Judas Unchained

CHAPTER NINE

On the day two hundred years ago when CST’s exploratory division opened a wormhole above Illuminatus, the sight that materialized shocked the entire Operations Center into silence. They thought they had stumbled across the ultimate high-technology civilization, one that had urbanized every square kilometer of land. Directly beyond the wormhole opening, the planet hung in the black of space, darkside on. Every continent glowed a lambent aquamarine from shore to shore, shimmering softly in long undulations as thin clouds wafted overhead. Only mountains and the polar caps were devoid of light.

The Operations Director extended a communications dish through the wormhole, and attempted to signal the occupants of the planetary city. Strangely, the electromagnetic bands remained silent apart from the warbled harmonies of the ionosphere as it was showered by solar wind. Then the full sensor returns began to build up, providing a provisional analysis. The light didn’t have a technological origin. It was purely biological.

Every time Adam Elvin visited Illuminatus he forgot to pack any decent short-sleeved linen shirts. It was his old city-boy mentality; he just never expected a climate quite so humid in an urban area. Nobody built cities in the middle of a jungle. It wasn’t civilized. Nor was it commercially viable, either. Except here.

Stepping out of the Hotel Conomela’s air-conditioned lobby was yet another unpleasant reminder of his bad choice of luggage. The heat and humidity on the street was already up to sauna levels, and that was with the hotel’s bright scarlet half-moon canopy overhead protecting him from direct sunlight. The semiorganic fiber of Adam’s white suit acquired a silver hue as it struggled to repel heat away from his body. He fanned at his face with his genuine Panama hat. A uniformed doorman gestured to a maroon Lincoln taxi that glided to a halt and popped its door. “Señor Duanro.” His white gloved hand touched the tip of his cap respectfully.

“Thanks.” Adam hurried into the cool dry interior, for once not pausing to consider, all men being equal, the market-enforced indignity of the doorman having to be servile. Today, anyone whose job it was to hasten him into cool comfort was okay by him.

He gave the drive array his destination, and the Lincoln pulled out aggressively into the flow of traffic. The street was jammed full of vehicles, half of them delivery vans and trucks parked on the curb so that angry cars, bikes, and buses were squeezed out into the few remaining lanes. His taxi rolled along at thirty kilometers an hour, its horn tooting about every thirty seconds as pedestrians, powerskaters, and cyclists dodged around it. It was always the same in Tridelta City; twenty-four million people crammed onto a patch of ground barely fifty kilometers across generated a serious amount of traffic pressure.

Eight kilometers and twenty-three minutes from the hotel, the taxi pulled up beside the Anau Tower, a cylindrical skyscraper two hundred fifty stories tall. Its broad metallic silver windows were arranged in a slight step pattern, looking as if the tower skin were twisted around the structural frame in a corkscrew spiral.

Adam took the elevator lift up to the hundred fiftieth floor, the airship docking level, then switched to a local elevator to get up to one-seven-eight. The Agent’s office suite was on the east side of the tower, three modest rooms decorated in cold black granite blocks. The receptionist was an essay in visual intimidation. Her simple charcoal-gray suit was stretched tight around her, illustrating the boosting she’d received, with several seams of muscle wrapped around her original frame. Adam suspected a host of wetwired weapons were lurking in among the dubious additional muscle cells and overstretched epidermal layer. Her neck was a smooth cone of flesh that blended directly into her cheeks. There was no chin, only an eerily attractive set of lips that had been glossed in dark cherry-red. They perked into a smile for Adam when he presented her desk array with his Silas Duanro identity.

“You can go straight in, Señor Duanro,” she trilled in a sweet high voice.

“He is expecting you.”

The Agent smiled in greeting from behind his granite desk. A tall man who kept thin by expending a lot of nervous energy, he had a beak of a nose that came down almost to his upper lip. For some reason he hadn’t modified his scalp follicles; a receding hairline was only partially disguised by a very close cut. “Señor Silas Duanro? Humm.” He smiled at his own humor. “You are allowed to use the same name with me, you know. After all these years, what have we got if not trust?”

“I’m sure.” Adam hadn’t visited Tridelta for several years; yet the Agent always managed to recognize him. Last time he’d looked very different, older and chubbier. Right now he’d morphed his face into that of a forty-year-old, with rounded cheeks, green eyes, and thick auburn hair. The skin was thick and slightly pocked as it finally began its protest at so many hurried cheap and unprofessional cellular reprofilings. He had to apply moisturizing cream every morning and evening now; even so it felt as if he were stretching scar tissue every time he spoke. His cheeks were always cold these days, the capillaries were in such a bad way from constant readjustment. There was a limit to how much reprofiling anyone could undergo, and Adam knew he was fast approaching the time when he’d have to quit.

But not yet.

Becoming Silas Duanro had also involved shedding a lot of fat, and receiving some extra muscle boosting. He hadn’t been this fit and strong for a while now, though it was taking some very sophisticated genoproteins to maintain his heart and other organs at a level where they could support the added muscle. He’d also had to correct his body for the onset of type two diabetes, which had developed over the last couple of years. But whenever the call came through to start the blockade-busting run he was assembling for Johansson, he was determined to be ready for it. No way was he going to see that from some backseat, shouting advice across the unisphere. He fully expected it to be his swan song.

“Drink?” the Agent asked. It was part of their ritual.

“What have you got?”

The Agent smiled and went over to the wall. A long block of granite swung out silently to reveal a brightly lit drinks cabinet. “Let’s see. We won’t bother with the Talotee wines, even though they’re all the rage. How about Impiricus-blue, a local copy, but in my humble opinion better than the original.”

“Hit me.”

The Agent made a show of pouring the thick purple liqueur into a chilled cut-crystal shot glass. “And one for me.” He returned to the desk and slid the shot glass over to Adam. “Salut.”

“Salut.” Adam drained it in a single gulp. A sensation like cold flame burned down his gullet. “Woho, boy,” he grunted, there were tears in his eyes. “Good stuff.” His voice was harsh, as if he’d come down with flu.

“I knew you’d like that. You have class, which most of my customers are sadly lacking. I deal with so many gangsters; bigger guns and nastier viruses are all they know. But you: I was most proud to see the names which came up in court after the attack on the Second Chance, knowing I had provided most of them. Now that was a truly stylish operation, conducted with verve. There are so few of those mounted these days.”

“The ship survived, though.”

“Alas, yes. But to have dreamed the dream is to have flown above the mountains so high in all but deed.”

“Keats?”

“Manby. So now, what can I do for you?” the Agent asked.

“I need some assistance for a new project I’m putting together.”

“Of course.”

“Mostly blunt end troops,” Adam told his e-butler to transfer the list file to the Agent’s desktop array.

“No technical specialists? That’s a shame. I’ll certainly see what I can do to find you the requisite people. I should tell you half of my B-list is currently serving with the navy behind enemy lines. Not all of them were taken out of suspension, either; a lot of them volunteered. It’s the kind of job which appeals to their more base instinct. They’ll come back covered in glory and medals determined to be upright citizens, then in a couple of years they’ll be hammering down my door for a job. In the meantime, I’m embarrassed by such a poor inventory. Is there any way you could delay your project?”

“Not indefinitely, no. If it’s question of money…?”

The Agent looked genuinely aghast. “Good Lord, no. I’ll probably wind up waiving my commission for you. I do value the challenges you’ve given me over the years, and you bring a much appreciated amount of business my way. I’m confident I can rise to the occasion once more. Professional pride and all that.”

“I see.” Adam smiled his best false smile, feeling his abused facial skin distend. It was always about money with the Agent; criminals were the worst capitalists of all. “I will be offering the usual re-life insurance bond in the event of premature bodyloss.”

“That’s good to hear. Right now, the Commonwealth clinics are overflowing with re-life procedure requests from the families of bodyloss victims from the Lost23. The swine are charging extortionate fees. Seller’s market, I’m afraid.”

“After the revolution we’ll put them against the wall and shoot them, eh?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be happy to supply the firing squads free of charge. Until then—”

“Until then, put my list together and send me the bill. There’s a onetime address code in the file.”

“Did you have a time frame in mind?”

“You’ve got one week.” Adam didn’t care how big a disadvantage that put him at. “I will pay a handsome bonus for delivery.”

The Agent raised his eyebrows. “I always welcome incentives. However, given the state of the Commonwealth right now, that might be a little difficult.”

“One week.”

“I see you’re not going to be moved. Very well. To aspire nobly is its own reward. I won’t let you down.” He leaned forward abruptly, and held his hand out.

Adam shook, trying not to let the sneer of disgust appear on his face.

“Excellent.” The Agent walked back to the open drinks cabinet and poured another two shots of Impiricus-blue. He waved a hand, and ten tall slabs of granite pivoted through ninety degrees to reveal a picture window behind. “We’re safer than most here, you know,” he said. “One rich city is easy to defend. And City Hall has spent a great deal of money upgrading our force fields on top of the navy shielding. Yet still the doubt gnaws at my soul. I am blessed to live amid such beauty as only God and nature can create.”

“What doubts?” Adam asked. He was looking past the Agent at the extraordinary vista through the window. Tridelta City shimmered in the midafternoon sunlight, a flat reclaimed island that used to be the flood zone where three rivers merged; the Logrosan, the Dongara, and the Upper Monkira, each large in their own right, united to become the impressive torrent of water that was the Lower Monkira, flowing to the ocean five hundred kilometers away.

Before humans came to Illuminatus, the tridelta area was a sandy marsh that flooded five or six times a year whenever the rivers rose, their torrents ripping out any vegetation that had rooted among the low saturated dunes since the last deluge. With the Commonwealth Council placing an absolute conservation order on the forests and jungles of Illuminatus, preventing any form of clearance, this was the one patch of land other than the mountains that had no trees. CST built a protective three-kilometer-wide groyne wall in the center, and constructed their planetary station amid the tropical heat and moisture. As more construction crews arrived, and the travel companies began to invest heavily, additional walls were built. Huge pumps drained and stabilized the boggy sand, new soil was either dredged out of the rivers or shipped in by train, raising the artificial island’s ground level. Foundations were sunk deep, and big high-rise blocks assembled. From that beginning, Tridelta City had mushroomed impressively, first outward, then when the limits of the flood marsh were consumed: upward.

Everywhere Adam looked he could see skyscrapers: towers of concrete, metal, composite, and glass producing a gothic landscape of sharp pinnacles rising out of the darker conurbation of low buildings. Most were a kilometer high, with the newer skyscrapers reaching even farther into the misted air. The Kinoki Tower, so far just a massive slender pyramid of scaffolding on the Logrosan’s east bank, was due to top out at three kilometers. Nearly every skyscraper had an airship docked to it; the taller ones had several at varying levels. The craft were all big, over two hundred meters long, with observation decks running the length of their undersides. None of them flew during the day; they just sat on the end of their docking gantry arms, rocking slightly in the misty gusts that swirled across the city.

“I deal in the underside of civilization,” the Agent said mournfully, keeping his back to Adam so he could face the window. “I look out at my city every day and I see how inspiringly high we can climb, yet in this room I also witness how low we can go as a species. I never involve myself personally, you understand, I merely survive by making arrangements. Out of this I live the life I want. I have the constant excitement which is the twin of danger; money, women, the thrill of being engaged at levels of politics and corporate enmity which the ordinary citizen doesn’t even know exists. Yet here you are, independent of all this, planning some act of violence on behalf of the Guardians of Selfhood. I find myself wondering if for once I should involve myself.”

“You want my advice: don’t. There’s a chance none of us will be coming back.”

“Honestly spoken. But my dilemma is this: you attacked the navy before, and now here we are, desperately waiting for the return of the starships. Did you know governments have been advised to put their defense systems on grade two alert? Grade one is when you switch them on. And the navy won’t say if it has had any success.”

“They won’t know until the ships return.”

“How wrong that is, and you know it. If the attack on Hell’s Gateway was successful, all the alien wormholes open in Commonwealth space would shut down. Yet they haven’t. Instead we’ve had the confidential warning to make ready. Now you appear, wanting troops inside of a week. I have to ask myself if this is coincidence. I will do many things for money, yet betraying my species is not one of them.”

“This is not betrayal, quite the opposite.”

“Your ideology claims that we are being manipulated by aliens. Is that right?”

Adam was rather surprised to find himself sweating despite the unobtrusive air-conditioning. He’d never considered that the Agent might be a problem, least of all on a moral level. For once he had no emergency exit plans. Stupid. “It is, but it’s not my ideology. I am not a Guardian, I work as their agent from time to time. And the navy didn’t exist when the Second Chance was attacked. Consider this: if it had been successfully destroyed, then there would have been no flight to trigger the barrier’s collapse.”

The Agent turned from the window and held out a shot glass. “If not then: later.” He smiled again. “I see your logic. Your word, then?”

“We’re on the same side.”

“For such tidings grown men weep.”

Adam took the shot glass and knocked back half of the liqueur. He was sure the burn was harder this time. “You take somebody’s word?”

“I pride myself on being an anachronism. Surprised? I know how you judge me. Think of this as a small retribution.”

“Cheers.” Adam finished the drink.

“Are you leaving us? I do truly believe this city to be safe from assault. Our weapons industry is small in comparison to that of a Big15, but we are very sophisticated.”

“One lone fortress holding fast against the barbarian horde? I don’t think that’s for me. Try accessing the records of the siege of Leningrad sometime and ask yourself who really won.”

“You’re going out in a blaze of glory?”

“No. That’s actually what we’re trying to prevent.”

“Bravo. And incidentally, one of the main reasons I accept your word is because I do know who you represent. What concerns me is that there are some strange people walking the darker streets of Tridelta these days.”

“Is that so?”

“Ah, mockery; the righteousness of fools everywhere. We are a microcosm of the Commonwealth, Señor Duanro. Look at us, and see yourself.”

“All right, I’m buying. What strange people?”

“That’s the thing. Despite all my efforts, and to be immodest for a moment, they are not inconsiderable; I cannot discover their allegiance. They certainly don’t belong to any Isolationist movement, nor a crime syndicate as far as I can determine. Yet they have money, enough to gain exclusivity in several of our more surreptitious clinics. Over the last few months many of my clients have been bounced off waiting lists so the affiliates of these new people can receive armament wetwiring and other services. Taken as a group, they are a considerable force.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

The Agent raised his glass in salute, and drained it in one.

Adam stood to leave. He couldn’t resist one last glance through the window. The Agent was right about Tridelta; it was about the most ethnically cosmopolitan city in the Commonwealth. That was why its government was so fractious and radically independent. Contempt for Commonwealth laws and hatred of Senate “interference” were always high on the agenda of any City Hall politician. It made the relocation of specific services and research laboratories to Illuminatus very attractive for companies who could take advantage of the more liberal laws. Its economy accelerated as fast as its population, an atmosphere in which the local crime syndicates thrived. Consternation in the Senate at this burgeoning “crime central” was another cause of antagonism. It had culminated seventy years ago in a local campaign for Isolation. But although they didn’t have much regard for Commonwealth laws, Tridelta’s population did have a lot of respect for Commonwealth cash. Illuminatus remained integrated.

“You’re very well connected with the political class here,” Adam said. “I wonder if I might ask a favor.”

“I’d be interested to hear it.”

“A lot of lifeboat projects have been started in the Commonwealth.”

“Yes, I caught the Michelangelo show last week. That young reporter did an excellent job. I always take pleasure in Dynasty members squirming in public.”

“If you hear of any companies on Illuminatus supplying the Sheldons with components for a lifeboat, I’d enjoy hearing about it.”

“That’s certainly a favor I’d be happy supplying. I will inquire for you.”

“Thank you. A pleasure, as always.”

Adam had been back at the Hotel Conomela for barely half an hour when Jenny McNowak called.

“Thought you’d like to know,” she said. “We’ve just arrived at CST’s Tridelta station.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Following Bernadette Halgarth. She caught the express direct from EdenBurg. We’re standing on the steps outside the Dalston Street entrance watching her taxi drive off. Kaspar is trying to hack its array to see which hotel she’s checked into.”

“Okay, so what’s Bernadette doing here?”

