Loemanako gave up trying to hide the grin. “I got a kid back on Latimer wants to be an archaeologue. Says he doesn’t want a profession of violence like his old man.”

“That’s just a stage, Tony. He’ll get over it.”

“Hope so.” Loemanako shifted stiffly, and I saw that under the chameleochrome coveralls, he wore a mobility suit. “Commander wants to see you right away.”

“Just me?”

“No, he said bring anyone who’s awake. I think it’s important.”

Outside the bubblefab, evening had closed the sky down to a luminous grey in the west and thickening darkness in the east. Under it all, Carrera’s camp was a model of ordered activity in the glow of tripod-mounted Angier lamps.

Envoy habit mapped it for me, cold detail floating over and above a tingling warm sense of hearthfire and company against the encroaching night.

Up by the gate, the sentries sat astride their bugs, leaning back and forth and gesturing. The wind carried down shreds of laughter I recognised as Kwok’s, but distance rendered the rest inaudible. Their faceplates were hinged up, but otherwise they were swim-prepped and still armed to the teeth. The other soldiers Loemanako had detailed to back them up stood around a mobile ultravibe cannon in similar casual alertness. Further down the beach, another knot of Wedge uniforms busied themselves with what looked like the components for a blast shield generator. Others moved back and forth from the Angin Chandra’s Virtue to the polalloy cabin and the other bubblefabs, carrying crates that could have been anything. Behind and above the scene, lights gleamed from the bridge of the ‘Chandra and at the loading level, where onboard cranes swung more equipment out of the battlewagon’s belly and down onto the lamplit sand.

“So how come the mob suit?” I asked Loemanako, as he led us down towards the unloading area.

He shrugged. “Cable batteries at Rayong. Our tinsel systems went down at a bad time. Got my left leg, hipbone, ribs. Some of the left arm.”

“Shit. You have all the luck, Tony.”

“Ah, it’s not so bad. Just taking a fuck of a long time to heal right. Doc says the cables were coated with some kind of carcinogenic, and it’s fucking up the rapid regrowth.” He grimaced. “Been like this for three weeks now. Real drag.”

“Well, thanks for coming out to us. Especially in that state.”

“No worries. Easier getting about in vac than here anyway. Once you’re wearing the mob suit, polalloy’s just another layer.”

“I guess.”

Carrera was waiting below the ‘Chandra’s loading hatch, dressed in the same field coveralls he’d worn earlier and talking to a small, similarly-attired group of ranking officers. A couple of noncoms were busy with mounted equipment up on the edge of the hatch. About halfway between the ‘Chandra and the blast shield detail, a ragged-looking individual in a stained uniform perched on a powered-down loadlifter, staring at us out of bleary eyes. When I stared back, he laughed and shook his head convulsively. One hand lifted to rub viciously at the back of his neck and his mouth gaped open as if someone had just drenched him with a bucket of cold water. His face twitched in tiny spasms that I recognised. Wirehead tremors.

Maybe he saw the grimace pass across my face.

“Oh, yeah, look that way,” he snarled. “You’re not so smart, not so fucking smart. Got you for antihumanism, got you all filed away, heard you all and your counter-Cartel sentiments, how do you like—”

“Shut up, Lamont.” There wasn’t much volume in Loemanako’s voice, but the wirehead jerked as if he’d just been jacked in. His eyes slipped around in their sockets alarmingly, and he cowered. At my side, Loemanako sneered.

“Political officer,” he said, and toed some sand in the shivering wreck of a human’s direction. “All the fucking same. All mouth.”

“You seem to have this one leashed.”

“Yeah, well.” Loemanako grinned. “You’d be amazed how quickly these political guys lose interest in their job once they’ve been socketed up and plugged in a few times. We haven’t had a Correct Thought lecture all month, and the personal files, well, I’ve read ‘em and our own mothers couldn’t have written nicer things about us. Amazing how all that political dogma just sort of fades away. Isn’t that right, Lamont?”

The political officer cringed away from Loemanako. Tears leaked into his eyes.

“Works better than the beatings used to,” said the noncom, looking at Lamont dispassionately. “You know, with Phibun and, what was that other shit-mouthed little turd called?”

“Portillo,” I said absently.

“Yeah, him. See you could never be sure if he was really beaten or if he’d come back at you when he’d licked his wounds a bit. We don’t have that problem any more. Think it’s the shame that does it. Once you’ve cut the socket and shown them how to hook up, they do it to themselves. And then, when you take it away… Works like magic. I’ve seen old Lamont here break his nails trying to get the interface cables out of a locked kitpack.”

“Why don’t you leave him alone,” said Tanya Wardani unevenly. “Can’t you see he’s already broken.”

Loemanako shot her a curious glance.

“Civilian?” he asked me.

I nodded. “Pretty much. She’s, uh, on secondment.”

“Well, that can work sometimes.”

Carrera seemed to have finished his briefing as we approached and the surrounding officers were beginning to disperse. He nodded acknowledgement at Loemanako.

“Thank you, sergeant. Did I see Lamont giving you some grief up there?”

The noncom grinned wolfishly. “Nothing he didn’t regret, sir. Think maybe it’s time he was deprived again, though.”

“I’ll give that some thought, sergeant.”

“Yes sir.”

“Meanwhile.” Carrera shifted his focus. “Lieutenant Kovacs, there are a few—”

“Just a moment, commander.” It was Hand’s voice, remarkably poised and polished, given the state he must be in.

Carrera paused.

“Yes?”

“I’m sure you’re aware of who I am, commander. As I am aware of the intrigues in Landfall that have led to your being here. You may not, however, be aware of the extent to which you have been deceived by those who sent you.”

Carrera met my gaze and raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.

“No, you’re mistaken,” said the Wedge commander politely. “I am quite well informed of the extent to which your Mandrake colleagues have been economical with the truth. To be honest, I expected no less.”

I heard the silence as Hand’s exec training stumbled. It was almost worth a grin.

“In any case,” Carrera went on, “The issue of objective truth doesn’t much concern me here. I have been paid.”

“Less than you could have been.” Hand rallied with admirable speed. “My business here is authorised at Cartel level.”

“Not any more. Your grubby little friends have sold you out, Hand.”

“Then that was their error, commander. There seems no reason for you to share in it. Believe me, I have no desire for retribution to fall where it is not deserved.”

Carrera smiled faintly. “Are you threatening me?”

“There is no need to view things in such—”

“I asked if you were threatening me,” The Wedge commander’s tone was mild. “I’d appreciate a straight yes or no.”

Hand sighed. “Let us just say that there are forces I may invoke which my colleagues have not considered, or at least not assessed correctly.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot, you are a believer.” Carrera seemed fascinated by the man in front of him. “A hougan. You believe that. Spiritual powers? Can be hired in much the same way as soldiers.”

Beside me, Loemanako sniggered.

Hand sighed again. “Commander, what I believe is that we are both civilised men and—”

The blaster tore through him.

Carrera must have set it for diffuse beam—you don’t usually get as much damage as that from the little ones and the thing in the Wedge commander’s hand was an ultra compact. A hint of bulk inside the closed fist, a fish-tailed snap-out projector between his second and third knuckle, spare heat, the Envoy in me noticed, still dissipating from the discharge end in visible waves.