But even over the rapidly increasing space between us, I could still feel his stare, and the unforgiving rage kindled in it.

THIRTY-THREE

We picked up Boubin Islander exactly where she was supposed to be. Isa’s seamanship, via the trimaran’s pilot software, had been impeccable. Sierra Tres talked to the pilot, who seemed, on admittedly very brief acquaintance, to be a decent sort of guy. Given his status as a hostage, he’d shown little nervousness during the flight and once he said something to Sierra Tres that made her laugh out loud. Now he nodded laconically as she spoke into his ear, maxed up a couple of displays on his flight board and the swoopcopter fell away towards the yacht. I gestured for the spare comset again, and fitted it to my ear.

“Still there, Aiura?”

Her voice came back, precise and terrifyingly polite. “I am still listening, Kovacs-san.”

“Good. We’re about to set down. Your flyer here knows to back off rapidly, but just to underline the point, I want the sky clear in all directions—”

“Kovacs-san, I do not have the authority to—”

“Then get it. I don’t believe for a moment that Konrad Harlan can’t have the skies over the whole Millsport Archipelago emptied if he wants it, even if you can’t. So listen carefully. If I see a helicopter anywhere above our horizon for the next six hours, Mitzi Harlan is dead. If I see an airborne trace on our radar any time in the next six hours, Mitzi Harlan is dead. If I see any vessel at all following us, Mitzi Harlan—”

“You’ve made your point, Kovacs.” The courtesy in her voice was fast evaporating. “You will not be followed.”

“Thank you.”

I tossed the comset back onto the seat next to the pilot. Outside the swoopcopter, the rushing air was murky. There hadn’t been an orbital discharge since we took off, and it looked from the lack of fireworks to the north as if the light show was winding down. Thick cloud was drawing in from the west, smothering the rising edge of Hotei. Higher up, Daikoku was thinly veiled and Marikanon gone altogether. It looked as if it might rain.

The Dracul made a tight circle over the trimaran, and I saw a white-faced Isa on deck, waving one of Brasil’s antique frag rifles unconvincingly.

A smile touched the corners of my mouth at the sight. We backed off on the turn and dropped to sea level, then sideslipped in towards the Boubin Islander. I stood in the doorway and waved slowly. Isa’s taut features collapsed in relief and she lowered the frag gun. The pilot perched his craft on the corner of Boubin Islander’s deck and shouted to us over his shoulder.

“End of the ride, people.”

We jumped down, eased Sylvie’s still semi-conscious form out after us and lowered her carefully to the deck. Maelstrom mist coated us like the cold breath of sea sprites. I leaned back into the swoopcopter.

“Thanks. Very smooth. You’d better get out of here.”

He nodded and I stepped back. The Dracul ungrabbed and lifted away.

The nose turned and in seconds it was a hundred metres off, rising into the night sky on a muted chatter. As the noise faded, I turned my attention back to the woman at my feet. Brasil was bent over her, peeling back an eyelid.

“Doesn’t seem to be in too bad shape,” he muttered as I knelt beside him.

“She’s running a light fever, but her breathing’s okay. I’ve got gear below I can check her out with better.”

I put the back of my hand against her cheek. Under the film of spray from the maelstrom, it was hot and papery, the way it had been back in the Uncleared. And for all Brasil’s informed medical opinion, her breathing didn’t sound all that good to me either.

Yeah, well, this is a man who favours recreational virals over drugs. Guess light fever’s a relative term, eh Micky?

Micky? What happened to Kovacs?

Kovacs is back there, crawling up Aiura Harlan’s crack. That’s what happened to Kovacs.

The bright anger, glinting.

“How about we get her below,” suggested Sierra Tres.

“Yeah,” said Isa unkindly. “She looks like shit, man.”

I held down a sudden, irrational flare of dislike. “Isa, what’s the news from Koi’s end?”

“Uh.” She shrugged. “Last time I checked, fine, they were moving—”

“Last time you checked? What the fuck is that, Isa? How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know, I was watching the radar for you!” Her voice rose with hurt. “Saw you were coming in, I thought—”

“How fucking long, Isa?”

She bit her lip and stared back at me. “Not long, alright!”

“You st—” I clenched a fist at my side. Summoned calm. It wasn’t her fault, none of this was her fault. “Isa, I need you to go down and get on the comset right now. Please. Call in, check with Koi that everything’s okay. Tell him we’re done here, we’re on our way out.”

“Okay.” The hurt was still in her face and tone. “I’m going.”

I watched her go, sighed and helped Brasil and Tres lift Sylvie Oshima’s limp, overheated body. Her head lolled back and I had to shift one hand up quickly to support it. The mane of grey hair seemed to twitch in places as it hung, damp with spray, but it was a feeble movement. I looked down into the pale and flushed face and felt my jaw tighten with frustration. Isa was right, she did look like shit. Not what you thought of when you imagined the flashing-eyed, lithe-limbed combat heroine of the Unsettlement.

Not what you’d expect when men like Koi talked of a woken and vengeful ghost.

I don’t know, she’s well on her way to the ghost part.

Ha fucking ha.

Isa appeared at the top of the stern companion way, just as we got there.

Wrapped up in my own sour thoughts, it took me a moment to look up at her face. And by then, it was too late.

“Kovacs, I’m sorry,” she pleaded.

The swoopcopter.

Faintly, the soft strop of rotors, rising out of the backdrop noise from the maelstrom. Death and fury approaching, on ninja wings.

“They’re down,” Isa cried. “First Family commandos tracked them. Ado’s hit, the rest of them are. Half of them are. They got Mitzi Harlan.”

“Who did?” Sierra Tres, eyes gone uncharacteristically wide. “Who’s got her now? Koi or—”

But I already knew the answer to that one.

“Incoming!”

I screamed it. Was already trying to get Sylvie Oshima to the deck without dropping her. Brasil had the same idea, but he was moving in the wrong direction. Sylvie’s body tugged between us. Sierra Tres yelled. We all seemed to be moving in mud, gracelessly slow.

Like a million furious watersprites let loose, the hail of machine-gun fire ripped out of the ocean on our stern, then up across Boubin Islander’s lovingly finished deck. Eerily, it was silent. Water splashed and splattered, harmlessly quiet and playful. Wood and plastic leapt out of everything in splinters around us. Isa screamed.

I got Sylvie down in the stern seats. Landed on top of her. Out of the darkened sky, hard on the heels of its own silenced machine-gun fire, the Dracul machine came hammering across the water at strafing height.

The guns started up again and I rolled off the seat, dragging Sylvie’s unresponsive form down with me. Something blunt smashed against my ribs as I hit the ground in the confined space. I felt the swoopcopter’s shadow pass across me and then it was gone, quietened motors muttering in its wake.

“Kovacs?” It was Brasil, from above on the deck.

“Still here. You?”

“He’s coming back.”

“Of course he fucking is.” I poked my head out of cover and saw the Dracul banking about in the mist-blurred air. The first run had been a stealth assault—he didn’t know we weren’t expecting him. Now it didn’t matter. He’d take his time, sit out at a distance and chew us to shreds.

Motherfucker.

It geysered out of me. All the stored-up fight that the stand-off with Aiura hadn’t allowed a discharge for. I flailed upright in the stern seats, got a grip on the companionway coating and hauled myself onto the deck.