“Who knows? She had a full diary for the rest of the week: lunches, parties, shows, committee meetings, same stuff as she always does. There was nothing scheduled on Illuminatus. And, Adam, she didn’t tell anyone she was coming, she just dropped everything and got on the train. Right now she’s supposed to be having cocktails with a whole bunch of minor Dynasty socialites at the Rialto Metropolitan Gallery.”

“Okay, keep with her and let me know what happens.”

“We’ll do our best, but there’s only the two of us. Any chance we can have some reinforcements? It’s going to be difficult keeping tabs on her in a city like this.”

“I’ll do what I can; we’re stretched a little thin right now. But, Jenny, you’re reconnaissance only, understand? I don’t want you involved in any incidents. Observe and report.”

“I know. Ah, Kanton says the taxi is heading for the Octavious on the Lower Monkira Wharfside Avenue.”

Adam’s e-butler pulled up the local cybersphere listing on the Octavious. It was a medium-size three-star hotel, a hundred fifty years old. Not the kind of place someone like Bernadette would normally stay at. “Definitely interesting,” he said. “I’ll do my best to get some help for you. In the meantime, under no circumstances check in to the Octavious. We don’t know what’s there, and I’ve just heard there are some wetwired people in this town that don’t belong to any local syndicate.”

“Do what we can,” Jenny said. She closed the call.

Adam closed his eyes, trying to think who he could spare from other operations he was running. He hadn’t been making excuses when he said they were spread thin. In the end he called Kieran McSobel, and told him to bring Jamas McPeierls, Rosamund McKratz, and himself along to Illuminatus on the next express to support Jenny and Kanton. After that, he called Bradley.

“I’m glad our little investment in Bernadette appears to be paying off,” Bradley said. “It was something of a long shot.”

“We’ll know for sure soon enough. She wouldn’t have left EdenBurg in this fashion unless it was urgent.”

“Quite. The timing is significant, I believe. It would appear as if the navy assault on Hell’s Gateway has encountered some difficulty. The unisphere news shows are starting to ask if the Prime wormholes to the Lost23 have shut down.”

“If they had, the navy would tell us; if not them, Doi would want to make the announcement to the Senate.”

“Time is not on our side, Adam. It is only two days until the starships are theoretically within communications range of the Commonwealth. If the news is as bad as everyone is starting to predict, our one window of opportunity might be upon us very swiftly indeed.”

“You think the Starflyer will leave?”

“If we have failed to destroy Hell’s Gateway, the Primes will undoubtedly move to annex more Commonwealth planets. Humanity will strike back as hard as we can. After that, the war will not end until one of us has been wiped out of existence, and the other badly damaged. That is the Starflyer’s goal. Once those final events have started the end result is inevitable; it has no reason to remain in the middle of a war zone. Already, we have built weapons of enormous destructive power in the Douvoir relativistic missiles; and those are only the ones the navy has given information on. There will be others in the pipeline; there always are.”

“Wait a minute, are you saying the war will happen no matter what? I thought eliminating and exposing the Starflyer would put an end to all this.”

“I never promised that, Adam. I had no idea the Primes would be so uncompromising, so brutal. I don’t see how they can be stopped.”

Adam stared out of the hotel’s window across the city where dusk was falling. A beautiful rose-gold sun was already touching the skyline of dark buildings, sending its last orange rays through the layers of mist and cloud to stroke the rooftops and skyscrapers. What Johansson had just said hit him like a particularly volatile police stun charge, draining all the energy from his limbs to leave nothing but sharp tingling. “But…what the fuck are we doing this for?”

“Justice, Adam. It has ruined a world that was once full of life and potential. Far Away was reduced to a desert by the mega flare so it could call across the stars. The Starflyer has brought us to the brink of ruin, too. Surely you don’t believe it should be allowed to leave freely? You of all people, Adam, are possessed of a true sense of justice.”

“No,” Adam groaned. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, his breathing coming in taxing gulps. Just for an instant he thought he was having some kind of stroke. His body was completely unresponsive as he looked back across the decades to see the diverted passenger train racing across Abadan station, trying to make up for time it had lost on StLincoln. It wasn’t supposed to be on that track, not at that time. The explosion—“That’s not justice. Without validation, killing is just murder.”

“Did you explain that to Kazimir? Do the Guardian villages now under attack on Far Away appreciate your lofty elitist rationalizing?”

“Villages?” Adam frowned, shaking his head to pull the world back into focus.

“The Institute mercenaries are raiding every clan village they can find. Not the frontline forts, not the ones with weapons and warriors. They attack our farmers, our shepherds. Our mothers and their children. The Starflyer has released its uniformed gangsters on our weak and old, hoping we will rush to their aid. It is returning, Adam, it is going back to Far Away. Its slaves are preparing the way for it.”

“What will end the war? There must be something?”

“If you don’t believe me, call Stig. He’s still hanging on in Armstrong City while the firebombs are thrown and the snipers strike unseen. But be quick about it. The Institute is offering the Governor aid in restoring ‘civil order.’ They will soon control the gateway. We will be blocked out.”

“I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”

“My poor Adam. Always believing you are the valiant one, that right will triumph in the end. It’s not always like that. The universe was not built on integrity. In the face of weakness, force can and will triumph. All you can do is choose who wields that force. Us or the Starflyer. Don’t give up now, Adam. You have come so far.”

“Shit.” He wiped the cold sweat from his brow, staring at the moisture on his hand, surprised to see it. I should have known there was no clear answer. Maybe I did. Maybe I just keep going because that’s all that’s left of me.

“Adam,” Bradley said firmly. “Without this there is truly no hope. The planet must be allowed to have its revenge.”

“All right.” Adam stood and looked down on the darkening city. “All right, damnit.”

“Get the train ready to break through the blockade. It’s going to be magnificent, Adam. This journey will be legend.”

After the call ended, Adam never moved, watching through the window until night had claimed Tridelta, and he could see the jungle in all its glory for one last time. “Legend, my ass,” he said with a laugh. His voice nearly cracked, but he didn’t care anymore. He told the maidbot to pack his luggage, and ordered a taxi to take him to the CST station. His e-butler booked a ticket on the next train to Kyushu.

***

Second Lieutenants Gwyneth Russell and Jim Nwan followed Tarlo out of the taxi and into the NorthHarbor precinct house. They’d all left their uniforms back at the Paris office; here in Tridelta they’d be far too conspicuous. Tarlo wore a pale blue sweatshirt with short frayed sleeves and old jeans, with sneakers and a beaded leather necklace. Gwyneth envied him that in the brief dash to the precinct lobby; her more formal cream suit and gray blouse were damp by the time she reached the air-conditioning inside, and the sun was already dropping below the skyline.

Detective Sergeant Marhol and probationary detective Lucius Lee were waiting for them by the processing desk.

“Quite an ordeal,” Jim said to Lucius as the five of them took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor where the detectives had their offices.

“I told him the stakeout was good experience.” Marhol laughed callously, and gave Lucius a hard slap between his shoulder blades. He was overweight, with a belly that rolled over his belt. His clothes were expensive.

A brief expression of contempt flickered over the probationary detective’s face as he rocked forward under the impact. “Your man was good,” he said. “I checked with Mercedes about the FX 3000p. They refused to believe the security system could be broken so quickly. They said it must be an insurance scam by the owner.”

“Did you check with Ford about battery safety on the Feisha?” Marhol laughed again.

Gwyneth imagined she would get very tired of that laugh very quickly.

The precinct detective teams shared identical offices along a central corridor, like glass boxes lined up in a row. It was the end of the day shift, with everyone wrapping up. Quite a few detectives were lingering in the corridor, taking a look at the big-shot navy team as they went down to one of the secure conference rooms at the far end. A couple of people greeted “car-shock Lucius” with grins and cheers. The young probationary detective stood up to it with tight smiles.

“So what exactly have you got for us?” Tarlo asked once they were settled in the conference room. Its tall window blinds were closed and shielded, which Gwyneth resented; she’d never seen night on Illuminatus before.

“The Merc snatcher, he fits your man perfectly,” Marhol said.

A holographic portal projected an image of the man in the underground parking garage. It was taken from Lucius’s retinal inserts, showing Beard as he approached the Ford Feisha. Various file comparisons flipped up beside it.

“Looks like him,” Gwyneth conceded.

“Anybody local capable of pulling this kind of stunt?” Tarlo asked.

“One or two,” Marhol said. “Maybe. As Lucius says, the Mercedes would be hard to crack.”

“None of the local mechanics match the physical profile,” Lucius said.

“That’s your man, all right.”

“Thank you. From now on this is a priority navy case.” Tarlo gave the conference room’s array the file on Beard’s truck. “Please load this into your city traffic management arrays. I want any vehicle even approximating this on your roads to be pulled over and searched by patrol officers.”

“Wow, big overtime,” Marhol said with a smirk. “The navy gonna pay us for this?”

Tarlo grinned. “The navy will have anyone who screws up on this placed into suspension for a hundred years. You want to smartmouth me again, or do you want to survive the next twenty-four hours?”

“Hey, fuck you, hotshot. We cracked this case for you, the least you can do is show a little gratitude around here.”

“I am showing a very small amount of gratitude. We gave you this alert for Robin Beard weeks ago, and you sent out one rookie on a stakeout that matched his operation profile perfectly? And by the way, like the suit. Cost a lot, did it? Had your taxes audited lately, have you? It can be a real bitch when central treasury pulls your file. Happened to an old friend of mine, went on for years when those accountant programs started tapeworming his finance records. He went into early rejuvenation from the stress.”

“You think threatening me is gonna get things done around here?”

“I’m not threatening you, pal, I’m asking for your cooperation. So far I’ve been asking nicely.”

“What exactly are you asking for?” Lucius asked.

“This informant of yours. I want to speak to him now.”

“He doesn’t keep office hours, you know,” Marhol said. “It takes a while to set up a meeting.”

“It used to,” Gwyneth said. “Today, it becomes quick. We either tag his unisphere address with a location fix and send an armed arrest team in to wherever the bleep comes from, or we raid his home with even more firepower, or we meet up in the bar of his choice.”

“We can round up as many Stuhawks as we can find,” Jim Nwan suggested. “Shove them into neurolock interrogation, maybe a memory read, and extract Beard’s whereabouts that way.”

Tarlo nodded appreciatively. “I like that one. That’s got a high probability of success.”

“You can’t lift an entire fucking gang,” Marhol protested.

“Why not?” Tarlo inquired artlessly.

“Every other gang in the city would declare war on the police,” Lucius said. “Right now, with everyone all het up over the navy ships and Hell’s Gateway, we don’t need any more unrest.”

Gwyneth shrugged. “Not our problem.”

“Okay okay,” Marhol said grudgingly. “My guy, he likes to drink at the Illucid bar on Northgate.”

“Thank you.” Tarlo stood up. “Let’s go. I want to be talking to Robin Beard within twenty-four hours.”

***

Mellanie had rented a tiny apartment in a monolith forty-story block on Royal Avenue, not a kilometer from the Logrosan embankment. It was a lot darker than the one she’d left behind on Venice Beach; her one window looked away from the river and into the city, but the air-conditioning worked, which clinched the deal as far as she was concerned. The humidity in Tridelta was unbelievable.

As the sun went down she had the wall screen access the Michelangelo show while she got ready for the evening. He had Senators Valetta Halgarth and Oliver Tam in the studio, asking them what had happened to the attack on Hell’s Gateway. Even used to dealing with the expert evasiveness of professional politicians, Mellanie was impressed by the varied and inventive ways the senators didn’t answer the question.

She showered to rinse away the clamminess of a day spent out on Tridelta’s streets. Once she’d toweled down she put on a simple white cotton halter, over which she wore a sleeveless micro-sweater of fluffy white wool in a loose cobweb weave that was only slightly bigger than the halter so she could show off lean lines of abdominal muscle and the ruby-spark stud in her navel. She wriggled into a white miniskirt; no tights—she’d spent half an hour massaging oil into her legs, giving her skin an arresting sheen. None of the clothes had a designer label; there wasn’t even a copy of anything fashionable, which was about all Tridelta’s stores sold in their voracious quest for the tourist credit tattoo. All she had bought in town were some long costume jewelry necklaces of wooden beads and lavender-tinted crystalline shells that she looped around her neck.

“But why would the navy embargo any information on the Hell’s Gateway strike?” Michelangelo asked reasonably. “I’m sure the Prime aliens know if we’ve attacked them or not. Surely the only logical conclusion is that our ships have failed and the Executive is trying to avoid a panic.”

Mellanie half turned for the answer.

“Our intelligence-gathering capability must remain veiled for obvious reasons,” Oliver Tam replied smoothly. “I’m sure we do have the ability to see if their wormholes at the Lost23 are open or not. If so, that gives us a distinct military advantage. The navy cannot be expected to expose our assets simply to make the media happy. We will all know beyond any doubt just as soon as the starships fly into communications range. Is it possible, Michelangelo, that you simply cannot stand not knowing? Has the media become too arrogant in its assumption that all secrets must be violated to satisfy your lust for ratings, no matter what cost to us as a species?”

“Was that a joke?” Michelangelo asked; he seemed mortally offended by the insult. Anger in someone so large and powerful was imposing. Oliver Tam did his best to show no fear.

Mellanie grinned at the ludicrous posturing back in the studio, and checked the mirror. Her hair was now raven-black, and alive with short waves that made it frizz out around her head. She pinned it back on both sides with cheap orange and yellow cloth bands. After some thought she applied the darkest purple lipstick she could find. Thanks to a dermal genoprotein her face was now covered in freckles; they made her look so cutesy she wanted to hurl. Instead she threw her arms around her head, and blew herself a flouncy kiss.

Perfect persona.

The face in the mirror certainly wasn’t that of Mellanie Rescorai, ace investigative reporter for the top-rated unisphere news shows, the face that everybody in the civilized galaxy knew. This was some first-life teen ingénue, fresh and keen to be part of the exciting city party scene—yet not quite knowing how. There would be enough volunteers to show her. Men liked that inquisitive youthfulness, and the older and more jaded they were, the more they liked it. She’d known that even before Morty.

The air outside was already noticeably cooler when Mellanie left the apartment, with a modest breeze drifting in from over the water. It had a narcotic effect on the bustling pedestrians, who all shared the same high-spirited verve as they started to search out what the bars and clubs had to offer. Mellanie headed west along the broad avenue, heading for the river. She couldn’t help the happy smile on her face. The streets here were intent on gaudy photonic mimicry of the elegance that resided beyond the water. For the first ten meters above the enzyme-bonded concrete pavements, the buildings were walled in glowing intense neon, sparkly holographics, and the steady burn of polyphoto lighting. Above that, city regulations allowed no light pollution. Looking straight up gave Mellanie an eerie view; it was as if the street had been given a stealth-black ceiling. The brighter stars twinkled directly overhead, when they weren’t shrouded by remnants of the day’s clouds, but the canyon walls of skyscrapers along the city grid were invisible, their glass windows prohibited from transmitting any light from the inside and thus spoiling the view of others.

She could see only one blemish, the brilliantly lit observation deck of an airship as it cast off from its skyscraper mooring. It angled upward to slide into the clear air above Tridelta’s towers, and set out across the river to begin its night-long flight over the jungle.

Mellanie reached the intersection and walked down to the Logrosan south high quay where the ferries docked. The last short avenue leading to the embankment slowly opened out, its buildings reducing in size. There was a large flow of people heading down to the ferries, bustling along together in a carnival atmosphere. Her pace began to slow as she saw what was ahead. Just about all the first-night tourists in the crowd around her had stopped to stare.

In front of her the Logrosan was a kilometer wide, a sheet of black ripples gurgling with quiet power as it raced along the edge of the city. On the other side, the jungle cloaked the undulating mountains. Every tree gleamed with opalescent splendor.

Unlike terrestrial plants that competed to produce bigger and more colorful flowers to attract insects, vegetation on Illuminatus had evolved bioluminescence to vie for the attention of local insects. The dark leaves that had spent the day soaking up sunlight now radiated the energy away in a soft lambent glow. With each tree in the forest cloaked in its own cold nimbus of iridescence the jungle was bright enough to rival the sleepy light of a dawn sun.

An entranced Mellanie hurried forward to the quay with its long row of angled jetties. Her ferry was the Goldhawk, a big old metal-hull craft that chugged over the water once every hour, night and day. On board, she jostled with the other two hundred fifty passengers for a view near the bow as it headed over to the Crossquay. Three more massive airships passed high overhead during the short trip. Mellanie waved foolishly at them, laughing at herself for doing so, but she was in that kind of mood.

Looking at the shimmering jungle ahead of her allowed her to relax. She’d spent the last forty-eight hours on a nervous high as she performed her reconnaissance of the Saffron Clinic. Michelangelo had been right, it was discreet. In the morning she moved between the pavement cafés on Allwyn Street so that the Greenford Tower was always in view. It was a kilometer-high cone of burnished steel and purple glass that housed stores, factories, offices, hotels, bars, spas, and apartments. The top floor was an airship dock, which had one of the big dark ovoids floating passively on the end of its gantry. Set back from the street in its own plaza, the Greenford’s base was made up of tall arching windows that rose to the fifth floor. Each one was an entrance to a different section. Given her purpose, she could hardly walk around them all trying to find which one belonged to the clinic. So she drank herbal teas and mineral water under the café awnings as her programs and inserts slowly infiltrated the Greenford Tower’s internal network.

With her software milking data from the management arrays on each floor, she soon found the Saffron Clinic, spread out over seven floors, starting thirty-eight stories up. When the information came in, she tilted her head back to see the actual windows, her virtual vision designating the blank panes with a slender neon-green outline. It was as near as she could get, visually or electronically. Access to the clinic’s own arrays was securely guarded. She didn’t have the skill to hack them.

A review of the Tower’s registered structural plans showed her the clinic had its own garage in the third level of the big fifteen-level underground garage. There was also an entrance through one of the tall archways on the west side, which led to a private lobby and lift. Mellanie moved to a bar in a side alley just off Allwyn Street that gave her a narrow view of the entrance. That was where she found the one weakness in the clinic’s electronic protection; the Tower’s own security software identified and cleared all authorized personnel going through the outside door to the Saffron’s lobby before they reached the clinic’s modern internal security systems.

She settled back in a chair and bought herself a second hot chocolate. There were several big fountains playing in the Greenford’s plaza, their tumbling jets of foam occasionally blowing across the small clinic door, but apart from that she had a good view of everyone who came and went. Each time the door opened her inserts recorded the image of the person coming through, cataloguing it with the information and name she gleaned from the Tower’s security array. Three hours later, she cocked her head to one side as a bulky figure emerged into the late afternoon. Funnily enough, it was her time with Alessandra Baron that had given her the most insight into people, learning to recognize what they were in the first few moments. Instant stereotyping, Michelangelo had called it glibly, but she knew instinctively that this was the one she was looking for. Data from the security array rolled down her virtual vision, identifying the man as one Kaspar Murdo and confirming some of the things she’d already guessed at. She was already standing, leaving a couple of Illuminatus ten-pound notes on her table to cover the drinks. She began to follow Kaspar Murdo along the street, unleashing a flock of monitor programs into the public arrays around him as she went.

The crowds were thicker on Southside Crossquay, which was nothing but a wide strip of enzyme-bonded concrete holding the river and jungle apart, extending for fifty kilometers. On the central section, opposite Tridelta, eighty stone and concrete jetties bristled out into the water, angled back to provide some protection against the flow for the boats moored along them. Mellanie wandered down the broad avenue along the top, looking for the jetty where Cyprus Island was docked. On her left, Tridelta’s silhouette was a slim band of gaudy light just above the river, topped by the black towers that cut a sharp profile against the sheen of the jungle on the far side of the city. To her right, the trees towered over the walkway, casting a pale ever-shifting radiance across the admiring faces of the tourists as they searched for their jetty.

The Cypress Island was one of a dozen nightcruise boats tied up at the jetty; longer and slimmer than the ferries that plowed across the river from the city, it had a flat, open top deck with a bar in the center. Inside, the upper two passenger decks had transparent bulkheads, so that the restaurant and casino patrons could still have an excellent view of the jungle; only the third deck where the stage was installed had a normal hull. Mellanie walked along the short gangplank amid a gaggle of clubbers barely older than she was. Several of the boys gave her encouraging smiles, which she had to ignore. It was a shame; the kids here all looked terrific, taking a lot of care with what they wore and how they styled themselves.

She confirmed her ticket with the steward as she stepped on board. He took in her appearance with a fast expert glance. “Are you sure you want to be here?” he asked with a mildly concerned smile. “It gets a bit rowdy later on. Can be upsetting if you’re not used to it. The Galapagos will accept your ticket if you want, it’s the same company; they take out a nicer bunch of passengers.”

“I’ll be all right,” she said, practicing a high-pitched giggle. She was privately delighted by his reaction.

“Okay then.” He waved her on.

The first drink was free. She took an imported light beer from Munich and squeezed her way to the top-deck rail.

The Cypress Island cast off twenty minutes later. Out of the lee of the jetty, its engines pushed it against the swift current producing a pronounced rocking motion. The ride changed for the better two kilometers upriver when they turned into one of the hundreds of tributary rivers feeding the Logrosan. A cheer ran along the boat as the water settled down and Tridelta vanished around a curve behind them. The engine noise faded away to a quiet murmur.

On either side of the small tributary trees grew down to the water, with their tangle of exposed, bloated roots caging the crumbling soil of the bank. Despite the light twinkling from each leaf it was dark between the trees, giving the jungle a mysterious aura. Nothing moved on the land; Illuminatus had never evolved anything bigger than its insects.

“You’d think it would be full of Silfen.”

Mellanie turned to see one of the kids from the group on the gangplank standing beside her. “You would?”

“It’s their kind of place. I’m Dorian, by the way.”

She hesitated. “Saskia.” He was handsome enough, tall with a mild Oriental heritage in his features. Small scarlet OCtattoos ran around his neck, dragons and serpents chasing each other. Semiorganic fibers had been woven into his dark hair, sending beads of light flickering through his dainty Roman curls.

“Can I get you another beer, Saskia?”

Her inserts registered a transmission from him directed at the boat’s cybersphere node. It wouldn’t bother her normally, some boy bragging about pulling her to his friends back in the city. But the transmission was heavily encrypted. “Not just now, thanks.”

He tried to cover the hurt expression. “Sure. I’m on for the whole night.”

“I’ll remember.”

The message he’d sent bothered her. She still didn’t have the skill to decrypt it with her inserts, and she wasn’t carrying a handheld array, so she couldn’t work on it. For a moment she toyed with scanning him thoroughly just to see what kind of inserts he was carrying. Of course, if there was any serious wetwiring he’d detect the scan.

Why should he be wetwired? Heavens, I’m getting paranoid. So why don’t I scan him?

Dorian was back at the bar, smiling with his group of friends. Probably getting teased for getting the brush-off.

The tributary grew narrower, branching several times on both sides. Trees began to arch over the water, the tallest ones touching above midstream, their twigs starting to interlace. Cypress Island sailed on through a tunnel of coronal splendor.

Mellanie went down to the restaurant deck and helped herself to the buffet bar. It was dim inside, allowing the eaters to gaze out at the jungle. Her ticket didn’t qualify her for a table by the transparent walls, so she took her plate back up to the top deck, and sat on a bench in front of the bar, watching the intricate lacework of branches above the river. Some of the trees had a luminescence that verged toward ultraviolet, making her white top shine.

She stared down at the wool for a minute, not really registering what she was seeing. “Oh, sod it!” she muttered. Her platinum and purple virtual hand touched the SI’s icon.

“Hello, Mellanie.”

“There’s somebody on board I’m worried about. I need a message decrypted.”

“Very well.”

She’d been expecting to argue her case. The agreement caught her by surprise. She opened the file for the SI.

“Roughly translated, he said: Identity confirmed. It’s her.”

“Oh, God,” she gasped. Alessandra’s goons have caught up with me! She hunted around in a semipanic, but Dorian was nowhere to be seen on the top deck.

“Do you have any weapons with you?” the SI asked.

“No. What about your inserts? Is there anything that I can use to fight him off?”

“Not with any certainty. I might be able to load kaos software into his wetwiring, assuming he has some. Shall I alert the Tridelta police? They can have a helicopter with you in minutes.”

She glanced up at the radiant arch of light they were sailing under. “How would they get down to us?”

Her link with the unisphere ended.

Damnit! Not now. She sent a scrutineer package into the nearest onboard array to check what the problem was. The network management routines reported that the node was no longer drawing power; it had been damaged physically.

OUR CYBERSPHERE NODE IS SUFFERING A TEMPORARY FAULT, the bridge array sent on a general broadcast. PLEASE DO NOT BE ALARMED. A NEW CONNECTION WILL BE ESTABLISHED SOON. THE COMPANY MANAGEMENT WOULD LIKE TO APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE IN THE MEANTIME.

Mellanie started shaking as the text ran down her virtual vision. “Come back to me,” she whispered into the fluorescent night. “Come on, you got through to Randtown.” Some awful inner voice was saying that Randtown had never been this isolated from the planetary cybersphere; it had landlines, a network. This was a lone boat in the middle of a jungle on a planet with only one city.

She clenched her hands, and pressed them against her legs, forcing the shakes to stop. Think! I can’t beat him by myself. Waiting for the police wasn’t a serious option. She didn’t even know if the SI had called them. She brought her stilled hand up to her face, giving her arm a curious look. It’s still in there.

A fast scan around with her inserts revealed one of the boat’s arrays was installed behind the bar. Mellanie rushed over and ducked under the counter-top.

“Hey,” one of the barmen told her. “You can’t come back here.”

She flashed him a distracted smile as she ran her hand along the shelving. Scrabbling fingers found the array, tucked away behind boxes of snacks; it was a small one, used to handle the bar’s finances, but it had an i-spot. She pressed her palm against it. “Just one second,” she told the barman. “We’ll make out later.”

His jaw dropped. He didn’t know if she was joking or not.

Mellanie’s virtual hands activated a host of inserts, and fed in the code. The SIsubroutine decompressed, and flowed through the i-spot into the boat’s tiny net.

“Below optimum processing capacity available,” the SIsubroutine said. “I am operating in abridged mode. Why am I here?”

“I’m being stalked by a killer. He’s probably got weapons wetwiring.” She stood up and checked around again, half expecting Dorian to be coming for her. The barman moved up close. “Are you serious?” he asked in a low murmur.

“Hell yes, but later.” Mellanie backed out of the bar. She winked. “I’ll call you.”

“Suggest you call the police,” the SIsubroutine said.

Her mouth twisted into a groan of frustration. “I can’t. That’s why I decompressed you. I need help.”

“Do you have a weapon?”

“No. Find out if there are any on board.”

“No weapons listed on ship’s manifest.”

“Can you infiltrate kaos software into the killer’s wetwired armaments?”

“No kaos files in my directory.”

“Crap. What do I do?”

“Suggest you leave the ship.”

For a moment she considered it. The tributary wasn’t a problem; she could certainly swim to shore, or take a lifeboat. Then she’d be alone in the jungle. Kilometers from anywhere. Possibly alone in the jungle. If she jumped over the rail people would see her. The captain would stop. Dorian would come after her through the trees.

“Think of something else,” she instructed.

“Review enabled. Available processing capacity will not run comparative escape option routines at optimum level.”

Mellanie was rapidly losing faith in the SIsubroutine. This wasn’t going to be like Armstrong City where it hovered around her like a guardian angel. I need a weapon, something that’ll give me a chance. That same calm she’d had when she dealt with Jaycee had returned, blocking out everything else around her. There actually was one place on board that might have something she could use. She just had to get to it. God alone knew where Dorian would be lurking. He was certainly a class above the kind of street thugs that had been sent after Paul Cramley. A compliment of sorts.

Mellanie walked calmly to the stairs that led belowdeck. Surely he won’t shoot me in public? But there was no telling. Kazimir McFoster had been in the middle of LA Galactic, for heaven’s sake.

“Can you detect any encrypted local communications?” she asked the SIsubroutine.

“No. The captain has ordered an assessment of the onboard net to see why the boat functions have dropped to emergency default mode. The diagnostic software is interfering with my comparative option routines.”

“I might be able to get a weapon. Incorporate that possibility into your review.”

“What kind of weapon?”

“I don’t know. Nothing very powerful.”

“Complying.”

“And keep watching for encrypted traffic. I want to know where he is.”

The restaurant was crammed with passengers having their meal; long queues snaked back across the floor space from the buffet bars. With all her sensor inserts active, Mellanie couldn’t detect any of the power signatures that would indicate active wetwiring. She took the stairs down to the casino deck. There were only a few devout gamblers here; most of the tables were deserted, which wasn’t what she wanted. Warm air gusted up the stairwell from the third deck. Mellanie hurried down to the club. “Give me a floor plan,” she told the SIsubroutine. “Is there any escape route? Can I get to the lifeboats?”

“Canceling comparative escape option analysis.”

Mellanie clenched her teeth in anger. Then the boat’s schematics flipped up into her virtual vision.

“Lifeboat access is available on all decks,” the SIsubroutine said.

“Can I launch one without the bridge crew knowing?”

“I can block a launch alert.”

“Great.”

“Resuming comparative escape option analysis.”

At the bottom of the stairs a holographic sign flickered like a faulty strobe telling her that the hermaphrodite dance troupe Death by Orgy would be starting their first performance in twenty minutes. This was definitely what she was looking for. Heavy rock music thumped at her as soon as she went through the screened entrance, loud enough to make her bones vibrate. The club was packed solid and absurdly dim. Holosparks flittered through the air like perverted comets, providing the only flashes of illumination as they circled around the denizens writhing on the minute dance floor. She had to switch her retinal inserts to full light amplification mode to see where she was going.

The club sprang into gray-green focus. Fetish gear was in the majority. Semiorganic costumes offered up strangely modified genitalia as she slithered through the menagerie of bizarreos. Additional limbs were popular, several had infant-sized hands grafted on around the crotch area. Specialist cellular reprofiling had produced a lot of animalisms; furry arms groped at lines of teats, pointed ears twitched as they were licked by serpentine tongues, lustful smiles revealed sharp fangs.

In her white girlie clothes Mellanie felt like some virgin sacrifice on her way to the altar. Everyone looked at her as if they were sharing that thought.

Her inserts were picking up a lot of power sources inside the club, most of them too small for her to use, batteries for kinky toys. She needed the real S&M crowd to have any chance of success.

They were up at the bar, a cluster of large bodies clad in black straps, shiny chains, and hoods. Kaspar Murdo was also there, standing at one end, dressed in Spanish Inquisitor robes, with rusted iron chains around his neck, dangling a variety of medieval instruments.

Mellanie detected the largest power source in the club, her virtual vision locking the position in blue brackets, fortunately at the opposite end of the bar from Murdo. It was a cattle prod, one of many items hanging from the thick leather belt of a bizarreo femfeline. Her head had sleek black fur coming down to her eyebrow line, where her modified glistening red-brown nose jutted forward; long whiskers were rooted at the side of the slit nostrils. She wore a tight sleeveless black leather costume that showed off furry arms and legs. A long tail flicked casually from side to side as she talked to two other cat girls with more restrained modifications and a loosely chained boy slave in a toga with a worried expression on his face.

Mellanie shoved herself in front of the femfeline. “I need to borrow your cattle prod,” she shouted against the pounding rock track.

The femfeline yowled at a volume that rose effortlessly above the music. She brought an arm up and extended her paw fingers in front of Mellanie’s face. The polished onyx claws that had replaced her fingertips clicked out, their points a centimeter from Mellanie’s eyes. “Kitty says lick my litter clean, sweetie bitch.”

Her companions mewled their laughter.

Someone with formidable wetwiring, all of it activated, came through the club’s screened entrance.

“No time,” Mellanie said. She froze. Specks of silver appeared on her arms and face, as if she were sweating mercury. The blooms spread rapidly, obscuring her skin. Software flooded out of her, taking control of the organic circuitry that administered the femfeline’s adaptations.

