in the mess if you’re ready in time. Just follow your nose. Anyway, I have to collect my winnings.”

“Your winnings?” Horza said as they got to the doorway, where Yalson put her hand on what Horza assumed were lighting switches. She turned to him, looking into his eyes.

“Sure,” she said, and pressed one of the switches covered by her hand. The lights didn’t change, but under his feet Horza could feel a vibration. He heard a hiss and what sounded like a pump running. “I bet on you,” Yalson said, then turned and bounded up the steps beyond the door, two at a time.

Horza looked round at the hangar once and then followed her.

Just before the Clear Air Turbulence went back into warp and its crew sat down at table, the ship expelled the limp corpse of Zallin. Where it had found a live man in a suit, it left a dead youth in shorts and a tattered shirt, tumbling and freezing while a thin shell of air molecules expanded around the body, like an image of departing life.