5.

It moved fast despite looking heavier than a truck and despite being underwater. His room door opened and in a moment both his mother and Dax were there beside him.

"What is it?" Hannah asked. "What's wrong?"

No sign of it out there but for a cloud of disturbed silt, which could have been caused by anything. Even before he spoke he guessed how this was going to run.

"That war drone was out there," he said.

"War drone?" Dax asked.

Cormac turned to look at them, realising the remote was displaying the red fail light because he was clutching it too tightly and pressing down on too many controls at once.

"It was the one we saw in Montana, and the one I saw outside school," he said, carefully unclenching his fingers.

"Are you sure?" Of course she had to ask that.

"I'm sure," said Cormac.

"Outside your school," Hannah repeated, her voice flat.

She and Dax exchanged an unreadable look, then returned their attention to him.

"Ian," she said, "it was probably one of the maintenance bots."

Dax took up her line. "They're always working out there, scraping off the barnacles or keeping the windows clean or unblocking vents—this place requires a lot of maintenance."

Cormac recollected a word he'd recently looked up on his p-top, because he'd just caught the tail end of a conversation between his mother and Dax which he felt sure was about him. The word was patronising. He was being patronised; he was being treated with condescension. Determined to protest about this he gazed at his mother and brother, but then he noticed something. His mother was not looking at him but at Dax, who was pallid and appeared frightened, as with a shaking hand he opened a packet of self-igniting cigarettes, only just managed to get one to his lips and puff it into life. Cormac understood then that his own fright, which was fading fast, was of the least concern. There was something badly wrong with Dax.

"When's your slot?" Hannah asked Dax.

"Any time today, though there's no guarantee I'll get in quickly."

"We'll head over to the clinic now," she said, to which Dax replied with a mute nod. Hannah turned to Cormac. "Unpacking can wait—we're going out now."

Dax turned and left the room, trailing a cloud of smoke behind him, and their mother followed. Cormac turned to the room window, picked up the remote control and blanked it. So he had seen the war drone out there. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe, for reasons he just could not fathom, it was following him. What did that matter? War drones were only harmful if you were a Prador.

Cormac opened his bag and took out his p-top, quickly calling up a site he had found earlier that covered in lengthy detail the effects of PTSD, which throughout this war was aggravated by alien environment shock, sometimes given the antiquated term "shell shock" but which referred to some of the effects upon soldiers of certain esoteric weapons deployed across the front, and the other stresses resulting from the numerous protective inoculations and nano-technologies running in a soldier's bloodstream. He understood that Dax was suffering from something that came under the general term "battle stress." He hadn't read through much of the site, but he knew now that these aftereffects could kill, in many different ways.

His mother poked her head into his room. "Are you ready?"

Cormac closed his p-top and hooked it on his belt. He moved to follow her out, but had to pause for a moment while the Loyalty Luggage entered and settled on the floor.

"I'm ready." He followed her out into the corridor.

Dax was smoking again, and he chain-smoked all the way out of the hotel and along the streets of Tritonia until they arrived at the clinic. The building frontages here were little different from those of other streets, with bubble windows, stone façades and pressure doors. However, down the side of one entire street the bubble windows were blanked out so they looked like blind white eyes, the actual pressure doors had been removed and cams were mounted above each entrance, and there were electronic noticeboards scattered at intervals all the way along. Cormac realised at once that "the clinic" occupied the whole side of this street, which was also crowded with a high proportion of people wearing ECS uniforms, many of whom where either leaving or entering the clinic.

Before they themselves entered the third door, they had to wait for someone else to come out from inside. The man was a soldier clad in desert fatigues, but Cormac recognised the discrete military decorations of a Sparkind. There was something vague and dreamy about his expression, which seemed in contrast to the burn scarring on the side of his face and his ceramal artificial hand. He nodded to them pleasantly, then moved off into the crowded street.

"Why the hand and no cosmetic surgery?" their mother wondered.

Dax glanced at her. "Resources get stretched a bit thin out there, sometimes a hand like that is more useful than one of flesh."

"But his face?"

Dax shook his head as he stepped through the doorway. "Some retain their scars in memory of lost comrades." He bowed his head, leaning against what had been the interior of a pressure lock, suddenly panting for a moment. "Sometimes, out there, a scar like that means more than medals or military rank." He shook his head, trying to dispel something, then continued inside.

They walked into a huge and crowded waiting room; the people here occupying row upon row of comfortable chairs, all with personal entertainment or net access systems, or the private booths along the side walls. Along the far wall was inset a row of bland-looking numbered doors, doubtless leading to where the clinic's work was done. On either side of the aisle leading across this room stood pedestal-mounted palm readers. Dax pressed his hand down against one of these. After a moment it beeped, then issued him an electronic plaque from a slot below.

"Does it tell you how long you have to wait?" Hannah asked.

He peered at the plaque. "No, but I don't expect I'll have to wait as long as some here."

"Why not?"

He gazed at her with something like pity in his expression. "Because one soldier at the line is just one soldier, whereas one medic in the same place can put soldiers back together and keep them fighting."

"About saving lives," she said, the irony evident in her voice even to Cormac.

"Yeah, sure."

They found three seats at the end of a row, next to a woman who had a VR band across her eyes and a virtual glove on one of her hands. She was utterly motionless and there were tears running down from under the eye-band. Gazing around, Cormac saw that many were using the entertainment or information access systems. Very few people were talking. The far doors opened intermittently either to admit people or to let them out. It was noticeable how those coming out did so faster and with much more ebullience than those who went it. Those leaving quickly departed the clinic, without looking back.

"Here we go." Dax, who had just lit up another cigarette, showed them his plaque, which now displayed the number eight. They stood to head for the relevant door.

"You only just came in," came a flat voice from behind.

They looked round at a beefy boosted man in worn green fatigues and a wide-brimmed, camouflage-patterned hat. Dax pointed to the ECS Medical logo printed on the flap of his shirt pocket. The man rubbed at the side of his nose and nodded tiredly.

"Of course," he said.

As they continued towards the doors, Hannah noted, "You don't argue with someone who might be plugging holes in your body next week."

"Precisely," said Dax.

Waiting beyond Door Eight was a very attractive, but strangely doll-like woman dressed in a nurse's uniform. The room she occupied was a vestibule containing a few chairs and a vending machine for food and drink. It took Cormac a moment to realise she was a Golem—one of the early series with the less realistic syntheflesh.

"If you would like to come through," she said, gesturing to another door behind her. "Would you like your family to be present?"

Dax, who had already started for the next door, paused and glanced round at Cormac and their mother. "Yeah, why not?" He continued through.

Hannah reached down and took hold of Cormac's hand, towing him in after her. Gazing at the aseptic surroundings Cormac recognised a nanoscope, an independent autodoc, a nano-assembler, netlink and an old-style bench-mounted diagnosticer on the worktops mounted around the walls. In the centre of the room rested a surgical chair with the required hydraulics to turn it into a surgical table, beside which stood the ubiquitous pedestal autodoc.

"Please," the nurse gestured to the chair.

Dax looked around for somewhere to put out his latest cigarette. The nurse held out a hand and he passed it to her. She closed her hand on it, snuffing it out, then tossed it down in the corner of the room. Immediately a beetlebot cleaner came out of its little home set in the skirting board and gobbled up the cigarette butt, before scuttling out of sight again.

Dax turned and lowered himself into the chair, his movements slow and palsied like those of an old man in another age. Resting his head back against the support he sighed and closed his eyes.

"So how does it go now?" he asked.

The nurse moved the pedestal autodoc beside him and, after a pause, its top half, which looked like a chromed horseshoe crab, rose on a hinged arm.

"When the connections are made, you must remember what you want to forget," said a voice from a source somewhere above.

The autodoc delicately reached out with one jointed limb to a point underneath Dax at the nape of his neck, and as his body abruptly became still, it was only then that Cormac realised how much Dax had been fidgeting. The doc then lifted and swivelled round until it was squatting directly over his head. Now many of its limbs folded down, some of them bloodlessly penetrating his temples and scalp. Cormac felt his mother's hand tighten on his own, but he was too fascinated by the spectacle to concern himself about it.

"It will of course be impossible to completely remove all memories related to the relevant incidents. Rather, I will trim synaptic connections to reduce their importance to you so that when the events themselves are deleted their absence will not concern you so much."

The one speaking was obviously that of a high-status AI, Cormac realised. All the equipment in here likely telefactored from it, perhaps even the Golem nurse too, since she now stood with unnatural stillness behind the chair. Quite likely that same AI was conducting numerous similar editing sessions simultaneously. The autodoc seemed motionless too, since its main work was concealed inside Dax's skull as it inserted nanofibres to cauterize neural pathways and, along microtubules, injected neuro-chemicals to rebalance things inside his head. There was more involved than this, Cormac knew, for he had only read up on the basics of how a mind could be edited. Dax's expression was at first pained, tight and locked up, then his mouth fell open and he seemed to be struggling to keep his eyes from closing. Abruptly the nurse shifted into motion and walked around the chair towards them.

"The process will take approximately half an hour," she told them. "Perhaps you would prefer to wait in comfort outside."

"Is there a problem?" Hannah asked.

"Every case is different," the nurse replied. "With someone of Dax's training and experience more care must be taken not to lose much of value."

"So if he'd just been a normal soldier," Hannah said, "it would have been quicker. I'm not sure I find that comforting."

The nurse's expression lost its sugary smile, which was replaced with something more complex, more human. The AI must now be paying full attention through this telefactored Golem. "The simple reality is that experience of complex surgical techniques for dealing with injuries caused by some of the new weapons being deployed is more important than knowing how best to gut a Prador."

"I see," said Hannah, and with her hand still tightly gripping Cormac's, headed for the door. Soon they were ensconced in the vestibule waiting room, Hannah getting drinks for them from the vending machine.

"Will he be all right?" Cormac asked, as he took out his p-top and opened it.

She paused for a moment, just staring at the front of the machine as it produced coffee for her and chilled pineapple juice for him. When the drinks were ready she took them up and turned.

"Yes," she replied, "he'll be all right." She stared at him for a long moment before placing the drinks on the low table then taking the seat beside him. "But I wonder about the morality of editing out bad memories of war."

"But we were attacked," said Cormac, "so surely survival questions come before moral questions?"

She stared at him with a raised eyebrow and a slightly unsure expression—the one she always wore when he said something too "adult."

"Exactly," she said.

He was not quite sure what she meant by that, nor entirely sure he'd understood what he himself had just said. He shrugged and quoted something else he'd recently read too: "War is Hell," and returned his attention to his p-top.

But Hannah would not let this go. "Is it worth winning a war if you become worse than the thing you are fighting?"

Cormac thought long and hard about that one, then replied, "But you can become good again, which is not an option if you're dead."

"You're too young to follow this," she said dismissively.

Cormac picked up his juice to take a drink, rather than disagree with her.

Half an hour later the door opened and Dax strode out, straighter and somehow more substantial now. He was smiling, and though he looked tired he did not look so strained.

"That's it," he said. "The cancer is cut out."

Cormac piped up, "Hasn't the cancer got a right to live too?"

His mother gave him a poisonous look.

* * *

City patrol—it was just the kind of job the AIs would give to those whose loyalty was questionable. They were here to help the local police, whose force was nowhere near up to strength and so were struggling to control the persistent organised crime in the city which, according to Agent Spencer, kept money flowing into Separatist coffers. However, their help only consisted of showing a presence on the streets, and providing trained military back-up on the few occasions required, and nothing else.

"You'd think we'd be in the clear by now," said Yallow, not in the least impressed with this duty. "If I didn't know he was up for a mind ream I'd do it to him myself with a rusty knife." She was even less impressed with Carl.

"It's statistics," said Cormac. "The AI probably knows we weren't involved in whatever he was up to, but a small element of doubt is enough for it to assign us duties away from the ship." He added, "I don't see that guard duty there, even if available, would be any better."

"Yeah, I guess."

"In fact we've more chance of some action here."

Yallow grunted noncommittally. They had been patrolling for six hours and were now heading to the rendezvous with their replacements. The only excitement in that time was seeing a drunk vomiting down a drain before passing out.

Because of their neophyte status their chances were remote of getting any "action" that wasn't strictly controlled. The incident with the Prador inside the ship had been an aberration, apparently not to be repeated until they had gained sufficient experience. This bugged Yallow even more because of the threat of insurgency two hundred miles north, of firefights in the skarch forest up that way, of reconnaissance, of search-and-destroy missions and rumours that illegal arms traders were operating in the area. She wanted to be there, since that was the environment she had trained for, and she wasn't even getting a sniff of it. Here they were patrolling along nearly empty streets, powerless to search any suspicious characters, ordered not to go near known Separatist bars or other gathering places, only to respond when asked for help either by a member of the public or by the local police.