The femfeline gave a start as her own tail snaked up and wrapped itself around her neck. It tightened. Her claws retracted.

“I’m taking the cattle prod,” Mellanie announced, and snatched it from the belt clip.

The femfeline smiled in excitement. “Yes, mistress, I’ll be a good kitty for you.” Her tongue licked out, a long obscenely flexible cord of wet flesh. “Hurry back.”

Mellanie pushed hard through the packed bodies, creating a wave of commotion. Behind her, Dorian caught it and began to thread his way toward her.

“Can you remove the safety controls on the cattle prod?” she asked the SIsubroutine. “There’s a lot of power in it. If I could use it in one burst it should be lethal.”

“Canceling comparative escape option analysis. Reviewing cattle prod systems.”

Mellanie reached the screened doorway at the side of the stage. “Open it,” she ordered.

The door slid aside. The corridor behind it was lined with small private cabins. She could hear moans, some of pleasure, some of pain. A whip made a loud crack. Someone screamed. There was snarling.

“Cattle prod safety systems bypassed. Battery discharge rate set to unlimited.”

She looked around frantically as the door slid shut behind her. Most of the cabins were occupied. There was a single emergency evacuation hatch at the far end. “How can I hit him with it? He’ll never let me get close.”

“Running comparative remote electrical assault option analysis.”

“Oh, hell.” Mellanie dashed for the escape hatch.

Dorian zapped the door’s lock circuitry with a single burst from the maser embedded in his wrist. A small circle of the tough composite smoldered and blistered. He pushed hard, applying the strength of his boosted musculature. There was a creaking sound, lost in the raucous music. The door popped open. He walked through the screening and into the relative quiet of the corridor. His sensor scans were immediately subject to a barrage of interference. Voices yelped and groaned behind the closed doors on either side. At the far end, Mellanie had got the escape hatch open. She jerked around. Half of her skin was silver, inserts and OCtattoos directing the interference directly at him. He scanned what he could of her with interest. She was doing the same to him. More effectively, he knew, but he could see what he needed to.

“No weapons,” he said. “How curious.”

“I’ve got a message for Alessandra.”

He took a step forward. “What?”

Her inserts transmitted an encrypted signal into the corridor’s small array. The sprinkler system went off above him. Water poured down as the fire alarm sounded.

Dorian gave her a pitying look as the deluge soaked his shirt and pants. “Nobody can hear that.” Beyond the shower, Mellanie smiled.

The cattle prod lying on the floor by Dorian’s feet discharged. The water allowed its full current load to slam into him. His body convulsed, steam fizzing out of his clothes and hair. He arched his back, screaming briefly as his eyes bulged and his tongue protruded. The optical fibers woven into his hair melted. Black lines appeared on his skin when organic circuits burned, sending out thin wisps of smoke to mingle with the steam and water. Flesh ruptured volcanically where his weapons’ power cells were implanted. Blood and gore splattered across the walls.

It took five seconds for the cattle prod battery to exhaust itself. When the current failed, Dorian’s juddering corpse crashed to the floor. The SIsubroutine switched off the corridor’s sprinklers.

Mellanie walked over and peered down at the gently steaming body. The legs spasmed a couple of times.

“I’ll tell her myself,” she said.

Kaspar Murdo was enjoying the evening. It was a good crowd in the Cypress Island’s club. He knew a lot of them, and there were several promising newbies. Everyone said Death by Orgy was hot. He was looking forward to seeing them perform.

Then this vision in a fluffy white top and miniskirt sidled up to the bar barely a couple of meters away and asked for a beer. A first-lifer by the looks of her. She appeared slightly shaky, as if she was shocked by what she was seeing and trying not to show it. That meant she was curious, and not instantly repelled. It was a vulnerability he knew exactly how to take advantage of. He’d be able to encourage her at first, drawing her closer, reassuring her until she trusted him. Then with that trust established he could begin her training.

His bulk allowed him to push easily through the eager authoritarian animalists and bizarreos who were gathering like storm clouds around their oblivious prey. He glared any objectors down, snarling back when he was barked at by a canineman. “This one is on me,” he told her as the girl proffered a one-pound note to the barman. “I insist. That means there can be no argument.”

She nodded with nervous gratitude, glancing at the instruments on the end of his chains. “Thank you.”

“Kaspar,” he said.

“Saskia.”

He grinned in a friendly, paternal fashion, and lifted one of his chains to show off the crude iron and leather device on the end. “Crazy, aren’t they?” he asked in a fashion that invited her to share the joke.

She smiled sheepishly. And Kaspar’s evening became the best in a long, long time.

***

It was close to midnight local time when the express from Paris slipped into Tridelta’s CST station. Renne was secretly delighted about that: it meant they’d get a look at the jungle. “Get us a riverside hotel as close as you can to the Octavious,” she told Vic Russell.

“Absolutely,” he said enthusiastically.

“The closest and cheapest, Vic.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Aren’t we going straight to the Halgarth team?” Matthew Oldfield asked.

“They can handle the rest of tonight’s shift,” Renne said. “Warren will let me know if there’s any status change.”

“Okay.”

“Gives us a chance to settle in before we see what Bernadette is up to. Don’t you want to see the jungle?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Right then.” She told her e-butler to call Tarlo. “Where are you?” she asked when he accepted the call.

“Stakeout in a garage on Uraltic Street. A police informant we interviewed earlier said Beard would be here tonight.”

“I hope you’re wearing rubber socks. Those car batteries have a lot of current in them.”

“Very funny. What do you want?”

“I’m at the CST station.”

“In Tridelta?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Has Hogan sent you as backup?”

“No. I’m following Bernadette Halgarth, Isabella’s mother.”

“You’re doing what?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got Vic and Matthew with me.”

“Does Hogan know? For Christ’s sake, Renne, I thought you’d dropped the whole Isabella thing.”

“I had. But Christabel Halgarth put Bernadette and Victor under surveillance as a favor for me, I didn’t even have to ask her. Both of them have been receiving and sending some encrypted messages, nothing too suspicious; but today Bernadette just dropped everything and came here. Halgarth security has her under surveillance at the Octavious hotel, which again is a strange choice for a socialite like Bernadette. We’re going to join them in the morning.” She waited for Tarlo to answer.

“Got us a hotel,” Vic said cheerfully. “Not very cheap, sorry.” He and Matthew shared a grin.

Renne waved a hand for silence. Her virtual vision showed her the link was still active. “Tarlo?”

“Yeah, hi, sorry. Do you need any help?”

“Not yet. But if we do, I’ll yell for you. And that’s a reciprocal.”

“Sure. Thanks. Okay, good luck.”

“Yeah, you, too,” she told him.

***

“Paula, we’ve got an interesting situation developing.”

“What is it, Hoshe?”

“I’m with Nadine and Jacob on Illuminatus, running the electronic surveillance on Tarlo while he goes after Beard. Now Gus and Isaiah have joined us; they’re monitoring Renne.”

“So both targets are on Illuminatus?”

“Yes. Renne arrived twenty minutes ago, following Bernadette Halgarth. As soon as Renne got here she called Tarlo, then five minutes later Tarlo called Bernadette. It was an encrypted message and routed through a onetime address, but for once we got lucky; we infiltrated scrutineer software into Bernadette’s hotel node as soon as Warren told me she was here. We haven’t managed to decrypt yet, but the message Tarlo sent is the one she received. It looks like Tarlo was warning her she’s under observation. There’s no other reason.”

“Tarlo. Damnit.”

“I’m sorry, Paula.”

“Not your fault. I knew it had to be one of them.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Keep a close eye on him and Bernadette. I’ll join you in a couple of hours.”

“Are you going to tell Renne?”

“Possibly. Our priority has to be getting Tarlo into custody. But I don’t want to scare off Bernadette until she’s contacted whoever she’s there to meet. This is our first real chance to penetrate the Starflyer agent network. Timing is going to be critical.”

“Tarlo’s going to be wetwired. Bernadette as well, probably.”

“Definitely. Don’t worry, my team will be armed.”

***

The room didn’t look like anything special, a simple cube of gray walls and a worn carpet. Two polyphoto strips in the ceiling made it brighter than it strictly needed to be. A single air-conditioning grille high above the malmetal door hissed away unobtrusively. There weren’t any sensors visible, but they had to be there somewhere.

Robin Beard sat on a cheap plastic chair with his feet up on the table that was bolted to the middle of the floor. He didn’t look particularly concerned that he’d been arrested. But then, Lucius thought, he’d been in custody so many times he was familiar with the routine. Say nothing and wait for the lawyer.

Lucius followed Tarlo into the interview room. The blond surfer gave Beard a friendly smile.

“You’re not a lawyer,” Beard said.

“Smart,” Tarlo said. “I like that. That’s going to be helpful for both of us.”

“You guys are really going to suffer for this,” Beard said. “I was walking through a garage and you restrained me for no valid reason with undue force. You didn’t even read me any rights.”

“That’s because you don’t have any,” Tarlo said.

Beard smiled.

“Sit down,” Tarlo said.

The smile flickered on Beard’s face. “I am—”

Tarlo’s fist swung fast, smashing into the small man’s nose. There was a crunch of bone breaking as the chair tipped back spilling him onto the floor, limbs all in a tangle. His head caught a nasty crack as he went down. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Beard wailed. One hand was cupping his nose, with a copious amount of blood leaking through his fingers; the other hand was probing the back of his skull. His eyes had watered.

Lucius had taken a half pace forward, then halted, unsure what to do. He glanced to the ceiling corner where one of the visual sensors was hidden. Nobody was calling him.

Tarlo grinned as he squatted down beside the mechanic. “Always hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn’t it? Busted my own nose a couple of times on a board, so I know.”

Beard glanced desperately at Lucius. “You saw that. You’re my witness.”

Lucius managed to let his gaze drift away. Tarlo had told him to say nothing, but this wasn’t what he was expecting.

“We couldn’t get hold of a good cop to work this routine properly,” Tarlo said. “They’re all out on the streets helping decent citizens in these troubled times. So we’re just going to have to do the bad cop, worse cop setup instead. Know what? The boys in the office, they’re running a pool on how long you can stand up to the beating before you crack. I’ve got fifty pounds on ten minutes, but I’m gonna be on the level with you here, buddy, I’m not even going to wait that long.” He drew a slim medical infuser patch from a pocket.

“There’s quite a few street names for this; you ever heard of hardbang? No? How about painamp?”

Beard shook his head, giving Tarlo a frightened look.

“The thing is, this is like the opposite of an anesthetic,” Tarlo said. “It makes the pain progressively worse. Really, badly, worse. I mean I’ve see people screaming in agony from a torn nail when they’re tripping on this. So you can imagine what that nose is going to do to you, especially when Lucius here starts thumping it.”

“What the fuck do you want?” Beard shouted. His wide eyes were staring wildly at the infuser patch.

“We’re not police,” Tarlo said. “We’re navy. So there is no comeback for us no matter how bad this gets for you, how many of your rights we stamp on. No lawyer is going to come charging in to save you. Do you understand that?”

Beard swallowed hard and nodded.

“You will do as I tell you. Now do you want me to pump a dangerous dose of this into you? Is that the way I make you cooperate?”

Beard shook his head. The blood was running right down his grubby shirt to drip onto the floor. “No, sir.”

“Hey.” Tarlo grinned around at Lucius. “Haven’t been called sir in a long time. How about that? This man has respect. I like that.” He turned back to Beard. “So do I infuse?”

“No. No, sir, I’ll cooperate.”

“Good man.” Tarlo put his hand out. Beard gave it a mistrustful look, but eventually allowed Tarlo to help him to his feet. “You introduced a friend of yours, Dan Cufflin, to an agent who supplies people for illegal activities,” Tarlo said. “Correct?”

Beard frowned, trying to concentrate. “Yeah, I remember Dan.”

“What was the agent’s name?”

“I don’t know. He’s just the Agent.”

“Where is he?”

“Here, on Illuminatus, I think, this is where we normally meet.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only ever met him twice, and that was in different places: bars. We normally use the unisphere.”

“Today you meet him again, in person, on Illuminatus. Fix it up. Now.”

***

Jenny McNowak had checked herself and Kanton into the Grialgol Intersolar hotel on Lower Monkira Wharfside Avenue, on the opposite side of the street from the Octavious, and two blocks down. After that there wasn’t much she could do apart from load scrutineer programs into arrays in and around the Octavious. The registration array was easy to hack, giving them Bernadette’s room number, 2317, as well as a list of other guests, which they ran through their database.

After that, they’d managed to get up on the Grialgol’s roof, and position a sensor that could zoom in on Bernadette’s twenty-third-floor window. It was dark by then; there was nothing else they could do except wait.

Kieran McSobel arrived a couple of hours later, bringing Jamas McPeierls and Rosamund McKratz with him. There was enough room for all of them; Jenny had booked a suite in the Grialgol. After weeks in Rialto’s rock-bottom economy accommodation, and long stints cramped up in cheap hired cars, the suite with its luxury fittings, especially in the bathroom, was a pleasant interlude. It gave her a lot of satisfaction being in a more expensive room than Bernadette, whom Jenny had come to envy and despise for the ostentation she lived in on EdenBurg. She was looking forward to testing the Grialgol’s room service menu.

“Nothing much to report,” Jenny said as the newcomers began to set up a series of specialist arrays they’d brought with them in the suite’s main octagonal lounge. She and Kanton had arrived with almost nothing other than their standard field operation packs. Bernadette had caught everyone by surprise when she left EdenBurg.

Jamas established an e-seal around the perimeter of the lounge, then switched on a janglepulse in case there were any modified insects spying on the room. “We’re clean,” he announced.

“She’s had no visitors,” Jenny said. “And as far as we know there’s been nothing taken up to her room.”

“What about a visual?” Kieran asked, nodding at the tiny handheld array screen that was showing the grainy gray hash that was the feed from the roof sensor.

“She’s left the window screened,” Kanton said. “It’s just a standard model, twenty years old, but effective enough to keep out any passive scan.”

“So we don’t even know if she’s in there or not?” Kieran said.

“We have accessed civic sensors around the hotel,” Jenny said defensively.

“Nobody with her visual profile has left the building; our characteristics recognition programs would have caught that.”

“Understood.” He turned to Jamas and Rosamund. “That’s your first priority, try to establish if she’s still in there.”

“We’re on it,” Rosamund assured him from a plush leather armchair. Her eyes fluttered half-shut as data began to fill her virtual vision. Small holographic data blocks sprang up from various arrays spread out around her. Her hands and fingers twitched minutely as she began manipulating programs, infiltrating them into the Octavious systems.

“Our database didn’t tag any of the other residents,” Jenny said. “None of the names are known to us.”

“We should maybe try and run a comparison, see if any of them fit Isabella’s profile.”

“Good idea. We’ve got several hours of images from the civic cameras. It shouldn’t take too long to—”

“There’s someone else here,” Rosamund announced.

“What do you mean?” Kieran asked. An ion pistol appeared in his hand.

“In the Octavious arrays,” Rosamund said. “I’ve found a second set of scrutineer programs. Someone else is watching room 2317.”

“Jamas,” Kieran said firmly. “Review this hotel’s arrays, find out if we’re being watched.” He opened the base of a large case, revealing an impressive collection of weaponry. Jenny selected a gamma pulse rifle, while Kanton took a plasma grenade auto-launcher. The three of them moved smoothly to cover Rosamund and Jamas.

“Rosamund,” Kieran said. “Can you see where the other programs are sending their information? And have they noticed you?”

“Get into one of the force field suits,” Jenny told Kanton.

“No anomalous programs in the arrays on this floor,” Jamas said. “Moving the scan outward.”

“What about emissions from non-net systems?”

“Nothing detectable. But if this is the navy, we’re not going to be able to see the kind of systems they use against us. The unisphere has rumors that they’ve modified an insect that’s immune to janglepulse.”

