Once at the tower, he requested that the aircab remain hovering while he alighted.

‘Roger.’ The shaven head of Xavier appeared in holo. ‘Open up a query to the building system. I’ll piggyback from here.’

‘But the people inside—’

‘We can scan a system a lot faster than we can persuade a person.’

‘All right.’

He pointed his tu-ring at the quickglass wall, and waited. In ten seconds - a long time in computation - a shaky moving holo appeared next to his hand. Alisha, staggering from Aleph Tower, almost falling into an aircab.

‘One moment, Roger. Shit.’

‘What is it?’

‘The aircab was commanded to take her to Killian’s Dive in Quarter Moon. But it wasn’t one of mine, damn it.’

‘Sir?’

‘I mean the aircab. I own—Ah, you are using one of mine. Good. Get back in, and you’re off the grid.’

‘But I don’t know what—’

‘Roger, there are two peacekeeper flyers over my roof. I’m going to try to contact Superintendent Sunadomari before they get inside, but I have to shut this down now.’

The holo was gone.

Overhead, the steel eagle was flying away. All Roger could do was climb into the aircab and tell it where to go.

‘Killian’s Dive. Quarter Moon District.’

The aircab soared upward.

Perhaps there were shabbier districts in Lucis City; perhaps there were more dangerous; but none could match old Quarter Moon for sleaze. Roger walked away from the ascending aircab, feeling dirty already. From a doorway, a small man beckoned.

‘Hey, you like girls?’

‘No. I mean yes, but—Sorry.’

Dark buildings, bright holos. Perhaps night could add a veneer of glamour; in daylight, the streaks on walls that ought to self-clean were evident, while beneath the warm scents of cooking that floated from cheap eateries, pungent undertones were lurking.

The entrance to Killian’s Dive was a vertical oval, ringed with long-fibred matting. The fibres curled, and it took him a moment to understand the pubic symbolism. He wanted to puke.

Inside, he took in the silver bar set diagonally across the half-lit space, the customers that sat or stood, tired or morose or stunned-looking, drinking whatever morning drinkers took. None of the customers was Alisha.

Behind the bar was a large man with motile purple tattoos crawling across his scalp. His thick-muscled arms were bare, except for steel rings set around wrists and biceps that appeared to be set into the flesh.

Usually, a human bartender added a touch of class, since any quickglass room could provide service. Here, the big man provided visual intimidation - and probably backed it up with violence as needed.

How am I supposed to question him?

This was stupid.

I can’t threaten someone like that.

He turned and walked out on to the street.

‘Lovely, luscious girls,’ said a dark-skinned woman in front of him, her low-scooped top displaying large, soft cleavage. ‘They’re sitting around in their underwear at the house right now.’

‘I don’t—’

‘And you can choose any you want.’

Blood pulsed in his groin.

Oh, God.

‘For you, lover, there’s a discount. It will be—Oh.’

A tall man was extending his fist, his tu-ring flashing a holo sigil directly into Roger’s eyes.

‘Peacekeeper,’ he said. ‘We’re watching this area, just so you know.’

Roger nearly fell to the ground, as if the ligaments in his knees had detached.

‘You look like a nice lad,’ he continued. ‘What do you do for work? