“You’d better fuck off now. Certain you’ve got better things to do than nursemaid me.”

[You know where I am…] The avatar vanished, and Petrovitch levered himself up.

“You’re everywhere,” he said, and started back to the sea.

2

It was almost like old times. The four of them, kicking their heels and waiting for something to happen.

Petrovitch paced, cursing both the vagaries of international travel and international diplomacy. First to his left, then his right, were the arrival gates and all the paraphernalia of arriving: scanners, customs, officials in suits and paycops in armour.

Madeleine and Valentina sat at opposite ends of a row of seats: Madeleine dwarfed her chair, made it seem fragile and childlike, while Valentina was very still, upright, self-contained.

Tabletop leaned against a pillar, obscuring the moving advertising on the screen behind her. Every so often, a pair of pixelated eyes would pop up behind her shoulder, widen, then duck down again. She hadn’t noticed – like Petrovitch, she was fixated on the gate.

There was a rush of people. Many of them managed to look both tired and bewildered, still adjusting their bags and pockets after the formalities of entry into the Metrozone. Some looked up, searching for the holographic signs that would tell them where to go, then drifted away. Others were met, by friends and family, and there was a moment of awkwardly public reunion that was joyous and constrained in equal measure.

Then there was Newcomen and his handler Auden, at the very end of the tail. The ever-urbane Auden had one hand at his countryman’s back, his dark infoshades and black tie making him a conscious parody of what he really was: not a consular staffer as advertised, but a National Security Agency spook.

Newcomen appeared singularly discomfited. He was dragging a huge suitcase on wheels – no, worse than that, the suitcase was motorised and it was following him like a dog on a lead. He looked grey, something of an achievement for someone with his corn-fed complexion, and his G-man buzz cut had gone spiky with nervous sweat.

Petrovitch stopped his pacing, and scowled. Behind him, Madeleine and Valentina simultaneously stood. It took Madeleine much longer to reach her full height, and he could see Newcomen’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead.

The two Americans stopped in front of him, and Auden deliberately pushed the other man forward into the space between them.

“Dr Petrovitch, can I introduce Agent Joseph Newcomen of the FBI?”

Petrovitch did a thing that meant that Auden had to take his abruptly opaque glasses off, revealing a pair of unnaturally deep blue eyes. They narrowed at the affront.

“I can hack your contacts too, if you like. Destroyed any good cities lately?”

“So hostile, Doctor. You really shouldn’t throw accusations like that around, in public, without any evidence.” He flicked his now-useless shades into a nearby bin. “I’m actually here to help.”

“As opposed to what? Lead an assassination squad into the Metrozone on the back of an Outzone invasion?” Petrovitch’s own eyes whirred and clicked, cycling through ultraviolet and near infrared. Auden was actually blushing. “Tabletop says you were in charge. More than good enough for me.”

Auden leaned slightly to one side to catch sight of Tabletop’s pink hair and cat eyes. He brought his fingers to his temple in the mockery of a salute. “Now, where were we?”

“You were attempting to introduce me to this…” Petrovitch glanced up momentarily at Newcomen, “this vat-bred Reconstructionista as an escort, which is nothing but a distraction to the main cause. Helping would imply doing something, instead of this. Where is she? Where’s Lucy?”

Newcomen cleared his throat. “Uh, Doctor…”

“Past’ zabej! I don’t want to hear from you until I’m ready. Come on, Auden. You’ve a much better idea what’s happened to her: what d’you say to taking a little walk with me? Somewhere no one’s looking.” Petrovitch stared pointedly at the other consulate staff dotted around the concourse, trying to remain incognito but with flashing augmented-reality arrows pasted over their heads, placed there by Michael. “Why don’t we sort this out man to man?”

“We know that’s not going to happen.” Auden gave his fixed smile. “That’s not in either of our interests.”

“Or we could just take you. Right here. And you know it.” Petrovitch rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling for ancient scars.

“You agreed not to,” said Auden. At least he looked nervous now.

“Yeah, well. There’ll be another time. Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

Auden relaxed, just a little. “Dr Samuil Petrovitch, this is your liaison, Joseph Newcomen. I hope you’ll find him as useful as they do at the Bureau.”

“That’s supposed to be a recommendation?” Petrovitch stepped back to examine the agent. “They’ve sent Joe Friday, right? Just the facts, ma’am?”

Auden intervened. “Now you’re just being cruel, Doctor.”

“Yeah, I can only stomach talking to one of you at a time. Auden, in words that even you can understand, fuck off back to that fortress you call an embassy. We’ll take it from here.”

The spook held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I know when I’m not wanted.”

“You’re never wanted. You killed my friends and kidnapped my wife. It’s an affront to basic humanity that your government appointed you to the Metrozone in the first place, and if I have the time and the inclination after all this is over, I will hunt you down and kill you like the dog you are.”

Auden kept smiling around the edges, but he started to back away.

“That’s right. Start running, little man. It won’t help, but it might buy you an extra day or two.” Petrovitch’s lips turned thin and mean.

“Good luck, Agent Newcomen,” called Auden. He twirled his finger in the air, and the people he had positioned in the hall gravitated towards him. He reached into his pocket for a new pair of infoshades and stalked off.

Petrovitch watched the man’s back until it was out of sight, then finally turned to Newcomen.

The agent looked ready to turn tail and flee. If he had to cross the Atlantic on foot, so be it.

“And what the huy am I supposed to do with you?”

In Reconstruction America, a single swear word could cost him a twenty-dollar fine. Petrovitch had cussed more in five minutes than Newcomen had heard in the last five years.

“I, uh. I’m here to, uh.”

“Yobany stos, stop. Just stop.” Petrovitch dug his hands into his coat pockets and clenched them into fists. “I know why you’re here. I know who you are, where and when you were born, who your parents are, where you live, work, drink coffee, your entire case history at the Bureau, how much you earn and what you spend it on. I know you better than you know yourself, because you tell yourself little lies, and I see through them.”

Newcomen stared longingly in the direction that Auden had taken.

“That govnosos Auden’s going to be of no help to you now, even if he pretended to be in the first place. He’s the Bad Shepherd. He’s thrown you to the wolves, and he doesn’t care what we do to you.”

The FBI agent closed his eyes for a moment, and his lips moved in a muttered mantra. When he regained his composure, he seemed to have visibly grown. He topped Petrovitch by a head anyway, and when he stood straight, he looked less like a sack of rubbish and more like a college pro footballer. Which he had been. He had the clean good looks of an advertising model – selected and spliced for, like his height, his eye and hair colour – except for the vague knot on the bridge of his nose. The perfect all-American ideal.

Petrovitch didn’t know whether to pity him or despise him. After all, Newcomen hadn’t chosen to be born that way.