Kanton slipped into one of the skeletonlike force field suits, wearing it outside his clothes. The thick bands adjusted themselves to achieve a balanced coverage of his body, then a thin layer of air shimmered around him as the force field came on. He nodded, and Jenny took another suit out of the case, moving quietly, as if noise alone would trigger an assault by an armed navy team.

“Kieran?” she whispered.

“Not yet.” He waved her back and holstered his ion pistol. “Kanton, open the door.” The lock disengaged, and Kieran stepped out into the corridor, holding a sensor stick casually in one hand.

Jenny had to wait in a fervor of anxiety while he checked around. He returned in less than a minute.

“Some of the occupied rooms have got their integral e-seal switched on,” he said, and held up the little sensor stick. “I couldn’t tell what was inside, not without raising the alarm. In any case, if they have any fieldcraft, they won’t be on this floor.”

Jenny let her breath ease out of her. Kieran was already giving the ceiling a suspicious stare. “We’re moving,” he said. “On foot. Jenny, pick a hotel at random. We’ll establish a safeguard perimeter before we move in.”

“All right,” Jenny said. She put the rifle back in the case and asked her e-butler for a list of hotels within a five-block radius.

Kieran was stripping off his shirt and pants. “As of now, we’re staying hot. I want everyone in force field suits worn under your clothing. Rosamund, how are you doing?”

“I think our programs might have been compromised. If I can expose their programs, they can certainly do the same to ours.”

“Can you tell where the other watchers are based?”

“No, they’ve employed some very sophisticated routing.”

“What about Bernadette? Is she in there?”

“Her room’s drawing power for lights, the air-conditioning, and the bathroom. Power use has fluctuated since she checked in, which is a good indicator of occupation. The door lock hasn’t been used since check-in, either. That’s the best I can do.”

“Fine. You and Jamas take it in turns to get into suits, then we’re out of here. Jenny, any idea who our rivals could be?”

“Other than the navy, no. But why would the navy be following Bernadette?”

“I don’t know.” Kieran sounded dubious as he buttoned his shirt over the dark bands caging his chest. “Mellanie Rescorai was warned about Isabella and her parents. It might be a news show team.”

“Or we were seen by Halgarth security,” Jamas said as he pulled the force field suit on. “Let’s face it, we were operating on their home turf.”

“If they’re watching Bernadette, it implies they’re opposed to the Starflyer,” Jenny said.

Kieran handed the last force field suit to Rosamund, and snapped the case shut. “Don’t bet your life on it.”

***

It was the small hours of the morning, Illuminatus time. Gwyneth Russell, who wasn’t even back on Paris time properly yet, was wide awake and relaxing in the Almada hotel’s spa bath, with bubbles foaming gently all around her. She’d just got a call from Vic, who was checked in to a hotel a mere five kilometers away. They’d talked about maybe spending a couple of hours together, but it wasn’t going to happen. Both of them were on active duty, and could be called on at any moment. Most of their talk had concentrated on the coincidence of being on Illuminatus. Vic didn’t think it was coincidence, although neither of them could think how Bernadette Halgarth could possibly be connected to the Agent. Gwyneth had suggested it might be Isabella who had the connection, and Bernadette was just here to see her. Of course, that left what Isabella was doing with the Agent.

Gwyneth sighed, and examined her hands. Her skin was starting to wrinkle she’d been soaking so long. She really should try to get some rest, ready for tomorrow. For once she thought the case was actually progressing well. Beard had set up his meeting with the Agent for the following evening. She even quietly admired the way Tarlo had bluffed him into cooperating; that the Californian surfer could actually hit someone had been a mild surprise, but it had certainly produced a result. They were so close now to cracking the whole Guardian case open. Around the office, it was rapidly becoming a mantra; they had so much information that all they needed was the one lucky break that had eluded Paula Myo for a hundred thirty years. Her mouth lifted in a bad girl smile: the break just happened to be Beard’s nose.

Her e-butler told her Paula Myo was calling. Gwyneth grunted in surprise and told the e-butler to accept.

“Gwyneth, would you please acknowledge my authority certificate.”

A file icon with the Senate Security seal popped up in Gwyneth’s virtual vision. Her virtual hand in the colors of the old Welsh national flag reached up and touched it. For the life of her she couldn’t think what Paula was doing. The file opened up, containing Paula’s verified Senate Security authorization. “That checks out,” Gwyneth said. “What’s this about?”

“I am officially reassigning you to my interdiction team,” Paula said. “As of this moment.”

Gwyneth sat up fast, sloshing water over the edge of the big bath. “What interdiction team?”

“Senate Security has been watching Tarlo for some time. He’s just warned Bernadette Halgarth that Renne’s team is observing her.”

“He did what?”

“He’s a traitor, Gwyneth.”

“No. He can’t be.”

“I’m afraid I can’t debate this with you. We are going to arrest Tarlo.”

“You’re here?” Gwyneth slipped and slithered out of the bath, grabbing her towel.

“Yes. I require your assistance. Is there anybody in his room with him?”

“No. I don’t think so. We’re all supposed to be resting. Beard’s in custody at the precinct, and we’re not due to pick up the Agent until this evening.”

“Very well. I suggest you get into your force field suit. Don’t activate it. He’s next door, and will probably sense you switching it on.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No. Once you have it on, please call him. He won’t suspect you, and it will enable us to verify his position. The call may also provide a small distraction.”

“Oh, God.” She hurried back into the bedroom where her case was sitting on the bed. The force field skeleton suit was an awkward bundle of bands that was difficult to put on around a wet naked body. “It can’t be Tarlo; he’s got us so close to the Guardians.”

“I know this is difficult, Gwyneth. Just trust me for a few minutes more.”

Had it been anyone, anyone else, she might have doubted, and Senate Security be damned. But not Paula Myo. “All right,” Gwyneth said. The skeleton bands were chafing badly, but they were all in position and switched to standby mode. She didn’t like to think what she looked like. Surely there had been time to put on some underwear? “I’m in the suit.”

“Leave this channel open, and make the call.”

“What about?”

“Whatever, it only has to last a few seconds.”

Gwyneth took a calming breath. Her virtual hand reached out and pulled Tarlo’s icon from her grid. “Hi, Chief. I was just checking in with you before I go to bed. Any developments?”

There was a long pause.

“Why are you in your force field suit?” Tarlo asked.

Gwyneth jerked her head around to stare at the wall between the rooms.

“Shit!” Her virtual hand swiped at the suit’s activation icon as she dived for the floor.

The middle of the wall exploded in a gout of dazzling white plasma. Long ion flames seared across the room. One of them licked at Gwyneth. Her force field wasn’t quite established; it flared purple around her, allowing a weakened gust of the energized atoms to rake across her bare skin. She screamed at the pain, thrashing around as the force field stabilized, deflecting the rest of the blast. Flames burst out of the furnishings and carpet.

The room vibrated to the bass roar of more weapons being fired. Blinding light flared through the wrecked wall. Gwyneth rolled over, tears blurring her vision. She risked a glance down at the side of her rib cage where the ion stream had penetrated. Her flesh was blackened, with red cracks splitting open to weep blood and fluid. It was an agony so intense it was actually dull. She knew she was going to throw up. The sprinklers came on, spraying a glutinous blue foam. Nozzles automatically sought out the hot spots, directing the foam to the worst of the blaze. Steam and smoke churned into the air, obscuring the room.

More explosions sounded. One actually produced a quake in the floor that tumbled her about. The ceiling sagged, and what was left of the ruined wall collapsed completely. She tried to stand, but somehow her limbs didn’t respond. The best she could do was roll over into a crouch. An alarm was howling.

Three armor-suited figures materialized out of the thick smoke. Two of them pointed fat stubby weapons at her.

“Do not move, lady.”

Gwyneth almost laughed.

The third circled around her warily, and held a hand out flat toward the bathroom door. There was a dull thud, and a pressure wave knocked Gwyneth back onto her stomach. She groaned at the fresh outbreak of pain in her side. The bathroom door had vanished, along with most of its frame.

“Clear,” the suited figure said.

“Did you see where he went?”

Gwyneth blinked in confusion. A galaxy of colored lights that weren’t quite part of this universe were flashing at her through the smog.

“Gwyneth! It’s Paula. Did you see him? Did he come through your room?”

“I…No.” She gritted her teeth in the effort to concentrate. “No, there was just the plasma grenade. He didn’t come this way.”

“Okay, hang on. We’ve got a medic team on standby. They’ll be with you soon.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m all right,” she said, and fainted.

The sun was just high enough to send a pale light along Tridelta’s long straight streets as Alic Hogan’s taxi pulled up outside the cordon that had been set up around the Almada hotel. He got out of the vehicle with Lieutenant John King and stared at the scene with a rising sense of dismay. Alic wasn’t a religious man, nor even superstitious, but some days it did seem as if the Paris office had been cursed.

Five big fire tenders were drawn up outside the modern concrete and glass edifice of the hotel. Firebots had crawled up the walls to the fifth floor, trailing their hoses after them. They were clustered around a series of holes that had been ripped through the neat mosaic pattern of windows and concrete panels. He recognized them as weapon blasts. The edges were melted, with little soot scarring the wall above, which meant the plasma had punched out horizontally. That was confirmed by the amount of debris littering the street below. Water and blue suppressant foam was smeared all the way down the wall below the holes, spilling onto the pavement to run into the gutters. There were a couple of shallow craters in the road, where plasma grenades had struck, and a number of smaller pocks from ion pulses.

Outside the area where tenders and force field–clad fire department staff were supervising the damping-down operation, the police had established a cordon that they were enforcing with armed officers and patrolbots. Clusters of patrol cars were blocking the street a block back from the hotel, their red and blue strobes bright in the leaden dawn. Several other vehicles were stationary along the road, cars and a few early morning delivery vans halting where the city’s traffic management arrays had injected their emergency stop orders. The hotel residents, a couple hundred people, were all huddled together at one end of the building, wearing their pajamas, or dressing gowns, or less. A lot of them had bare feet. Police officers were moving through them, listening to the questions and protests. Kids were crying.

A couple of ambulances and a medic command bus were parked behind the fire tenders.

“Dear God,” Alic muttered.

“He was determined not to be caught, wasn’t he?” John King said.

“Right.” All Alic could think of was what the Admiral would say.

The first person Alic saw when a police officer led them into reception was Paula Myo. His jaw clenched at the sight of her. She was wearing full assault armor, with the helmet held under one arm. Even in the bulky dark suit she managed to appear orderly, with her hair neatly held back from her face with a blue Alice band. Several of her Senate Security team were positioned around the reception area, also in armor, with their force fields active, and rifles held ready.

A couple of the paramedics were working on Gwyneth, who was lying on a crash trolley with a green medical smock around her. Vic Russell was holding her hand, the big man’s face white with worry and anger. Renne was also there, along with Jim Nwan, both of them standing back a polite distance from the cart, but peering at their fallen colleague. The police precinct captain was talking quietly to Paula, while a detective sergeant called Marhol hovered at his side.

Alic took a breath and walked over to the crash cart. “How is she?” he asked the senior paramedic.

“Heavy burns on her side where the plasma struck. There will have to be some regeneration, but it’s not critical. We’ve cleaned the injury and sealed it in healskin.”

“So she’ll be all right?”

“A few days in the hospital, then a fortnight recuperating. She was lucky.”

“Great.” He leaned over the crash trolley, trying not to look at the stains and flecks of crisped flesh.

“Hi, Chief,” Gwyneth said. Her face was very pale, sweat glinting on her brow.

“Hi, yourself. When you get back, the first thing I’m doing is sending you on a refresher course on how to duck quicker.”

“Fine by me.” Her dreamy smile was mainly due to painkillers.

“Go with her to the hospital,” Alic told Vic. “Take as long as you want.”

“I’m coming right back,” Vic said. “I will be on the arrest team when we track that piece of shit down.”

“Okay.” Alic wasn’t going to argue in public, but there was no way he was going to allow Vic any part of the case. Right now his priority was to get the big man out of the way.

He finally turned to Paula, and smiled like a prosecuting lawyer. “Would you care to brief me now, please.”

“Certainly.” She thanked the precinct captain, who walked off with Marhol. It was just the Paris office team who were left in a group.

“Tarlo is a traitor,” she said flatly.

“I really hope you can prove that.”

She glanced meaningfully around the reception area and through the huge glass doors at the scene outside. Alic reddened slightly, but held his ground.

“I’ve been running elimination entrapment operations on both Tarlo and Renne,” Paula said.

“Me?” Renne yelped.

“Of course,” Paula replied urbanely. “Our observation was both visual and electronic. As soon as Tarlo was informed that Renne had Bernadette Halgarth under observation he called her. We intercepted that call. When we moved in to arrest him, he fought back and managed to elude us. His armament wetwiring is not registered. Next time we will field a more appropriate arrest squad.”

Alic knew what the answer was, but he had to ask, just for the record. “Who do you believe Tarlo has been working for?”

“The Starflyer.”

“Goddamnit. The Admiral doesn’t accept the Starflyer is real.”

“Don’t worry,” Paula said, with more sympathy than Alic was expecting, “he will have to acknowledge that Tarlo was a traitor. Your conduct has not been compromised; Tarlo dates back over two decades in the Paris office. Your priority now is to launch a review of his cases to see which have been compromised.”

“Right.” Alic didn’t want to think how much work that was going to involve, nor where he was going to get the resources. Another navy intelligence office would probably have to be brought in, and they would put everyone at Paris under review, himself included. “Why was Bernadette under observation?” he asked Renne. “I thought we agreed that aspect of the case was closed.”

“Christabel Halgarth placed her and Victor under observation as a favor to me,” Paula said before Renne could answer. Judging from Renne’s expression, she hadn’t known that.

“So, Bernadette is working for the Starflyer?” Alic said.

“It would appear so. In which case we must assume Victor is also an agent. I’ve informed Christabel about this incident. She will close the net around Victor if he hasn’t already gone dark.”

“And Isabella?” Renne asked.

“Her involvement is even more likely,” Paula said. “You made a good call on that investigation. I’d say the Doi shotgun was Starflyer disinformation intended to discredit the Guardians.”

“All right,” Alic said; he just wanted to draw a line under the botched arrest. At least that was Paula’s responsibility. “What is your recommendation? What do we do next?”

“Obviously taking Tarlo into custody is my principal priority. CST security officers at the Tridelta station will be reviewing every passenger for us. I’ve deployed an armed squad there already. Other than that, the ongoing cases must be kept open.”

“Are you going to arrest Bernadette?” Jim Nwan asked.

“Yes,” Paula said. “But it’s a question of timing.”

“Now we know the Starflyer agents are weapons wetwired, we need to gather a lot more firepower, surely?” John King said.

“I already have more Senate Security combat squads on the way,” Paula said. “But right now, Bernadette is the only Starflyer agent whose whereabouts we are certain of. She cannot be allowed to escape.”

“How long until your reinforcements arrive?” Alic asked.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Okay then, let’s go.”

Paula shifted her helmet to her other arm. “No. She knows her cover has been blown; she also knows that we are observing her and we have armed squads in Tridelta.”

“So?”

“So, why didn’t she try and break the observation as soon as Tarlo was exposed?”

Alic sagged, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “She’s waiting for something.”

“Exactly.”

“But the longer she waits, the stronger we can box her in. She must know that.”

“Yes. So whatever she is here for must be very important to the Starflyer. She will try to break our observation, either by force or stealth. We need to let her think she has succeeded; that way she will lead us to whatever she is here for.”

“You can have whatever resources you need from the Paris office,” Alic said.

“I’d like to keep Renne’s team on her for continuity,” Paula said. “Can you give me someone to replace Vic?”

“Sure.” He turned to John King. “That’s you.”

“Yessir,” John said.

“That’s useful,” Paula said. “We’ve got the Paris team, Halgarth Security, and Senate Security. If she can elude all three of us, then frankly we deserve to lose her.”

“What about the meeting with the Agent?” Jim Nwan asked. “It’s set up and ready.”

“That’s our second objective,” Paula said. “The Agent is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for. He can lead us right into the Guardians. The meeting this evening must go ahead as planned. I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to take him into custody.”