Cormac desperately wanted to tell her about his secret mission, it burned inside him, but he knew that if he opened his mouth his discharge papers would quickly follow, probably shortly after Agent Spencer had tap danced on his face. Maybe he could get Yallow included in any future action if, in fact, he was going to be involved in anything more. The chances seemed slim—Spencer had remained out of contact for some time and Olkennon had answered his queries with "Just do the job you trained for, and don't even hope to know what happens with those CTDs."

At the end of the street awaited two grunts little different from themselves. Nothing to report, of course, and as they departed, Yallow's "Be careful in there," was greeted with snorts of derision. In a relaxed mood they began the twenty-minute trek back to the military township. The gravcar dropping out of the sky like a brick ahead of them came as something of a surprise.

Recognising the vehicle Cormac said, "Agent Spencer."

Olkennon poked her head out of the passenger window. "Get in. Now."

Yallow glanced queryingly across at Cormac. He shrugged. What did he know, he was just as much a grunt as she was. Unshouldering their weapons they climbed into the back of the vehicle. Spencer, who was driving, immediately launched the vehicle into the sky while Olkennon peered back at them.

"We're going off-planet very shortly," she said. "It's now become too much of a risk for you to remain here."

Cormac guessed she wasn't referring to Yallow.

"What's happened?" he asked.

Olkennon gazed at Yallow for a moment, then shrugged and returned her attention to Cormac. "Carl escaped."

"Fuck," said Yallow, "and that's enough reason to move us out?"

The car now abruptly descended and, while she brought it in to land in the middle of the township, Agent Spencer glanced back and spoke to Yallow. "You'll be apprised of the reasons for your departure after you're aboard the transport."

"Go and pack up your own and Cormac's kit and head over to the depot—a car will be waiting for you," Olkennon ordered. "You have permission to remain armed until you're aboard the transport out of here."

Yallow gazed at her unit commander, then switched her attention to Cormac. Her look said it all: he would have to update her soon or she would be seriously annoyed. Cormac remembered the bruises from last time she'd been annoyed with him, though he had given as good as he got. She climbed out of the vehicle and headed off to their quarters amidst the composite domes.

"He escaped?" he asked. "How the hell could he escape?"

Spencer took the car up again, then in a moment brought it down beside the hospital. Olkennon climbed out, but Spencer remained at the controls.

"Out," she said to Cormac.

He just cleared the car as it launched into the sky again.

"Come on," said Olkennon.

Finally reaching Carl's room, Olkennon punched in the code as before and led the way through the door. The bed was empty—shellwear discarded on tangled sheets. Cormac did not understand why he had been brought here. Olkennon walked around to the other side of the bed, gesturing Cormac over. As soon as he stepped round beside her she pointed down at an object on the floor.

"Medscan didn't pick this up," she said. "It's very sophisticated for a twenty-three-year-old recruit and certainly confirms Carl was more than that."

Cormac prodded at the flap of rubbery material with the toe of his boot. It looked like a thick piece of skin.

"The body has been removed," Olkennon added.

"Body?"

"What you are seeing there is what covers my kind, though the newer of my kind. It's Golem syntheflesh, but unlike mine this has imbedded chameleonware." She stooped and picked up the piece of synthetic flesh and dropped it on the bed. "A medic came in here to check on him, to make sure the shellwear was still keeping him unconscious. Apparently it was not. We don't know for sure what he had concealed underneath this." She gestured at the flesh. "But something transmitted a localized virus that froze all systems connected to his room."

"You were using a nerve-blocker to keep him unconscious," suggested Cormac.

"Yes—it knocked that out too."

"He killed the medic."

"Broke her neck then took her clothing," said Olkennon bitterly. "Then he just disappeared."

"Why did you bring me here?" Cormac asked.

"Because you have earned the right to know." Olkennon seemed chagrined for a moment. "It also seems likely, judging by your recent performance, that you'll be offered the chance to train as an agent, and seeing this sort of thing forms part of your education."

Cormac nodded, shrugged his pulse-rifle's strap more firmly on his shoulder. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Really, he didn't think he was ready for that kind of advancement.

"Head back and link up with Yallow," Olkennon instructed. "Whether you tell her about all this is entirely up to you."

Cormac turned and headed out, his head buzzing. Carl would probably rejoin the Separatists here and once that happened they would know Cormac was not his partner. From then on he would become a target and a danger to those around him. This was why they were being moved out, and he didn't suppose Yallow would be too pleased about it.

Within five minutes he reached their quarters, in time to see Yallow dragging out two heavy packs. He walked over, put down his rifle while hauling on his pack, then once again hung the rifle from his shoulder.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked, as she hoisted up her own pack.

Cormac paused for a moment. How to explain all this?

"Olkennon showed me how Carl escaped," he said. "He killed a medic. I think she showed me this to drive home that Carl certainly isn't my friend. I think the AI was watching—checking my reactions. They still don't trust me because I was in that trench with Carl."

The lies spilt so easily from his mouth, and they were simpler than the truth. Perhaps he was cut out for agent training.

"But the AI didn't need to observe me?"

"I don't know, Yallow, I'm not an AI," he said. "Let's go."

As they marched off towards the main transport depot in the camp, Yallow was silent and contemplative, and kept glancing at him as if hoping to catch something in his expression. He maintained a slightly bewildered and angry mien, and after a little while she seemed to accept what he had told her.

"I still don't understand why we have to go," she said.

"Trust, I think," Cormac replied. "I guess they just can't afford to trust us on a world with this much Separatist activity." He glanced at her. "Or rather they can't afford to trust me—you just get to come along for the ride. I'm sorry."

Yallow grimaced.

The hydrovan that slowly cruised past them was not a particularly uncommon sight, it being one of the bland green and beige vehicles used for carting about ECS equipment. It slowed ahead of them, pulled over and stopped, whereupon the back door popped open a crack.

The vehicle emitted a stuttering crackle, which for a second Cormac thought was produced by its exhaust, but Yallow just disappeared from his peripheral vision. He turned, seeing her sprawl loose-limbed. Her uniform looked untidy—torn and frayed—then she made an odd grunting sound and the blood began to soak through. In seeming slow motion Cormac hit the quick release on his pack then threw himself to one side, unlimbering his pulse-rifle. He shouldered the ground, rolled with the weapon clutched against his chest, came upright with it up against his shoulder and fired into the back of the van. The pulses of ionized aluminium cut a punctuated line across the back doors. Something thumped at the ground by his feet, and flew apart with a loud crack, the blast sending him staggering, then around him things detonated in the air punching what felt like needles through his exposed skin. With one hand going down on the ground he shook himself, tried to push himself into action, but couldn't get his breath and seemed to be gazing down a pipe at his hand.

Neurotoxin stun grenade, he realised, as the ground came up into his face and his consciousness fled.

"They would have been removed," said Samara. "After our first attempt they would have been removed."

Cormac blinked. She seemed to be drifting about before him and though sure she had said something a moment before, he could not remember it. He felt terrible: where his body wasn't numb it was afflicted with horrible bone-deep ache. He tried to move, but the only result of that was a sudden hot sweat.

"Wha?" he managed.

Something pressed against his neck, and hurt. From that point a wave of chill spread both up into his head and swiftly down his right arm to his fingertips, which felt as if each nail had been rapped with a hammer. In his chest the sensation was not unpleasant, until it encountered his stomach and seemed to close a hand around it. Abrupt nausea ensued and he vomited, just managing to turn his head so it didn't go into his lap, and seeing a couple of boots retreating he blearily peered up at Pramer, who was capping a syringe. Now, becoming a bit more aware of his surroundings, he realised he was tied naked to a chair in some cramped building with charred walls.

"Where were the tracers?" Samara asked.

"In the casings," someone replied—the voice somehow familiar, "We left the casings in the hole and took the antimatter flasks only."

"Are they okay?"

"Couldn't find anything, but we photo-etched the outside of them anyway."

"What about him?"

Cormac abruptly realised that Samara was standing right in front of him and that the one she had been talking to was somewhere behind. To his left Samara's other heavy stood cradling his flack gun. A wound dressing covered his hand and his face bore that shiny look often left by inferior doc-work. It was he who answered, not the other voice.

"His uniform was full of them, and there were microscopic ones imbedded in his skin," said the heavy. What was his name? Skyril, that was it. "While we were in the sewer we removed them, along with his uniform, then gave him the full-saturation EM to kill any others we might have missed. The search parties were above ground and couldn't get to an entrance into the sewers quick enough. In fact, when they did try to move fast they ran straight into a couple of sticky mines. Seemed to make 'em less enthusiastic."

Full-saturation EM to kill any bugs planted on him, Cormac realised. Then his mind drifted for a moment, before a hand connected hard with his face, snapping his head round.

"Are you listening, soldier?" Samara enquired.

He focused on her, almost grateful for the slap because it seemed to have shaken something into place in his mind.

"I'm listening," he replied, and further studied his surroundings.

The charred walls and the roof of plasmel sheets told him very little about his location, however, the big ceramic manhole cover behind where Samara was now standing indicated major drains below, so he was probably in the city. Hadn't someone said something about sewers? Behind the manhole cover was a heavy wooden door with a screen mounted upon it showing the feed from a pin-cam obviously positioned outside. All he could see there though was a brick wall with what looked like blackened roof beams resting up against it. To the right of the door a narrow worktop extended along the wall, two swivel chairs before it and further screens upon it. He recognised some city scenes, which seemed to confirm his location.

"So you know," she said, "that no one is going to be coming to rescue you, and that no one is going to be tracing those flasks. It didn't work, soldier. ECS fucked up and now we've got the tools to really hurt them."

Cormac tried to think fast, it wasn't easy. "So they played me," he said.

Samara just stared at him.

"But you've got what you wanted, which means you still owe me," he tried.

She continued staring at him, a nasty smile starting to twist her features. Someone else's hand rested on his shoulder and a mouth came down close to his ear.

"Cormac," said a now utterly recognisable voice. "I think she knows you're not my partner."

Carl.

Then the memory of Yallow sprawled bleeding on the ground hit Cormac in the guts.

Carl continued. "But knowing that, I really, really want to know whether ECS chose you because you were conveniently positioned, or whether you, like me, are not quite what you seem." Carl reached up and grabbed Cormac's chin, dragging his head round so they were face-to-face. "You see, if it's convenient positioning, I'll know ECS had no suspicions about me until the fuck-up at the ship and I will consequently know that our method of penetrating ECS military remains sound. However, if you're an agent, that means they've been on to me for some time... and we really need to know about that."

The hand released and Carl retreated. His neck vertebrae clicking, Cormac turned his head to peer behind. Work-benches back there. Carl, dressed in an army maintenance technician's overalls, began loading instantly recognisable antimatter flasks into a large brushed-aluminium case. Cormac brought his focus back to Samara.

"How did you get them?" he asked. It seemed important to keep talking, to keep delaying.

"Sewers," she said, proud of herself now. "We got you to bury them just twenty yards from one. It took a bit of digging to get to them, but was worth it."

She looked past him to Carl. "Are you done now?"

"Ready to roll," Carl replied.

To Pramer and Skyril she said, "Cut him loose and give him some clothes. If he tries anything, break his arms, but don't kill him. We want to have a talk with him back at base." She glanced at Carl. "A long, long talk."

Back at base...

When they cut the ropes tying him to the chair he could not have attacked anyway, since he had enough of a problem just standing up. Skyril stood back while Pramer brought over a bundle of clothing and dumped it on the chair. Cormac struggled into a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with a holographic logo over the right breast. The only other item was a worn hat with a wide floppy brim, which he left. Though his feet were hard from combat training he would have liked boots—it was easier to run if your feet were well protected. Pramer picked up the hat and jammed it on Cormac's head.

"Move." Skyril prodded him in the back with the flack gun, then stepped out of reach. As Samara opened the door, Carl came up behind her, clutching that brushed-aluminium case.

"If you look up," said Skyril. "I'll cut out your right eye."

Cormac now understood the reason for the hat. They were worried about satellite surveillance and recognition systems that would certainly be on the lookout for him. If he looked up, there was a small chance he would be spotted and a Sparkind unit would be sent to rescue him, but was that chance worth an eye?

"He won't be looking up," said Carl. "Cloudy day today."

Skyril caught Cormac's shoulder and shoved him towards the door, while Pramer watched, his expression neutral. He and Cormac had been in combat together, so maybe that made a difference. Keeping his head down, Cormac stepped out after Samara and Carl. A glimpse from under the hat brim confirmed the cloudy sky, so there was little chance of him being spotted from up there. They turned left to where a large, old hydrocar limousine was parked across the end of the alley. Beyond that he recognised the top part of a statue surrounded by scaffolds and realised he wasn't far from where he had first met Samara. Glancing to the right he saw that the alley stretched for thirty feet, beyond which lay weed-choked ruination. He could run, but doubted he would get ten feet before someone brought him down.

