Eleanor was racing past him less than a second later. He shoved the door shut with a burst of frantic strength. There was a quiet whine as the lock engaged. He aimed the stunshot at it, and fired. The plastic covering melted with a flash of orange flame, droplets spraying out. The 'ware circuits inside flared briefly, sparks fountained, dying embers skittering over the cold tiles.

Someone outside smacked into the door. He saw it quiver in the frame. There was the sound of a fist hammering on the panels.

"Mandel." It was Les Hepburn's voice, but toneless, that same clipped precision Bursken used. "Come out, Mandel. You shall not escape the Lord's justice."

"Fuck off!" He grabbed Eleanor's hand. "Come on, they'll be inside in a minute." There was no light in the hall. He felt round for the photon amp band hooked on his shoulder tab, and slapped it into place. The time display and guido coordinates gleamed brightly. Walls, floor, and furniture shimmered out of nowhere, solidifying into their familiar places. He bled in the infrared. The photon amp's grey and blue world tinted into red, becoming fractionally brighter, losing some definition.

"I'll call the police," Eleanor said.

"No way," he said, leading her down to the study. "People like Keith Willet aren't going to be able to cope with a bunch of Liam Burskens, even if they believed us. In any case it would take them too long to get here."

"Greg! We need help." She was battling panic.

"I know!" He switched on the communication 'ware, and pulled his skull helmet into place. "Emergency."

"What is it, boy?" Philip Evans asked.

"We've been ambushed at the farm. MacLennan is here with five people he's loaded with Bursken's paradigm. And this time it's me they're after."

"Shit, boy; you all right?"

"For now. We need help and fast."

"I'm launching the security crash team now. They'll be there in ten minutes."

Greg opened the study door. The room was supposed to be his den, but he still hadn't got it sorted out. There was a big desk over by the window, a settee, long planks were leaning against a wall, destined to be shelves when he got round to screwing them together. The floor was cluttered with kelpboard boxes full of his accumulated junk. He could just make out the Berrybut estate through the window, pinprick glints of light from the chalets; the rain must have extinguished the bonfire hours ago, the photon amp's infrared function couldn't even pick up the dying cinders.

"Philip's launching the Event Horizon crash team," he told Eleanor.

"Right. Why are we in here?"

A dark human silhouette moved across the window, eclipsing the chalets. The head glowed brightly in grades of red, hot blood highlighting the cheeks and nose; eyes were cooler, darker. It contained the familiar thought currents of Liam Bursken.

"Shush." He gripped her hand tighter. Even with the infrared's ambiguous slant, he could recognize the features of the face pressed to the glass. Brendan Talbot, an engineer who lived in Hambleton.

Christ, how many people had MacLennan loaded the paradigm into?

Greg's free hand closed around the stock of the Heckler and Koch rifle lying on the desk. A real weapon.

Ronnie Kay appeared next to Brendan Talbot, and hurled a brick straight through the study window. Eleanor yelled in fright. A torch shone into the room with the force of a solar flare.

The photon amp filters responded immediately, reducing the glare until it was a manageable corona. Greg could see Talbot, his hand reaching through the jagged hole in the glass, scrabbling round for the catch.

"Face your judgement, Mandel," Kay shouted. "Embrace us. We will deliver you from sin."

Greg levelled the rifle at Talbot. And couldn't pull the trigger. It wasn't Talbot, only his body. Brendan had a wife, a six-year-old daughter.

"Shit!" he roared. In his army days it wouldn't have made any difference. None. See a hostile and snuff them. Nothing else had ever been allowed to interfere with that maxim. It was simple survival. Life was so fucking easy in those days. Uncomplicated.

Brendan Talbot's fingers closed around the catch.

Greg yanked the stunshot round, strap cutting into his shoulder. Aim and fire. The pulse hit the glass, and splattered, minute static tendrils writhing across the oblong pane. "Shit shit shit." Aim and fire. This time the pulse struck Talbot's hand. There was a muffled grunt, and he was flailing backwards. His wrist caught the spikes of glass around the edge of the hole, skin tearing. There was a confused splash of heat.

The torch beam wavered about as Kay tried to catch him.

"Let's go," Greg said.

Runnels of Talbot's blood were seeping down the window below the hole, glowing like radioactive sludge.

"What's happening now, boy?" Philip asked anxiously.

"Trouble. Where's the crash team?"

"They're getting into the tilt-fan now."

"Jesus!"

Eleanor gave him a frightened glance as they charged back into the hall.

"The crash team is just taking off," he told her. "Philip, have they got stunshots with them?"

"Sure thing, boy."

"Tell them to use the stunshots wherever possible, remember these people aren't responsible for what they're doing."

"I'll tell 'em."

"Upstairs," he said to Eleanor. They started to pound up the staircase.

There was an almighty crash of breaking glass from the lounge when they were halfway up.

Knocking the whole window out by the sound of it, Greg thought. He handed Eleanor the stunshot when they reached the landing. At least if she did have to shoot she would never have the guilt of killing a complete innocent. He could always use the rifle to immobilize, If he had time, if the mêlée didn't become too confusing, if he could hang on to his scruples. They ran down the landing to the master bedroom.

"Philip, plug Royan in," Greg said.

"Right-oh, boy."

The landing's biolums came on just as they reached the bedroom door, three sets of wall globes shaped like lilies. Greg shot them out with the rifle. They disintegrated with loud popping sounds, showering the landing with radiant flakes that died as they bounced along the carpet.

From a tactical standpoint there was little improvement; biolum light shone up from the hall, casting long delusive shadows over the landing walls. He could hear people moving about below.

They went through into the bedroom. "Keep watching the stairs," Greg said. "Anyone comes up, shoot 'em."

"Right." Eleanor knelt down beside the door, peering through the crack.

The photon amp's time numerals and guido co-ordinates blurred then merged into a single wavery band of yellow light. There was a moment's pause, then the display printed: I'M HERE, GREG.

"Great. Listen, I've got about half a dozen people who think they're Liam Bursken coming at me. Now there has got to be some way to flush that paradigm out of them. We know it erases itself after a set time. Access the recording you made and look for the magic photons sequence, see if there's any way we can activate it prematurely."

GOT YOU. ACCESSING NOW.

"They're here, Greg," Eleanor called softly. She fired the stunshot, ten or twelve pulses zinged along the landing, scorching long burn marks into the wallpaper, blistering the paint on the banister rail.

He was aware of the minds on the stairs. One of them ruptured in a flurry of pain, the thought currents fragmenting into comate insensibility. "You got one."

GREG, HAVE YOU GOT A LASER WITH YOU?

"Yeah, a Heckler and Koch hunting rifle."

TOO POWERFUL. HAS IT GOT A TARGETING IMAGER?

"Yeah."

GOOD GOOD GOOD. PLUG THE IMAGER INTO YOUR SUIT 'WARE.

"Right."

"The crash team has left," Philip said. "Be with you in eight minutes."

It was going to be too long, that much was obvious. Greg tugged the rifle's targeting imager monocle out of its recess, and detached it from the fibre optic cable. The interface was standard—thank Christ. He plugged the cable into a socket on the guido 'ware module. Blue target circles hardened in front of him, angling down towards the carpet, the same line as the rifle barrel was pointing.