“I’ll take charge of that operation,” Alic said. It was the kind of legitimate interception that was part of the Admiral’s agenda. And success there would reflect well on whoever was in charge of the operation; it might even mitigate against the rest of this god-awful mess.

“Good. You understand that Tarlo will also be there if we haven’t caught him by tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Whoever gets the Agent will have access to critical information on the Guardians and their operations. The Starflyer needs that as badly as we do; for over a century they have been its only opposition.”

“So…are we still trying to shut down the Guardians?” Renne asked.

Alic had never seen such a troubled expression on Paula’s face, not even that day when the Admiral dismissed her.

“There are a lot of political factors involved,” Paula said slowly. “I can only say that my allies will have to consider our next move very carefully after we have acquired the Agent and reviewed what he knows.”

“Okay,” Alic said briskly. “We all know what to do. Send back to the office for any equipment you need, especially force field suits, given what we know about Tarlo’s capabilities. Paula, a word, please?”

The two of them walked away from the others. “You know I can’t afford to go gray on the Guardians,” he said. “When we acquire the Agent, any information he has must be acted on in a positive manner. They are still classed as our number one terrorist group.”

“I understand. Tarlo will give the Admiral pause for thought. He’s not stupid. If the information is useful, then my allies will be able to change Commonwealth policy.”

Alic whistled appreciatively. “Those are some allies. Good luck for the rest of today.”

“And yourself. My advice would be to strengthen the guard on Beard. He’s the only known route to the Agent. If Tarlo wants to avoid confrontation tonight that would be the obvious method.”

“Right then.” Alic nodded, and headed over toward the apprehensive detectives.

***

Mellanie spent the morning lying on the small room’s single bed with the floor-to-ceiling curtains drawn, accessing all the Tridelta news. Every show was featuring last night’s fight at the Almada hotel. The level of violence had surprised the reporters, and the police weren’t being very helpful with their bland statements. There was no mention of a body being found stuffed into the lower deck lifeboat escape passage on Cypress Island.

She didn’t understand it, but she slowly allowed herself to relax. After a while she canceled the news and called Dudley.

“Hello, my darling,” he said. “Are you coming back now?”

“Not today.”

“When? I miss you. I want you.”

The familiarity of his neediness was reassuring. Stupid old-young Dudley. A universal constant. “Soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

“I hope so. I’ve done a lot of work on the trip.”

“What trip?”

“To the asteroid.”

“Oh, right.” She’d forgotten. “How’s it going?”

“Very well. I’m busy computing possible Hohmann transfer orbits. We need to have enough fuel left on arrival to explore the gas-giant orbit inside and outside its rings. Though I expect the habitat asteroid has a significant infrared emission. It should be easy enough to locate.”

“Well done, Dudley. I’ll take a look at it all when I get back.”

“I really want you.”

“Dudley. You can always access Murderous Seduction again.”

“No. I hate it. Hate it! That’s someone else having sex with you. I can’t feel that again. It’s awful for me. You should never have made it.”

“Okay, Dudley. But I just want to know if you’re all right.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I thought someone might be following me. Now don’t get in a panic; I wasn’t sure at all. Have you seen anyone hanging around the apartment lately?” She was sure that Alessandra’s people must have picked her up on Earth, no doubt following her from the Michelangelo studios. So they would definitely know where Dudley was. They’d probably be focusing on him as a way of reconnecting with her.

“No. Do you want me to go outside and check?”

“No, Dudley, that’s all right. I’m tired, I wasn’t really sure.”

“Okay then. What are you doing today? Have you found those lawyers yet?”

“Not yet. But I’ve got a job that should put me close to them.”

“What sort of job?”

“I’m a trainee cleaner at the clinic.”

The image of Kaspar Murdo’s overly friendly face as he acted as her protector and mentor in the belowdecks club filled her mind. All his glib words, his saccharine smile. The deep meaningful conversation he’d wheedled out of her after they went back up to the top deck as the Cypress Island headed home in the small hours, listening sympathetically to Saskia’s ambitions, admiring how she’d left home to strike out for herself. He was good, Mellanie saw; a lot of youngsters would fall for that concerned guru act.

As the Cypress Island turned back out onto the Logrosan he’d said he would see what he could do about finding her a job, and offered to rent her his spare room. His last tenant had “just left” and it was very cheap. She’d accepted after a convincing show of uncertainty. Alessandra’s people would watch her apartment on Royal Avenue when they realized Dorian was never going to be reporting back. They were a complication she really didn’t need.

Murdo’s open plan apartment in the Barbican Marina condo was surprisingly large, with the curving external walls built from glass bricks making it very light and airy. The Scandinavian-style furniture was old but high quality, and every room was spotlessly clean. There were two bedrooms, and one other room that was locked and screened with a commercial e-seal generator.

He’d been the perfect gentleman, giving her a big toweling robe so she could use the bathroom. There were other clothes he happened to have, a sweatshirt and jeans near her own size that she was welcome to use until she collected her own stuff. He bid her good night as he turned in. His shift didn’t start until six that evening.

She’d taken a shower, her OCtattoos detecting sensors all around the limestone-tiled cubical. They were active, allowing Murdo to examine every millimeter of her naked body back in the sanctuary of his bedroom. When she got back to her room after the shower she found its ceiling was inlaid with a high-quality holocamera ring. Murdo certainly liked to keep watch over his possessions.

“How in heaven’s name did you get that job?” Dudley asked.

She smiled in the darkness, wondering what Murdo would make of that. “I made friends with the janitor,” she said.

***

Following Bernadette Halgarth was a complete nightmare. Jenny McNowak could remember the worst-case training sessions Adam had put her and the other Guardians through, keeping tabs on their designated target through dense cities and desolate countryside on a dozen different worlds, with everyone taking turns at being the target so they could get a feel for procedures on the sharp end. Those were walks in the park compared to this.

The first thing she and Kieran agreed on was that Bernadette knew she was being followed. When she finally emerged from the Octavious just after ten that morning she launched straight into a series of classic evasion maneuvers. The only buildings she went into were crowded malls with multiple exits, or skyscrapers that had vast underground levels that connected to neighboring structures with equally complex layouts. Where she walked along streets, cybersphere nodes and civic arrays suffered kaos attacks that affected any systems that were accessing at the time. She took taxis for a block, then switched as the local traffic management arrays crashed under more kaos. The monorail was a favorite, waiting until the last second as the doors closed before hopping on board.

As a result they had to stay close, which they couldn’t really afford, because that would mean getting spotted by the larger and better equipped navy team. Two times, Jenny was sure she’d caught sight of small aerobots holding station several hundred meters above a busy street. If she’d caught a couple of glimpses, there must have been a whole squadron of the things deployed to patrol the sky above the city’s street grid. They allowed the navy team to keep a long way back, while her own team had to crunch up the distance again whenever Bernadette hit the streets—another maneuver that left them susceptible to discovery by the navy.

“I’ve never known them to use so many people,” Kieran said as they were meandering around the rim of Haben Park. Bernadette was walking through the broad open grassland, staying away from the paths. There was a monorail station in the middle, which they were sure she was going to use. Jamas was loitering around the entrance, ready to scoot up to the platform ahead of her if she should double back.

“It’s unusual for them to have anyone on the ground when they’ve got aerobots covering the area,” Kieran said.

“They can hardly send the aerobots into a building after her.”

“No, but the way they’re deploying is almost as if they want to be seen.”

Jenny had provisionally tagged a couple of the navy team, who were also loafing on the periphery of the park.

“This is becoming farcical,” she said. “They’re going to spot us even if she doesn’t. We can’t keep following her like this all day. Their scrutineers will catch our encrypted traffic if nothing else. We’re trained in avoiding observation teams, not being one.”

“You’re right,” he said as Jamas walked past a woman they suspected was navy. “Everybody disengage. We’re going to change tactics.”

“What are you doing?” Jenny asked.

“I’m going to watch the watchers. It’s the logical choice.”

Jenny bit back on any criticism. It was a risky decision, but carrying on like this simply was not an option. She watched Bernadette change direction quickly, and hurry for the escalator up to the elevated platform. It was a junction station, with four possible directions for the monorail trains to take. The woman they thought might be navy was on the station’s second escalator.

“Rosamund, Jamas, we’re taking this one.” Kieran sent them the visual file of a man who was strolling along a hundred meters ahead of them. “He’s been part of the navy box for fifteen minutes. They’ll rotate him now.”

Keeping the navy operative under observation was considerably easier. Kieran was right, he was being rotated, and he clearly had no idea he was being observed. After Bernadette slipped away along the monorail the man changed direction and caught a cab. The Guardians followed in three separate taxis, grinding their way through Tridelta’s daytime congestion.

The navy was using the Dongara Harbor police precinct as their headquarters. Hanging around the police building added a certain edge to the Guardian team’s operation, but the harbor had a lot of waterside bars and restaurants. They took it in turns to sit at the outside tables, scanning the precinct with retinal inserts.

Halfway through the afternoon Jenny called Adam. “Guess who just drove down into the precinct garage?”

“Tell me,” Adam said.

“Paula Myo.”

“Indeed? What with that and the Almada hotel fracas, I’m almost sorry I left.”

“But surely this is important? The navy is chasing a Starflyer agent. They must know it exists.”

“Paula is Senate Security, not navy, but yes, senior echelons of the Commonwealth political class must be at least aware of the possibility now. I’ll inform Bradley.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Stay close to the navy team without compromising yourselves, and observe as much as you can. There’s obviously no way you can break into the Starflyer agent network through Bernadette anymore, but I would like to know what she’s doing on Illuminatus. I suspect the planet is where a lot of the Starflyer’s agents are wetwired; heaven knows we use it often enough. If Myo exposes one of their cells it can only act to our advantage.”

“Okay, we’ll follow if we can. Kieran’s hired some cars for us.”

“Good luck in that traffic.”

The sun was starting to sink below the horizon when eight large cars came out of the precinct garage, traveling in fast convoy. They didn’t have sirens and strobes on, but the civic traffic management arrays were obviously shunting cars and trucks out of their way.

Jenny drained the last of her iced tea. “Let’s go,” she told the others.

***

It was a warm evening again, though the vanishing sun seemed to take the humidity with it. Mellanie traveled with Murdo on the monorail to a station just half a block away from Greenford Tower. The bars and clubs along Allwyn Street were just setting up for the night trade, as yet they had few customers. Even the traffic seemed lighter than usual.

Murdo led her across the Greenford’s plaza where the fountains were pumping their jets high into the darkening sky. Far above them, the airship docked to the top of the tower was preparing for its flight; the lights on the observation deck were shining brightly as servicebots and waiters laid the tables ready for the Michelin-starred meal to be served as it soared over the jungle.

The Saffron Clinic’s private door opened for Murdo as soon as he put his hand on the sensor. It was a small narrow lobby inside, with a single elevator.

Mellanie started to key some inserts as they rose up to the thirty-eighth floor, allowing her to review the electronic environment she was moving through. The elevator had several systems, none of them new or elaborate, dating back to the tower net’s last refurbishment fifteen years ago. Above her, she could sense the clinic’s sophisticated and powerful e-shield. She deactivated all but the most elementary OCtattoos and inserts; the SI’s systems were very hard to detect when they were inert, so it had promised her.

The elevator rose through the e-shield. It stopped and the doors slid open. Mellanie was abruptly the center of a deep scan. It was a bare hallway outside, with pipes running along the walls and bright polyphoto strips on the ceiling. A couple of bored human guards, both of them armed, sat at a desk beside the elevator doors.

“Who’s this?” one of them asked curtly, nodding at Mellanie. He didn’t bother getting up. The deep scan couldn’t have revealed anything about her.

“New trainee,” Murdo said. “I cleared her with personnel this afternoon.”

The guard grunted. “You’re Saskia?”

“Yes,” she said anxiously.

“Okay.” He propelled a handheld array across the top of the desk. “Put your palm on that, we need a biometric. You’re not cleared for the medical levels yet, understand? You don’t go off this floor.”

“Yes.”

“If you try to go up there we shoot you. You do not discuss anything you see in here with anybody from outside. If you do, we shoot you. You do not bring anything into the clinic other than yourself and the clothes you are wearing. You will be issued with a uniform. If you bring anything in, like a sensor, we shoot you.”

Mellanie nodded anxiously. The guards grinned at each other.

“Ignore this lame-ass bullshit,” Murdo said. “These two dickbrains couldn’t hit the side of a skyscraper from twenty paces.”

The guard showed him a vigorous hand gesture.

Murdo gave him the finger in return; he and Mellanie walked off down the corridor. He steered her into a locker room. Three nurses were getting changed to go on shift. They stopped talking at the sight of Murdo and one of them scowled.

“Most of the staff use this place to change,” Murdo said. “Except for the doctors and management; they just wear their own suits.” He walked along one of the locker rows. “This one’s yours. Use your thumb on the scanner to open it. Those morons on the desk should have updated the network by now.”

Mellanie pressed her thumb to the small scanner patch, and the locker opened. It was empty. “I thought I got a uniform?”

“I’ll requisition one from supply. Just wait a minute.” He walked away around the end of the row.

Mellanie took a good look around the locker room while Murdo got changed, bringing her inserts on-line one at a time. There was no active sensor, only a couple of cameras looking down from the ceiling. She fed a scrutineer program into the locker room’s array, cautiously examining the structure of the clinic’s internal net. There were an impressive number of security systems and programs, especially on the upper floors. They were all protected by encrypted gates that she didn’t have the skill to circumvent. However, the reception array with its open connection to the Illuminatus cybersphere was easy to access. Her e-butler rode in on a Trojan finance transfer, and began to search admission records for five days on either side of the date that Michelangelo said the lawyers had arrived.

The three nurses all left. Mellanie instructed the scrutineer to follow their progress and record what it could of the security protocols as they went upstairs.

“Hey, Saskia, come around here, I’ve got your uniform,” Murdo said. “I knew I had a spare somewhere.”

Mellanie was intrigued by the way he’d waited until the nurses had left. She held her hand up, palm outward toward the locker doors as she walked along the row. Her basic scan revealed some very interesting items stored inside.

Murdo was wearing a dark red boiler suit with his name on the chest pocket. “Put this on,” he said. One hand held up a small garment of some shiny black fabric, while the other had a frilly white apron.

French maid’s outfit, Mellanie realized. She almost laughed. Murdo wasn’t just a stereotype, he was an absolute cliché.

“I have located three possible admissions compatible with your search parameters,” her e-butler said. The files popped up into her virtual vision; there was no reference to the nature of the treatments they were receiving, only the cost, which surprised even her. Each file did include the room they’d been allocated, for billing purposes.

“Come on, my dear, this is what all cleaning staff trainees wear,” Murdo said in a reasonable tone.

Mellanie activated a second batch of OCtattoos, then infiltrated a restriction order into the room’s array, preventing anyone from using its communications function. “Humm. I don’t think so.”

She clicked her fingers. One of the lockers she’d just passed popped open.

***

The scenic cable car station was at the eastern end of the Northern Crossquay. Alic, Lucius Lee, and Marhol escorted Robin Beard through the ticket hall and onto the embarkation platform. They didn’t manhandle him, nor did they say a word, but he was always in the center of the little triangle they formed. If the Agent was as good as Beard claimed, he would have observers in the crowds heading out to Treetops restaurant.

The platform was raised several meters above the top of Northern Crossquay, a simple metal mesh with the cables running above, which intruded against a huge tree whose boughs curved overhead. Alic could look back and see Tridelta City gleaming a few kilometers away on the other side of the river.

A cable car slid out of the radiant jungle, pausing briefly on the disembarkation platform opposite, where a couple of staff hopped out. Then it disappeared into the engine house that loomed above the station, before reappearing a few moments later and coming to a halt in front of the little group of passengers. It swung in slow pendulum motion from the carbon cable as the door slid open. Then the stewards were ushering everyone inside.

There were seats for ten people arranged in a ring around the central load girder. Alic took the one closest to the door. Beard sat next to him.

When all ten seats were filled the steward shut the door, and gave a thumbs-up. The carrier wheels above engaged the cable with a loud grumbling, and the car lurched away into the jungle.

