Greg blinked at that door, haunted by its familiarity. It was rectangular with curved corners, fastened by bulky latches. The last time he'd seen that particular arrangement was on board the Mirriam. "Oh, shit." And under way too, by the sound of it.

Thinking logically, they'd have to be heading down the Nene. Or up? No, the river wasn't deep enough to take the Mirriam west of Peterborough. The Wash and the open sea, then.

Next question: Why?

Not just to dump them overboard. There were far simpler ways to dispose of bodies. Besides Kendric had gone to a great deal of trouble snatching them alive.

Nothing pleasant, hundred per cent cert.

"Greg?" Gabriel's voice was tiny, fearful. "Greg, it's gone."

"What has?" His own voice wasn't much better. "No, wait, think before you speak. Remember they'll probably be listening."

"Bugger that. My precognition won't work. I don't know what's going to happen to us."

"You really gave your gland a workout snatching Katerina, remember? We all have to throttle back occasionally, nature never intended our brains to take the psi strain."

"Shut up and listen, arsehole. There is absolutely nothing. I can't see a second into the future. I don't even know what you're going to say!" He could hear the fright bubbling through her voice. She was holding back a long, terrified scream.

Hear it, but not sense it.

The corrosive throb of overdriven synapses had faded, he must've been out for several hours. He'd recuperated enough to use the gland again. It began to discharge a murky cloud of neurohormones. But that secret gate into the psi universe remained firmly shut. He couldn't even perceive the glow of Gabriel's mind, not fifty centimetres from his own. Impossible. His skin crawled, goose bumps rising at the black sense of deprivation. Mortal again. After fifteen years it was hard.

"Me too," Greg said. "Not a peep."

The breath came out of her in a woosh. She let her head rest on the decking, staring into a private purgatory. "What have they done to us, Greg?"

"They haven't done anything to us. You were using precognition right up until the Duo crashed. We didn't eat anything dodgy we certainly weren't infused with anything."

"What then?"

"Must be something which affects psi directly."

"What?" she shouted.

"I don't fucking know. Ask Kendric, he's the one into pilfering new discoveries before they even make it out of the laboratory."

Gabriel closed rheumy eyes in anguish. "Funny, I always thought I didn't want to see the end coming. Now I'm sure it is coming I'd like to see it. Not knowing is too much like cold turkey."

"Silly girl. You just want to see which of our escape plans works the best."

"Escape plans," she snorted in a resigned amusement which nudged disapprobation. "Sure, Greg. Sure." After a while she asked, "What do you think they want us for?"

"Information. They want to know what we've discovered of their operation, how much of that we've told Walshaw. Once they know that they'll see what they can salvage. Hopefully that isn't going to be much, we've done a pretty good job up to now."

"Great. That makes me feel one hell of a lot better." She lapsed into sullen silence.

Greg guessed they'd been lying in the blank metal cell for a couple of hours before the hatch swung open.

It was Mark who drew the latches, accompanied by two more of Kendric's bodyguards. A biolum came on above them. After hours of dusk, the glare sent Greg's tear ducts into frantic action.

"Still on your backs?" Mark gloated. "I thought I'd be pulling you off each other by now. Or aren't you up to that? Maybe fancy something different, animals and the like? I heard you gland freaks are kind've warped."

Gabriel glared at him silently, realising just how nasty things could turn if she started antagonising him.

Mark bent down and released Greg's legs with a complex-looking mechanical key.

Greg was jerked roughly to his feet. Every ache and pain suddenly doubled in intensity. His legs nearly collapsed as a wave of nausea hit him. He saw the front of his dress shirt was stained by a long ribbon of dried blood; his nose had been bleeding again while he'd been unconscious.

One of the bodyguards supported him as he stumbled out into the corridor. It didn't possess anything like the ostentation of the upper decks. Pipes ran along the walls, red letters were stencilled across small hatches. The engine noise was more pronounced.

Another three bodyguards were waiting for him outside. Including Toby, who glowered with unconcealed menace.

"Christ," Greg croaked. "I must scare you lot shitless."

"Gonna have you, white boy," Toby whispered dangerously. "Gonna take you a-fucking-part."

"Not yet, Toby," Mark said, pushing a shaky Gabriel ahead of him. "When the Man has finished with him."

Greg was marched up and out on to the afterdeck. The sun was nearly full overhead. Well over six hours since they'd been snatched from the Duo. Would Walshaw have noticed? He'd told the security chief he would help to analyse the data in the Crays, but he hadn't given a specific time. Of course, Eleanor would be frantic, but would she ring Walshaw? And even if she did there was nothing to make him look here.

At least he'd been right about 'here'. The Mirriam was sailing sedately down the Nene.

The course the Nene took for the first thirty kilometres east of Peterborough was a new one. The PSP's delay in authorising construction of the city's port meant that the old river course had been lost at the start of the Warming, disappearing beneath the water and silt which laid siege to the city boundaries. A couple of years later, when the wharves' foundations were being laid, the dredgers cut a straight line from the port right out to the old estuary at Tydd Gote.

Mirriam was following a huge container freighter out towards the Wash. There was another freighter trailing a couple of kilometres behind. They were the only things moving in a very confined universe. All Greg could see was river, sky, and high gene-tailored coral levees, covered in tall stringy reeds.

The tide was full, just beginning to turn, showing a thin line of chocolate mud below the bottom of the reeds.

Mirriam seemed to be losing ground on the freighter in front. Greg glanced over the taffrail to see four crewmen inflating two odd-looking craft on the edge of the diving platform. They were blunt-nosed dinghies with a couple of simple benches strung between the triplex tubing that formed the sides. A loose surplus of leathery fabric ran round the outside. It was only after a big fan, caged in a protective mesh, hinged up to the vertical at the rear of one of the dinghies that Greg realised they were actually hovercraft.

Gabriel nudged him and he turned to see Kendric approaching. Mirriam's owner was wearing olive-green track-suit trousers and a light waterproof jacket. Hermione was at his side, as always; dressed in natty designer equivalents of her husband's attire. But it was the woman keeping a short distance behind who held Greg's attention.

She was in her late twenties with a second chin just beginning to develop; her dumpy face was framed by straight jet-black hair, cut in a fringe along her eyebrows, falling to her shoulders at the sides. Her skin was dark and leathery, heavily wrinkled from excessive sun exposure.

He was convinced that she was the woman he'd seen at the ambush. He could still see her slightly bulky frame in that trio walking calmly down the road.

Kendric's gaze swept across Greg and Gabriel, utterly unperturbed. A cattleman checking his stock.

"Put them in with Rod and Laurrie," Kendric said to Mark, "You and Toby come with us."

"Yes, sir," Mark replied.