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."