There had been a lot of protests from local environmental groups when the cable car operators were applying for permits. Noninterference with the jungles was actually a part of the Illuminatus constitution, and no matter how much they bent other rules, the citizens of Tridelta respected their unique environment. It was very hard to grow an Illuminatus plant anywhere else due to the complex soil bacteria the trees needed in order to flourish. Potted saplings could be sold in sealed display cases for botanical enthusiasts, but no one was ever going to reproduce the woodlands on another world. So the environmentalists didn’t want big construction machinery chopping down trees to put up the cable car posts, and chainsawing off branches to give the cars free passage through the elaborate canopy.

After a decade of legal battles the operators won their permit, after proving a minimal damage impact assessment. What the environmentalists grudgingly accepted once the cable car was up and running was that the environmental damage was actually reduced. People who used to illicitly walk off the Crossquay and plunge through the jungle, breaking small branches and trampling new shoots underfoot to gain the raw experience, now took the cable car. It was cheap, and allowed them to get a lot closer in considerably more comfort. The jungle along the side of both Northern and Southern Crossquays began to thicken up again after a century of injury and abuse.

There was no glass in the cable car’s windows. Alic could see the glowing leaves skimming past barely a meter away. He did his best not to gawp at the panorama, making sure he checked Beard every thirty seconds. There were also updates from the police team back at the Northern Crossquay, reporting on everyone who got onto a cable car after them. None of them matched Beard’s description of the Agent. Alic had seen the cable car route through the jungle earlier that afternoon, when he and the rest of the team had come out to Treetops to scout around and set up their positions. Jim Nwan was heading up the five-strong arrest team that were waiting around the restaurant, all of them navy officers in full armor suits. Even if the Agent brought wetwired bodyguards there was no way they could stand up to that kind of firepower. Nor was there anywhere to run. The scenic cable car run was ten kilometers long.

It took twenty-five minutes to reach Treetops. Their cable car slid up against a platform that was identical to the one back on Northern Crossquays, and the smiling passengers trooped off. The restaurant and bar was built out of imported wood, big sturdy oak beams from European forests pegged together to form a long raft four meters off the ground. There was no roof, everyone sat directly under the jungle canopy. One side of it was the bar, while the other half was taken up by the restaurant where the tables were booked up weeks in advance.

As agreed, Beard went over to an empty table in the bar and ordered a beer from the waitress. Alic, Lucius, and Marhol sat on stools up at the small bar counter that circled one of the broad tree trunks. Marhol ordered the most expensive imported beer they had. Alic ignored the oafish detective, and sipped a mineral water.

He called Paula and said, “We’re in. Beard’s waiting for contact. The police helicopters are on standby to extract us as soon as we’ve made the arrest. I’ve got Vic with them; he didn’t like it but I made it clear the alternative was to go back to Paris.”

“Good. Sounds like you’re organized. Bernadette has just gone into the Greenford Tower. There is a very expensive clinic called Saffron in there which provides wetwiring and baseline DNA modification among other things. So unless she’s taking the airship flight we think that might be her destination; presumably either to change her identity or to rendezvous with someone who has undergone the treatment.”

“Does she know you’re still following?” Alic asked.

“I don’t think so. We fell back to long-range observation at three o’clock this afternoon. As far as she’s aware she lost us.”

“All right. I’ll call you as soon as we have the Agent.”

“What’s happening?” Marhol asked. Conversation around the bar was drying up fast. People had surprised looks on their faces.

Alic’s e-butler alerted him to a priority news event. He didn’t even have to access it. The barman turned the portal behind the counter to a direct feed from the Alessandra Baron show. Wilson Kime was standing at a podium making a statement to the Pentagon II press corps. “The fleet of Moscow-class starships which were dispatched to attack the wormhole known as Hell’s Gateway have now returned and are in communications range with the Commonwealth. I regret to say that the attack was not successful. Our missiles did not manage to strike their targets. Hell’s Gateway remains intact and fully functional, as do the subsidiary wormholes which link it to the Lost23.”

“Oh, crap,” Marhol grunted.

“The Primes have developed a method of deflecting our Douvoir relativistic missiles while they were still in flight,” Wilson said. “I must emphasize that this setback is by no means critical to our campaign. The navy retains the ability to combat any further aggression by the Primes.”

“Bullshit.”

Alic wished he didn’t share Marhol’s opinion.

“Sir,” Lucius said quietly. “Is that him?”

The Agent walked across the bar as everyone was watching the news. He was wearing a suit of thin leather with a surface that glimmered like crude oil under the soft light of the trees. The girl on his arm was dressed in a small cream outfit with a tasseled hem; she was tall and muscled like a marathon runner.

“Robin,” the Agent said pleasantly, “how nice to see you again.”

Beard looked around from the projected image of the Admiral. His face softened into a forlorn expression. “Sorry,” was all he said.

The Agent’s mouth tightened with aristocratic disapproval. His force field came on, distorting the dark ripples flowing over his suit fabric. The girl extended both arms as small stubby nozzles slipped out of the flesh on her wrists. Blue and green OCtattoos came alight on her face and neck, sending out thin glowing lines to snake down beneath the dress fabric. She started to rotate slowly, covering all the patrons. The ones closest to her gasped and pressed themselves back in their chairs.

“Move in,” Alic ordered the arrest team. His own force field came on, surrounding him in a nimbus of soft scintillations.

“Do you want us, Chief?” Vic asked.

“Wait.”

The girl swung around fast, both her arms lined up on Alic. The skin on her forearms began to undulate in strange patterns. People sitting at the tables between the two of them jumped hurriedly out of the way, creating a wide empty corridor.

“Stand aside,” Alic murmured to the police officers. In a couple of seconds he was sitting alone at the bar. Admiral Kime carried on speaking behind him, voice muted to a buzzing drone.

“No way out,” Alic told the Agent. “Let’s everybody stay calm. Deactivate your weapons. Your bodyguards can walk. You come with us.”

“Was that supposed to be an incentive?” the Agent asked. He sounded truly intrigued.

“I can cut clean through his protection,” the girl said. “It’s just a government-issue suit, after all, weak as piss.” She smiled, showing a long row of silver-white fangs.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” the Agent said.

Jim Nwan landed on the bar’s wooden floor with a loud thump. He was in full armor, carrying a plasma carbine. Its targeting laser splashed a small red dot on the Agent’s forehead. His urbane smile faded. Two more of the arrest team jumped into the bar from their holding positions out in the jungle. Their weapons were leveled at the girl.

At a table a few meters away from a trembling Beard, three men stood up, cloaked in force fields, and targeted the arrest team with their wetwired weapons. The last two members of the arrest team arrived in the bar. And one more lone drinker swiveled around on his stool to aim at the detectives, who had switched on their force fields. The rest of the bar went completely silent as it was crisscrossed with the slender ruby threads of lasers. People were hunched down in their chairs, terrified expressions on their faces; couples clung to each other.

“I believe this is what they used to call a Mexican standoff,” the Agent said. “Now why don’t we all just walk away, and contemplate what the Admiral has been saying. There are bigger issues to consider right now, are there not?”

“No,” Alic said. He couldn’t stop his muscles from tensing up—he’d never known dread like it; during combat, the terror from being shot at lasted mere seconds at most. This was stretching out and out, and he couldn’t see a way to end it cleanly. The bastard Agent just refused to see reason. All he could think about was how long it had been since he’d backed up his memories in a secure store; if everyone opened fire there was no way his memorycell would survive. Even so, backing down just wasn’t an option.

“Chief, we’ve got the firepower to back you up,” Vic said. “We can be there in a couple of minutes.”

“No. You can’t fire while we’re in Treetops, it’ll be a massacre.”

“Just let us get out to you.”

“Wait!”

The Agent’s smile was constant. “Once weapons this powerful are fired, you can expect an easy eighty percent casualties among the civilians,” he said. “Are you willing to take that responsibility?”

“You can’t leave,” Alic said. “There’s only the cable car, and we control that.”

“For fuck’s sake, buddy,” a man shouted. “Show some sense. You’ll get us all killed.”

“I am,” Alic growled out.

“There are many ways out for me,” the Agent said. “I’m going to start backing away from you now. If you try and stop me, then you will be responsible for the subsequent slaughter. Think on that, government employee.”

For a brief moment Alic considered calling Paula to ask what the hell he should do. No! Not her.

“Chief?” Jim asked. “What do we do?”

“Move and I’ll fire the first shot myself,” Alic said.

“Well now, if I couldn’t see the panic in your eyes, I might just…” The Agent frowned and glanced up.

Alic heard a low roaring sound, which was rapidly increasing in volume. The few sensor inserts he had couldn’t detect the origin. “Jim? Can you see what that is?”

“Three large power sources, directly overhead.”

Alic risked a look up at the phosphorescent ceiling of fluttering leaves. “Helicopters? Vic, is that you?”

“No, Chief,” Vic replied.

“Descending too fast,” Jim said. “Those aren’t helicopters.”

“Vic, get out here,” Alic ordered.

“On our way.”

A plasma bolt slammed down into Treetops, blowing through the fragile canopy of branches and leaves to strike the wooden platform directly between Alic and the Agent. The oak planks detonated instantly, producing a lethal shrapnel cloud of hand-sized splinters. Alic’s force field flared bright purple as the smoldering daggers walloped him, their impact shunting him back into the bar. Flame swirled all around, drawing whorls of black smoke in its wake. The floor lurched down at such an angle he grabbed wildly, managing to hook some fingers around the counter.

Both the arrest team and the Agent’s bodyguard fired back up into the night sky at the intruders. The bar’s patrons were screaming, half from shock, half from injury as the scythes of wood stabbed into unprotected flesh. More plasma bolts struck the wooden raft, snapping it into ragged sections. People and furniture were flung about by the blasts. The leaves and branches above began to blaze, sending smoke fountaining down.

Alic saw the Agent on his back as the floor continued to tilt over with a violent creaking, opening a wide gulf between them. Flames licked along the edges. The Agent looked down between his feet, calculating a jump to the dark ground below.

“Don’t even think about it,” Alic shouted. He pointed his ion pistol at the Agent.

The Agent started to laugh. A couple of red lasers played across Alic’s eyes. “Kill him,” the Agent yelled.

Twin plasma shots pummeled Alic’s force field. A storm of seething white and purple vapor clawed at him. Tiny localized overloads allowed hot electron tendrils to gouge at his clothes and skin. The fast stabs of pain were incredible, sending him writhing helplessly. He lost his grip on the counter and wilted onto the dangerously angled floor. Roaring sounds broke out all around him as the arrest team fired back on the bodyguards.

Alic realized he was bent around the base of a bar stool. His retinal inserts filtered the glare away to show the Agent hanging on tightly to his own patch of flooring as he twisted to look above and behind.

Three armor-suited figures ripped through the inferno raging above the wrecked restaurant. They were wearing jetpacks, whose exhaust screeched with the energy of a sonic weapon. One landed on either side of the Agent. Plasma and ion bolts hit them simultaneously, sending out incandescent whip streamers to lash at the smashed tables and chairs. Smoke and jets of flame burst out from the contact points. Several of the flaring whips raked across the Agent’s force field, turning it dense purple. One of the armored figures bent down and slapped a dump-web on the Agent’s back. The Agent tried to push himself off the ground, but an armored boot stomped down on his shoulders, knocking him back down. A dark stain was spreading through his force field as the dump-web expanded.

“Jim, can you stop them?” Alic demanded. His e-butler was printing a list of insert and OCtattoo failures across his virtual vision. It was all in default-mode green text.

“Stop what?”

Alic fired his ion pistol at the armor suit standing above the Agent. It didn’t even strain the force field. “Where are you?”

“On the ground.”

Alic fired again, this time aiming at the wooden floor the suited figure was standing on. The planks smashed apart, and the suit dropped through the hole, arms grabbing at air. “There’s one level with you; take it out,” Alic said. The remaining suit was leveling a grenade launcher at Alic. “Mike, Yan, Nyree, can anyone get a fireline on the suit with the Agent?”

“Got them,” Yan replied.

An explosion sent Alic spinning back up the sloping floor to crack his head against the bottom of the bar counter. The force field only partially absorbed the impact. He choked at the pain. The blazing wreckage of Treetops rotated around him. People were jumping from the remaining sections of floor into the dark space beyond; they were on fire, trailing flames through the night, orange sparks fizzing out behind them. Screams pierced the air, repeatedly overwhelmed by the shot of another rifle, or a plasma grenade detonating. One of the big trees that Treetops was built around was starting to keel over, a ponderous motion that was speeding up.

The Agent’s force field flickered and died. Flames scorched straight through his slick leather suit. He screamed as his skin crisped. The armor-suited figure above him raised one arm. Alic saw a harmonic blade gleam in the garish firelight.

“Yan!” Alic called. “Again.”

The harmonic blade swiped down. A fusillade of plasma bolts hammered the armored figure just as it beheaded the Agent. Alic cried out in horror as the Agent’s head bounced away across the buckled floor planks, blood splattering out of the severed neck, its short hair singed and smoking. He was never going to forget the startled expression locked on the Agent’s face as his head skittered toward the drop.

The armored attacker had been pushed sideways by the carbine shots, losing balance to tumble backward onto the slanting floor. Twisting coils of energy wrapping around the suit grounded out through the fractured oak beams. The miniature lightning blizzard suddenly shifted around to streak upward as the vast weight of the collapsing tree crunched down. Suit, floor, and the Agent’s corpse vanished under a swirling mass of flame that shattered the remainder of the bar. Alic felt the planks finally give way, sending him tumbling through the air, waving his arms and legs frantically. He hit the ground hard, with the force field inflating out around him like a scratchy pillow. It absorbed some of the collision, but he felt several ribs crack. He retched helplessly. The Agent’s head bounced on the damp soil beside him, skin charred and peeling off blackened bone. Even through all the pain and nausea he knew to grab for it. The disgusting thing was nestled in the crook of his arm when an armor suit appeared above him.

“Jim?”

“ ‘Fraid not, Chief,” Tarlo’s voice boomed through the bedlam. A plasma carbine was lowered. Its muzzle stopped five centimeters from Alic’s face.

“Fuck you, traitor,” he snarled.

A grenade went off right beside them, flinging both of them through the air amid a cloud of soil and tree fragments. Alic crashed into a tree trunk two meters above the ground and dropped like a stone. His force field was flickering around him on the verge of total breakdown, allowing overheated air to slide excruciatingly over injured flesh; green virtual vision text turned into random horizontal squiggles against the orange inferno. Through a haze of pain he saw the smoking black lump that was the Agent’s head, still rolling along the steaming ground away from him.

Tarlo was walking toward it. Alic tried to get up. His left side was completely numb. “Yan! Jim! Somebody help!”

Tarlo picked up the head. His suit’s jetpack spat out two spears of near-invisible blue flame, and he rose into the glaring conflagration that was consuming the jungle canopy. A cascade of huge blue and white sparks plummeted down in his wake.

“Vic, shoot him, just shoot him out of the sky, don’t let him take it, his memorycell’s in there. Vic, it’s Tarlo. Vic?” His voice fell to a whimper. He rolled onto his back, and pointed his ion pistol into the falling plume of sparks where Tarlo had vanished, ready to blast away. But there was only his empty hand, skin torn and bleeding, two fingers bent back where the knuckles had been broken. “I’ll find you,” he rasped at the swarming flames as the heat beat against him. “I will find you, fucker.”

***

Mellanie made it up to the Saffron Clinic’s third floor before she noticed something was wrong. The scrutineer programs she’d so carefully infiltrated into the arrays on the two floors below her were no longer responding. In fact, the whole of the net on those two floors was now dark.

She stopped and reviewed the tiny amount of data she could access. So far she’d only infiltrated three arrays on this floor, and her programs weren’t telling her anything. The clinic net certainly hadn’t issued any alarm, which was very strange. Management programs must have noticed the dropout. Not that she could query them.

So far she’d only passed a couple of staff on the evening shift, technicians in deep conversation. They hadn’t paid her any attention. The nurse’s uniform she’d put on was like wearing a stealth suit. There was nobody else in the corridor; she checked along it, uncertain what to do next. One of the rooms she wanted was right at the far end, barely thirty meters away.

