‘Then I’ll share the information I offered,’ he said, ‘because it might inform your decision of where to fly to.’

Surely there was no decision. Or perhaps Sunadomari did not know of Labyrinth - it wasn’t something Pilots talked about.

‘What information?’

‘You know all about the darkness, if we label the phenomenon that way.’

Dad’s face dampened once more.

‘I . . . What?’

‘At least you did know, in the past. Whatever Roger saw, it has a deep resonance inside your unconscious mind.’

There was a flickering in Dad’s eyes; then a tightening of his facial muscles as he brought the reaction under control.

‘Amnesia.’

‘Deliberate, targetted and induced. And it happened a long time ago, perhaps before you came to Fulgor.’

Mum was looking scared.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He means’ - Dad’s voice was shaky - ‘it was our own people that carried out the procedure. Probably.’

Sunadomari smiled, an adequate comment on the likelihood of a trained Pilot intelligence officer undergoing amnesia at enemy hands and there being no trace of it.

Roger felt as he were about to vomit. Nothing could be this bad.

‘Good luck,’ said Sunadomari.

With a fingertip salute to Roger, he turned and left. A kind of tangible absence remained, a psychological vibration that told of everything changing.

Then Dad blew out a breath.

‘Time to bug out,’ he said.

THIRTY-FIVE

FULGOR, 2603 AD

In their lounge, they looked around for the last time. Dad appeared bigger and more muscular than usual, his face stronger. Perhaps this was the kind of situation he lived for.

Roger suddenly realized the impossibility of ever knowing his father’s mind.

Concentrate.

‘All right,’ Dad said. ‘Miranda, Roger, let’s make our departure nine minutes from now, outside.’

They nodded. Dad closed his eyes, and his lips moved. The words might have been: Come, my love. Come get us. Or Roger might have been mistaken.

‘Good.’ Dad’s eyes opened. ‘She’ll be here. Now, let’s check our understanding. The superintendent’s offer is genuine, but it’s not official. If it were, he’d have said so.’

‘What does that mean?’ Roger did not understand. ‘We’re not free to go?’

‘It means he’s told the ordinary peacekeepers nothing. We’re not under suspicion. But once a mu-space ship bursts into the open right before our house, there’ll be SatScan alarms screaming everywhere. They’ll try to disable the ship via grasers from orbit, so we’re talking only seconds. And maybe five minutes before armoured flyers make an appearance.’

Roger looked at the quickglass walls.

‘Can they subvert the house system remotely?’

‘Huh.’ Dad smiled. ‘Good tactical thinking, and the answer’s no. We’re well protected.’

Mum glanced at the rear wall, which was glistening in a way Roger had not noticed.

‘I thought we were going to have to use the tunnel.’

‘Me too,’ said Dad. ‘But I wasn’t sure we’d make it without Sunadomari stopping us.’

‘He’s all right, though, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. He’s a good man.’ Dad glanced at the wall. ‘But he wouldn’t break through that shielding. Not after twenty years of improvements.’

The glistening surface meant the wall was currently permeable, a viscous liquid, ready to allow three fugitives to run through: to reach the safety chamber that lay beyond, and the entrance to their shielded escape tunnel.

‘All right,’ continued Dad. ‘One last thing, and I’d better do it in here, unsurveilled.’

He gestured a holovolume into existence.

‘Yes?’ Xavier Spalding’s image regarded them. ‘Carl. Have you seen Alisha?’

For the second time this morning, a vomit reflex threatened Roger’s stomach.

Alisha’s missing?

‘I’m sorry, no. But the peacekeepers know what you did for us. A Superintendent Sunadomari, a Luculentus, worked out everything.’

‘That doesn’t matter now.’

Dad looked at him.

‘Good luck. You won’t see us again.’

Xavier Spalding nodded, and his image disappeared.

‘All right,’ said Dad. ‘Both of you, get ready to move.’

‘I’m ready.’ Mum clasped his arm. ‘It’ll be fun, right?’

Roger was backing away.

‘And I’m . . . ready.’

Alisha is missing.

She was gone, her father was a criminal, Luculenti were dead . . . and he was running away, never to see this world again?

‘Roger . . . ?’

‘No!’

He leaped back.

‘Sorry—’

And fell through the permeable wall, quickglass sliding over his skin. Then he tumbled into the chamber and yelled: ‘Seal up!’

The wall shimmered and hardened, just as Dad’s fist struck it on the other side.

‘I’m sorry,’ Roger said.

In the final minute, they were shadows, barely visible to each other through metre-thick armoured quickglass. There was no way to undo Roger’s command, no way to make the wall permeable once more. No way for his parents to reach him, or him to get back to them.

And Dad’s ship was a matter of seconds away from appearing outside the house.

‘I love you,’ Roger said.

He kissed his own fingertips, then pressed them against the quickglass. On the other side, after a moment, Mum did the same, followed by Dad.

Then Dad grabbed hold of her, and they moved fast, heading for the front door.

They’re gone.

He waited until thunder crashed outside. Then he counted fifty seconds more, just in case.

‘Really gone,’ he said aloud.

He formed the control gesture Dad had drilled him in so many times.

‘Shit.’

And closed his eyes as the floor became a liquefying whirlpool, dragging him down to the tunnel below.

There were two last things Carl could do for his son. As he ran outdoors with Miranda, he worked his tu-ring at a speed beyond thought. Behind him, a smartmiasma trailed, and the image it broadcast upwards was his first gift: to SatScan, it would appear that Roger Blackstone was fleeing the house behind his parents.

The second gift was easier: a tightbeam from his tu-ring to Roger’s, zipblipping copies of all the espionageware he possessed.

‘Be careful,’ he muttered. ‘It’s dangerous stuff.’

‘What—?’ asked Miranda.

‘Nothing.’

Then his ship burst into being overhead: a curved dart, black and powerful, edged with scarlet, ready for anything.

He was grinning, dreadful though that was, as she hauled him and Miranda on board with a fast black tendril. Within four seconds of her appearance in realspace, he was in her control couch.

And go.

Yes, my love.

Fulgor slammed out of existence around them.

Finally . . .

Replaced by golden void, a sprinkling of black fractal stars, and a distant crimson nebula.

‘What have we done?’ said Miranda.

‘The best we could,’ answered Carl.

Then he immersed himself in the joy of flying hard for Labyrinth, aware that despite the elation of being with his ship, there were hard issues to deal with: Roger, alone on Fulgor; Miranda’s distress; and the truth Sunadomari had revealed to him: the tampering with his mind by his own people.

Max Gould would have the answers.

‘Oh, Carl.’

‘I know, my love.’

He increased the severity of their trajectory, following a geodesic that would add to Miranda’s strain, but should be manageable. It was less than he wanted, more than he should aim for.

A hellflight was out of question.

After a time, Miranda was able to ask: ‘Will we live in Labyrinth now?’