Carl placed the case in the limousine's boot then walked round to climb inside. Only as he drew closer did Cormac realise that the driver was Sheen. Pramer climbed in beside her, while Samara climbed into the back next to Carl, where sets of seats faced each other. Skyril waved Cormac in next and followed him in.

"Move up against the door," he instructed, flack gun pointing down at Cormac's legs.

The man wasn't going to make the mistake of sitting close again.

With the whining note of a turbine imbalance the limousine pulled away. Cormac decided to relax as best he could since he was in no condition to attempt escape at that moment. He'd taken the full brunt of a neurotoxin stun grenade and now felt extreme sympathy for the ECS agent he'd hit earlier with a pepperpot stun gun, which fired the same toxin. Without intervention, it apparently took the toxin sixteen hours to clear from the bloodstream. Medium functionality, as the combat lecturer had informed the class Cormac once attended, returned within two hours. If no other option was available, take vitamin supplements and drink plenty of water.

"Do you have something to drink in here?" he asked.

Carl grinned at him. "Like some vitamin supplements too?"

Cormac turned to gaze through the window. After a moment he asked, "Was it you who killed Yallow?"

"Certainly," said Carl. "That woman has been the bane of my life since I entered basic training three years ago."

The frustrated rage growing in Cormac seemed too much to bear, and he knew it was that, and not the aftereffects of stun that now made him feel sick. He wanted to throw himself at Carl but, suspecting this was what the man would have liked, he controlled his rage and tried to turn it to ice.

"Understandable." He nodded. "She pissed on you in hand-to-hand combat and, despite all your claims, was the better marksman."

Carl's grin remained in place, but it lost its sincerity and after a moment he folded his arms and turned to gaze out the window. Reaching under her seat Samara pulled out a squeeze bottle of mulljuice and tossed it across to Cormac. Carl glanced back and frowned at this, his gaze focusing on Samara, then after a moment shrugged and returned his attention to the passing scenery. Clamping down on nausea Cormac drained the entire bottle then placed it down on the seat beside him, where Skyril retrieved it and jammed it behind him. But it wouldn't have been any use as a weapon, it being flimsy plastic.

"Thank you," said Cormac to Samara.

"You're going to need all your strength," she said unpleasantly.

Cormac folded his arms, made himself as comfortable as he could, and stared at Carl, just trying to figure him out.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I was killing ECS soldier boys before you appeared in your daddy's testicles." Carl glanced round. "That's if you are what you appear to be."

It sounded so utterly wrong coming from the recruit Cormac had known for over two years, so wrong from someone he thought his own age. He tried to think of something else to ask, but it was almost as if the juice he had just drunk was alcoholic, for abruptly he just could not see straight. Perhaps he had been drugged, but it was just as likely the aftereffects of the toxin. He closed his eyes and drifted...

"Out!"

He fell backwards, just managing to catch hold of the door frame to stop himself from tumbling out of the car, swung his feet round and staggered out. It was dark, but not so dark he could not see Skyril's grin. Though he might hesitate to kill Pramer, Cormac felt he would not hesitate for a second if the target was Pramer's partner. Utterly weary, Cormac stood, shoulders hunched, and seemingly without the strength to even lift his arms. They were in the midst of a skarch forest, with only the odd glimpse up through the foliage of cloudy sky backlit by the glow of the orbital debris ring.

"Get in."

Skyril was holding open the hatch to the luggage compartment of a corroded ATV with worn bubble-plas tyres. Cormac walked over slowly, gazed into the oily space and hesitated.

"Wasn't the instruction clear enough for you?"

Something prodded him in the back and he glanced back to see Samara brandishing a pulse-rifle, probably his own. A few paces back from her Carl stood holding a thin-gun—probably the one Cormac had stolen earlier—his expression glacial. Beyond him Pramer was driving the limousine away, Sheen sitting beside him. Cormac was glad to see the both of them go, for, should the opportunity arise, Sheen was another he might hesitate to kill. He climbed into the luggage compartment whereupon Skyril slammed the hatch shut on him. He closed his eyes and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible in the cramped space. In a surprisingly short interval he drifted into sleep, but was then snapped out of it by the first bump—a sequence of events that was to repeat for a nightmarish time.