Sections of the net on this floor started to drop out. “Damnit,” she hissed. Someone else must be infiltrating the clinic’s electronics, and they were a lot better at it than she was. They were shutting the whole place down one processor at a time.

There was a stairwell three meters behind her. Mellanie gave the Nicholas suite at the far end one last longing glance. She was so near…one of the lawyers was on the other side of the door. But it could well be Alessandra’s newest set of goons creeping up through the clinic. And if they knew she was here, they would have told the lawyers.

Why would anyone working for Alessandra have to creep around? They’re all on the same side.

Mellanie hurried back to the stairwell door. She pushed at the release bar. There was no alarm; all the circuitry around it was dead. It swung open to reveal a vast source of electromagnetic energy in the stairwell. Mellanie let out a shocked gasp as an armor-suited figure pointed a gun at her forehead.

“Do not move,” it said quietly. The voice was male. “Do not shout or attempt to alert anyone that we are here.”

Mellanie manufactured some tears—it wasn’t hard. “Please don’t shoot.” Her legs were shaking. A second armored figure slipped around the first, quickly followed by five more.

If they’re Alessandra’s, she’s really taking no chances.

“Turn around,” the suited man said. “Put your hands behind your back, cross the wrists.”

The armored suits were moving along the corridor. Mellanie had no idea suits that heavy and big could move so quietly. Then a thin plastic cord tightened around her wrists. “Ow!”

“Quiet, or I will use a nervejam.”

She was half sure her inserts could deflect that. But she’d have to activate them—and even if she did get the sequence right, then what? “Sorry,” she whispered.

“In here.” She was pulled into the stairwell.

“Name?”

“Er…Lalage Vere, I’m a nurse in the dermal specialist unit.” She felt something being pressed to her hand.

“The name’s on file, but she doesn’t match the clinic biometric.”

“She wouldn’t,” said a female voice.

Mellanie knew who that belonged to. Even as she let out a long breath of relief she couldn’t help wincing. A hard gauntlet was placed on her shoulder, turning her around. There were about ten more armored people in the stairwell, one of them markedly shorter than the others. “Good evening, Mellanie,” the small suit said.

“Oh, good evening, Investigator Myo. Fancy seeing you here.” It was bravado; she was trying not to sulk at how swiftly Paula had seen past her dark hair and freckles.

“We found the chief janitor downstairs,” Paula said. “He was tied to a bench in the locker room; not that there was any need—he’s got so much narcotic in his blood he doesn’t know which universe he’s in.”

“Really? And they let people like that work here? I’m astonished.”

“I’m more interested why you’re here, Mellanie.”

“Reporting was getting kind of hectic. I fancied a change of profession.”

“Mellanie, people’s lives are at stake here tonight. A lot of lives. I will ask once more, why are you here?”

Mellanie sighed. There really was no way out. “I’ve tracked down the lawyers. All right? It’s not a crime. They’re the criminals, and we both know what they did wrong.”

“You mean Seaton, Daltra, and Pomanskie?”

“Yes.”

“They’re here?”

“Duh. Yes. I just said.”

“When did they arrive?”

“Didn’t you know?” Mellanie said smugly. “They’ve been here receiving treatments more or less since they went on the lam from New York.”

“What sort of treatments? Have they received weapons wetwiring?”

“I’m not sure, you interrupted me. The new DNA thing, I suppose. It wasn’t cheap, whatever they got.”

“Which rooms are they in?”

“One’s in the Nicholas suite, on this floor; the other two are sharing the Fenay suite on the fifth floor.”

“Okay, thank you, we’ll take it from here, Mellanie.”

“What! You can’t just—”

“Grogan, take her down to Renne.”

Gauntlets grabbed her upper arm, metal fingers closing painfully. “Yow! Hey, I found them, you could at least let me cover the arrest for my report.”

“I’d advise against it. This is not a safe environment.”

“I was doing fine until you blundered in.” She paused. If Myo hadn’t known the lawyers were in the clinic, what…?

Grogan pulled her toward the stairs. The suit was too strong for Mellanie to resist. “You’ve got to give me something, Myo.”

“We’ll talk later. A long talk.”

Mellanie didn’t like the sound of that.

“Tactical update,” Paula informed the arrest teams. “We now have three more confirmed hostiles on site in addition to Bernadette. Possible locations: one in the Nicholas suite, two in the Fenay. Be advised, there could be more. This appears to be where Starflyer agents receive their wetwiring.”

The map in her virtual vision displayed the positions of the armor suits. She quickly adapted their interdiction roles, assigning three members to each lawyer.

“Hoshe, can you review the arrays we’ve sequestered? I’d like to confirm what Mellanie told us.”

“We’re working on it now. I didn’t know she was that good.”

“Mellanie is starting to interest me greatly. But we’ll have to deal with the clinic first.”

“Third-floor net shut down,” Hoshe said. “We’re establishing our programs on four and five, preparing to insert on six.”

“That’s good.” Paula examined the map. “Warren, move out into the fourth floor.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Renne, when Mellanie reaches your team I want you to hold her in custody but separate from the rest of the clinic staff; do not let her call anyone. That’s important.”

“Understood.”

“How’s the perimeter?”

“Solid and holding. It looks like half the city police are here.”

“Damn, that’s what I was worried about. Someone up here is going to notice what we’re doing.”

“Confirm the three admissions matching the lawyers,” Hoshe said. “Mellanie was telling the truth.”

“We’ve been exposed,” Warren Halgarth called. “Four staff members, one client walked out in front of us. Can’t contain them all.”

Paula cursed, though they’d got a lot further with their dark incursion than she’d expected. “Everyone, go hot. They know we’re here. Arrest teams move in immediately. And find me Bernadette.” She stood to one side, allowing the rest of the third-floor team to deploy out of the stairwell.

“Shit,” Warren exclaimed. “The client is weapons wetwired. Challenging us.”

“Is it one of the lawyers?” Paula’s map was updating. Teams were deploying along each floor. Matthew Oldfield was leading five officers to the Fenay suite, while John King was closing on the Nicholas. Barely a third of the clinic staff had been taken down to Renne’s team, where they’d be safe.

She heard the dull rumble of an explosion. Small flecks of dust shook free from the pipes running up the concrete stairwell. More explosions began. There were screams. Hoshe used aggressive infiltrators and took complete control of the clinic’s net.

Paula drew her plasma carbines, and moved out into the corridor. People were opening doors, peering out, yelling. Doors were slammed shut. The armor suits kicked them down again, hauling out the terrified staff and clients. John King and his two teammates blew the door to the Nicholas suite. A plasma bolt flew out. The screaming in the corridor reached a crescendo.

“Deactivate your weapons and come out,” John’s suit speaker boomed.

There was a big explosion inside the Nicholas suite. Debris and smoke billowed out into the corridor.

“He blew a hole in the floor,” John called. “Jumped down to the second level.”

“Acknowledged,” Marina called. “We’re deploying.”

John’s team charged through into the suite. Paula was waving the other members of the third-floor team along the corridor as they half carried staff and clients through the miasma. “Do not leave any of them unaccompanied,” she warned. “Medical forensics must clear them first.”

“Visual on Bernadette,” Warren called. “We’re engaging.”

Paula turned and raced back for the stairwell. Another explosion cut the lights. She was seeing the clinic through microradar and infrared. Sprinklers went off, and the fire alarm shrilled. The ceiling bulged down just in front of her, long cracks multiplying down the walls on either side.

“She won’t surrender,” Warren said. “Joined by another hostile. Both wetwired.”

“Can you disable her?” Paula asked.

“Not a chance.”

Paula reached the stairwell as a volley of explosions reverberated around the concrete shaft. Emergency lighting came on, an intense yellow slicing through the cloying gray smog that was swirling down the broad shaft. A long convoy of armor-suited figures was escorting cowering prisoners down the stairs. She pushed past them.

“Two hostiles engaged,” Matthew said. “They were in the Fenay suite.”

“Capture alive if you can,” Paula said.

“Do my best.”

“Got some debris down here,” Renne said. “Glass falling all over the plaza.”

“Any bodies?” Paula asked. “If their force fields are good enough they might try to jump clear.”

“None yet.”

“Watch for it.”

The explosions and sound of plasma shots had ended by the time Paula rushed out onto the clinic’s fourth floor. There were no elegant treatment rooms anymore; half of the walls were gone, opening up the entire level. Wreckage was strewn everywhere, some smoking, the rest saturated with water and blue suppression foam. Most of the ceiling was down as well, exposing the Greenford’s main structural beams. Fortunately, they seemed to be intact. Water was gushing out of several thick pipes to form large filthy pools across the floor. The glass windows had all been blown out.

Several bodies were lying amid the destruction.

“Hellfire,” Paula exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Warren said. “We had to terminate them.”

“Okay. Where are the corpses? We need to run a DNA confirmation.”

“Over here.” He scrambled over the piles of rubble, leading her around the tower’s core. Several armor suits were busy digging injured survivors out.

“We think these two.”

Inside the helmet, Paula wrinkled up her nose at the sight. The two bodies had been badly burned, then crushed by steel beams and concrete sections. Filthy water lapped around their scorched extremities. The remnants of their clothing were wrapped around them, scraps of blackened cloth. Paula recognized a fragment of the deep blue trousers that Bernadette had been wearing as they pursued her across Tridelta for most of the day. Parts of her body were untouched, corresponding to the bands of an insert force field skeleton. Her arms had the ruptures Paula knew came from internal power cells igniting, the kind used to power weapons. She pulled out a small DNA reader unit, and touched the stubby sampler prong against an unblemished segment of skin.

“It’s her,” she said as the data ran down her virtual vision.

The other corpse was slightly larger. Probably male. Paula examined him. Damage to his limbs had all been caused by external force. He certainly hadn’t been using a force field. His burned outer layers were no use to her DNA reader; she had to clench her jaw and push the stubby prong through the damage so it could reach internal organs. “Doesn’t look like he was wetwired.” Then she noticed the shreds of his clothes, the fabric the same dark red of the Saffron Clinic uniform. The DNA wasn’t registered in the Senate Security database. She told her e-butler to access Tridelta police and civic files.

“Are you sure this is the second one?” she asked.

“Not really,” Warren said. “This is the location where all the resistance came from.”

“But you’re sure two people were firing at you?”

“That’s a definite.”

“John, have you got your target?”

“Yes. The DNA is weird. I’ve got variants across the body, but some of it matches Daltra.”

“Thank you. Matthew, what about you?”

“Two hostiles taken out. One positive ID: Pomanskie. We’re trying to salvage the second body. There’s not a lot of it left intact.”

Paula stared down at the unidentified corpse. “Bernadette was making contact with four hostiles. So who was he?” She started to turn a circle, but stopped almost at once. There was a wide rent in the tower’s core, five meters away. Two eyebirds flipped out of their holder on her suit, and darted into the dark gap. “Damnit, that’s an elevator shaft.” The eyebirds’ sensors were showing her the shaft running up for another sixty floors, with every door shut. Twenty floors below, it was blocked by the top of an elevator. She sent both eyebirds plummeting down. The hatch on the top of the elevator had been ripped open. The eyebirds forced their way past the bent metal and into the elevator. There was a hole in the bottom, revealing the rest of the shaft leading down into the Greenford’s subbasements.

“Everyone, we have a breach. One person, maybe more. Time frame, up to seven minutes. That’s enough to exit. Renne, harden that perimeter.”

Renne had fumed at being given the perimeter duty. After all that the Paris office had been through lately she wanted to get into an armor suit and kick some serious ass. But the duty wasn’t just putting up barricades and liaising with the local police. Everyone brought down from the clinic had to be examined and confirmed. A lot of them would be criminals of some kind, it was that sort of clinic, which meant there was a good probability they would be weapons wetwired. Paula kept emphasizing how the perimeter was to be maintained. It was good to be working with the boss again. Renne just wished she were on the sharp edge of the operation. She couldn’t decide if she’d been given the perimeter duty because of Paula’s earlier suspicions. That she’d ever been on the suspect list in the first place had shocked her. But that was the boss for you, logical to the last. Renne was still reeling from hearing about Tarlo’s treachery. They’d known each other for nearly fifteen years.

The holding chambers they’d set up in the subbasement were starting to fill up with the Saffron Clinic people. All the fighting was over. There was no more debris falling onto the plaza, though water was still dribbling down the face of the Greenford Tower from the gaping windows.

Renne walked around the edge of the police barricades, looking up into the dark sky. The clinic’s floors were easy to see; without their glass the shattered windows gleamed a harsh amber against the rest of the tower’s black bulk—the only illumination above ten meters in the whole city.

Police officers and patrolbots stood guard along the barricades, keeping the curious citizens well back. She was pleased to see how vigilant they were being despite the news about the starships.

“Nobody down here, Boss,” she told Paula. “Do you want the police teams to start sweeping the lower floors?”

“Not yet. Hoshe is locking down every floor. We’re going to have to seal up the entire tower and scan everyone as they emerge.”

“Long night.”

“Looks that way.”

“Have you heard the starships are back? The attack was a failure.”

“That’s not good.”

“So was the Starflyer part of that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Admiral Kime.”

“You know the Admiral?”

“Yes.”

Renne knew she shouldn’t be surprised. But if the boss knew Kime, how come Columbia had fired her? Or had he? Was it a setup to make the traitor relax his guard? With the boss, anything was possible. She never let go of a suspect.

Renne turned to go back into the Greenford Tower where Hoshe had set up the operation’s command post. Somebody moving away from the crowd outside the barricades caught her eye. She frowned. A girl with a mane of blond hair stepped off the pavement and crossed over Allwyn Street. It wasn’t the hair that made Renne peer after her, it was the walk. The girl almost strutted, holding her head high, hardly bothering to check that traffic had stopped for her. That kind of arrogance belonged to a Dynasty brat, or a Grand Family trustafarian. The kind of integral arrogance Isabella Halgarth possessed in abundance.

Renne swung her legs over the barricade and pushed through the line of spectators. The girl was walking away down the other side of the street. She was the right height. Her clothes were expensively casual, a red sweater and short amethyst wrap skirt with slim metal clips, long black boots.

“I might need some backup here.”

“What have you got?” Hoshe asked.

“I’m not sure. I think I’ve just seen Isabella Halgarth.”

“Where?”

“Allwyn Street, near the Lanvia Avenue turn.”

“Hold please, I’m accessing the civic sensors.”

Renne kept an eye on traffic, and hurried out into the road. Horns tooted furiously at her as cars braked. A cyclist screamed obscenities as he wobbled past. “She’s getting into a taxi.” The girl vanished in a blue and green vehicle, and the door shut.

“Number?” Hoshe demanded.

“I can’t see, damnit. The logo is an orange trumpet, it’s on the doors.” She flagged down a taxi. “She’s heading west.” The maroon Ables Puma drew up beside her. “Just drive west,” she told the drive array.

“All right, I’m filtering traffic control arrays for a match,” Hoshe said. “Murray cabs have that trumpet logo.”

“Renne, you need backup,” Paula said. “Don’t go near her. She’s extremely dangerous.”

“I won’t.” She switched on her force field skeleton suit. “Just observing.”

“Okay, I’ve got a police team in their car,” Hoshe said. “Leaving the Green-field garage now.”

Renne was pressed up against the taxi’s front windshield, retinal inserts searching through the traffic ahead for the blue and green Ables. Her OCtattoos reported a sophisticated scan washing across her, immediately pinpointing the source. She turned quickly to see Isabella Halgarth standing on the pavement, looking straight at her. The girl’s right arm was raised, pointing at the taxi.

“Oh, shit.” Renne closed her eyes.

The maser struck the taxi’s power cells, which exploded with enough fury to lift the disintegrating car three meters off the ground. Renne’s force field was overwhelmed in the first second. But it did provide enough protection that when the paramedics started to pick up the sections of her body that had been flung over a wide radius they found her memorycell was intact. After re-life procedure, Renne would be able to remember her death.