8

The concourse, one of four leading in towards the lounges and runcibles of the Paris Runcible Port, had been stripped of its gardens and kiosks and a divider fence erected to separate the bidirectional flow of human traffic. Over the other side of the fence Cormac observed those newly arrived from offworld, and was reminded of scenes he had seen in historical films or interactives, for there was no doubt he was seeing soldiers and support staff returning from the front line. Most of the returnees were in uniform, some of them had arms missing and arm-caps in place; some were in hover chairs, their leg stumps also end-capped. Others had areas of their bodies clad in shellwear, a kind of exo-skeletal prosthetic that enabled wounded soldiers to keep functioning, while the damage underneath was healed by advanced medical technology. Often there were Golem, rendered either partly or wholly into macabre metal skeletons because some damage had removed their humanlike outer covering. And scattered throughout this crowd were numerous full-life-support containers drifting along on AG, some of which were burnished cylinders large enough to hold a whole body, while others were the size of hat boxes.

"You think they'd use two concourses for departures and the other two for arrivals," said Hannah.

Gazing across at the returnees, Dax shook his head. "The idea was suggested, but the AIs scotched it. The reason given was that though we face a vicious enemy in a costly war there will be no secrets and no massaging of casualty figures." Dax paused contemplatively. "Personally I think this is maintained so those departing to war will be reminded of what it's like out there, and be more cautious—the enthusiasm of many new recruits, or those returning after medical treatment or rest, tends to kill."

They continued to make their way slowly towards Dax's departure runcible, troops of soldiers all about them, others like Dax clad in the blue dress uniforms of ECS Medical, Golem, war drones and occasional units of Sparkind. Cormac, who until now had never thought more deeply about the war than wondering how many more Prador Jebel U-cap Krong had splattered, suddenly had a moment of realisation. What was happening here was happening at main runcible complexes all around Earth, up on the moon and out where similar complexes had been established on the worlds of the Solar System. It was happening beyond on populated worlds throughout the Polity. Trillions of people were on the move, marching to the beat of the same drum. And it had been happening for over thirty years.

Soon the concourse debouched into a wide runcible lounge in which the seating areas were wholly occupied and groups of people had made little camps on the wide carpeted floors as they awaited their runcible slot. They joined a queue to an information terminal mounted in one of the ersatz cast-iron pillars supporting the decorous cathedral-like roof of this lounge. They waited there only a moment before Dax turned to Cormac.

"Your p-top," he said.

Cormac handed the device over as the three of them stepped out of the queue. Dax flipped it open, tapped away for a short time, then abruptly snapped it closed and handed it back.

"My slot is right now—Runcible Six," he said. "They're set for group departures and mine's got only eight minutes to run."

"So quickly?" said Hannah.

Dax grabbed her and hugged her. "I'll be in contact as soon as possible." He released her and stooped down to Cormac. "I could say look after our mother, but I won't be so patronising. Look after yourself… Cormac."

"I will…"

"Where are you going?" Hannah asked, as Dax began heading away.

"A place called Cheyne III—never heard of it."

And that was it: he was gone.

Cormac abruptly found his mother seizing hold of his hand and holding it tightly. "Let's go," she said, her expression grim.

Following arrows painted upon the floor, they joined the crowd of arrivals and trudged out with them. Now amidst that crowd rather than gazing at it from a distance, Cormac gained a better view of the grotesqueries it contained. Certainly there were those with missing limbs, but many other injuries were on display too. He observed a woman, her skin reddened and cracked like river mud in a drought, but protected by a translucent layer. Had these wounds been burns the injury could have been dealt with by tank growth, grafting or repair under shellwear. With what little he knew of such things Cormac supposed the injury was the result of some biological or chemical agent, hence the protective layer.

"Don't stare," said his mother.

The woman, noticing his inspection, smiled, the skin of her cheeks cracking open. She didn't seem to notice.

Also travelling parallel to them was a man in a lev-chair. He was just a torso and head, all his limbs missing and the point of severance visible under the same sort of translucent layer the woman wore. Only later, checking his p-top, did Cormac discover that the translucent layer slowed the action of diatomic acid—a substance that was very difficult to neutralize. These people were heading for one of the few clinics where a successful neutralization process had been found. Some of the others he had seen in shellwear, he understood later, were those with old acid burns, who had lost large areas of skin and necessarily wore shellwear permanently until a cure could be found.

Finally they reached the lev-train station and boarded a carriage to take them back to Tritonia. The numbers of the walking wounded were lower on the train, though there were still plenty of those wearing military uniforms. Doubtless their injuries were not physical and they were due for mental cautery.

His head felt stuffed with cotton wool and recent events seemed to sit divorced in his mind, for he could not quite believe what had happened to him nor all the things he had done. Yet, when he looked down at himself, he found confirmation.

The shellwear enclosing Carl's chest while he had been in hospital had been an example of this technology not used for the purpose intended. Shellwear had been developed during the Prador war to enable severely wounded soldiers to continue functioning. Cormac flexed his damaged hand and carefully studied its new covering. Really, it looked just like the glove from a medieval suit of armour, but for the optical data ports along the section covering his wrist and the odd LEDs scattered here and there to give an immediate warning in the location of any problem. The underlying thumb, new little finger and various other skin, tendon and flesh grafts were functional and hurt not at all, but they needed protection and time to knit together. Now he gazed down at his legs. Much the same there, though as far as he could recollect, medieval armour did not actually have toes, nor those nutrient feed pipes, blood scrubbers and various black boxes containing selections of nano-factories. The medics here hadn't given him new legs, merely further grafts. Apparently they didn't like to replace entire limbs when there was no immediate need.

His spare set of legs was being kept on ice.

Cormac gazed at the cylindrical tank resting in the corner of the room. It was bar-coded and affixed to it was a mini-console that could display a manifest of its contents.

"So, just like every mosquito autogun or grav-tank, each soldier comes with a package of spare parts," he said.

"It's only practical," Olkennon replied.

He glanced at her. "I never knew."

"Well, we wouldn't want you getting careless with the originals." She grimaced. "Didn't seem to work in your case."

Cormac picked up the pack of clothing she had slapped down on his chest, then swung his metal legs over the side of the surgical table and sat upright. He felt a slight dizziness, just as the medic, who had recently departed, had told him to expect. Sitting there he hoped for further clarity—some emotional connection with recent events—for he had seen a friend murdered, he had been tortured and he had killed so many, yet still it all seemed like VR fantasy. And what seemed to aggravate this unreality was the scorpion drone that had rescued him, for it seemed to have flown right out of childhood memory.