She woke up into a white space with no walls but a low ceiling; there was a Lazy Gun there. She couldn’t tell which one.

Nothing but trouble, sang the Gun, dancing round her on its skinny, wobbly legs. Nothing but death and destruction and trouble. She grabbed at the Gun; it tried to dance away from her, giggling, but she caught it and held it and strapped it to her. A wall which was a mirror appeared as soon as she touched the weapon. The Lazy Gun’s controls were as she remembered them; delicate, somehow, and beautiful. Its sides and top surface were covered in fabulously complicated scrollwork, incised into the silver casing. It was-she realised as she turned with it-a hunting gun. She pointed it at the mirror and smiled at herself as she pushed the trigger.

She woke up and looked round the small cabin; it was a cube barely two metres square. There was another bunk above hers, a light-metal drawer-unit with her clothes folded neatly inside, a plastic chair, a locked door with a single plastic hook on it and an air vent. That was all; no window.

Whatever sort of vehicle she was in, it was still moving. She could hear what sounded like combustion engines, and something about the way the deck beneath her vibrated and the whole cabin moved now and again suggested that she was on an Air Cushion Vehicle. Her stomach growled.

She considered trying to go back to sleep, but she’d slept enough. She took out her clothes and looked in the pockets; they held nothing. Her satchel was nowhere to be seen, either.

She got out of the small bed, feeling stiff and hungry. She checked herself over; there were faint bruises on her knees and she could feel a tiny ulcer on her tongue where she’d bit herself, but there were no other signs of damage. She dressed, then hammered on the door until somebody came.

“God?” she said to the man with the dark, round face she’d seen earlier in what she had assumed to be a dream. He shifted awkwardly on the small plastic seat and brushed imaginary dust from the thigh of his violently clashing yellow and violet uniform trousers. “Well,” he said. “Technically, yes.” A pained expression passed over his face.

“Right,” she said. “I see.”

“I used,” the man offered, frowning, “to be called Elson Roa.” He was tall and spindly and he sat very still with a look of faint surprise on his face. His fair hair stuck up from his forehead, adding to the impression of slight bewilderment.

“Elson Roa,” she repeated.

“But then I became God,” he nodded. “Or rather realised that I always had been God. God in the monotheistic sense that I am all that really exists.” He was silent for a moment. “I can see you are an apparence who is going to need an explanation.”

“An explanation,” she said. “Yes. That might be a good idea.”

She ate the reconstituted E-rations from the heated aluminium tray as though they were the finest banquet ever set before woman. The girl who had brought the food was the same one who’d escorted her to the toilet; she was dressed in brown and yellow and she sat in the cabin’s little plastic seat watching with fascination as Sharrow squeezed the last dregs from the sweet pouch, licked her lips and handed the tray back to her and said. “Delicious; could I have another one of those, please?”

The girl left to get some more food, locking the door behind her. The old hovercraft droned on, pitching rhythmically for a few moments as it traversed taller-than-average waves.

Sharrow had been captured by Solipsists.

They were a fifty-or-so-strong band of licensed privateers incorporated under the laws of Shaphet and dedicated to selffulfilment, union-rate security provision, and-where possible robbing the rich. Mostly, however, they were hired by insurance and finance companies to frighten reluctant clients and repossess unpaid-for material. Their ACV-a third-hand war-surplus marsh patrol vessel from the Security Franchise-had itself been a repo job; the Solipsists had taken over the payments and renamed it the Solo.

Their attack on the fringe of the Log-Jam had not been an unqualified success. They had heard there was a convention of circus performers taking place on a hotel-ship in the jam, and so disguised themselves as a troop of three-legged mutants, with their guns inside their hollow legs-hence the artificial limb Sharrow had been shot with. But they’d got their dates wrong; the convention wasn’t for another month.

They had attempted to gate-crash Miz’s party on board the ferry but found there was too much security, so they’d split up and gone in search of stray guests wandering away from the party, hoping to surprise and rob them; instead several of the Solipsists had been surprised and captured by the jam’s own security services after the fracas on the ferry, and a couple had been shot and wounded by Marines. The rest had only just got away, taking the big ACV charging along the lagoon sandbar in its own dawn-lit sandstorm while the Marines and Navy argued over who had jurisdiction to put a shot across their bows.

Apart from a few credit and debit cards, a handful of passports and a small amount of jewellery, Sharrow had been their only real prize; they’d probably have left her too, but for the fact she’d been carrying a major house passport.

The Solipsists had let her see a news sheet which mentioned the deaths of the Log-jam’s Vice and Chief Invigilators and a few security personnel injuries, but which did not talk about finding any bodies gassed in the tanks of old oil tankers.

They wouldn’t let her call anybody; they intended to take her far north, to the Free City and traditional hostage-transfer point of Ifagea on the Pilla Sea to see if they could ransom her back to her family from there.

“I don’t have any immediate family,” she told Roa.

“There must be somebody who would pay for you,” Roa said, looking puzzled. “Or you must have your own money.”

“Not much of that. I’ve a cousin who might pay a ransom. I don’t know…”

“Well, perhaps we can sort that out later,” Roa said, staring at a finger nail.

“I know,” Sharrow said. “Take me to Aïs in Nasahapley, not Ifagea.”

Rows brows knitted. “Why?” he said.

“Well, I think I’m meeting some friends there. They’ll bring some money.”

Roa looked dubious. “How much?”

“How much do you want?” she asked.

“How much would you suggest?” Roa countered.

She looked at him. “I’ve no idea. Haven’t you done this before?”

“Not as such,” Roa admitted.

“How about a hundred Thrial?” she joked.

Roa considered this. He put one boot on the other knee and tried to dig mud out from between the grips. “There are forty-six other apparences aboard,” he said, sounding embarrassed and refusing to meet her gaze. “Make it forty-six hundred… I mean, forty-seven.”

She stared at him, then decided he was serious. The sum was less than the average yearly income on Golter.

“Oh, what the heck,” she said. “Let’s call it five k.”

Roa shook his head. “That might cause difficulties.”

“Just the forty-seven hundred?”

“Yes,” Roa nodded emphatically.

“It’s a deal,” she said. “Net-call a chap called Miz Gattse Kuma and tell him I’ll meet him in Nis, soon as you can get there.”

Roa mumbled something.

“Pardon?” she said.

“We’ll have to think about that,” Roa said, clearing his throat. “The last time we were in Aïs we had some problems with certain-apparent-small craft which were damaged in the harbour.”

“Well,” Sharrow said. “See what you can do.”

“I shall tell my apparences,” Roa said, standing up and looking determined.

He left, locking the door. Sharrow lay back on the narrow cot, shaking her head.

At least Aïs was closer than Ifagea. She hoped they got there before the-apparently-not terribly well-informed Solipsists heard she would soon be fair game for the Huhsz hunting mission, and worth a lot more than forty-seven hundred.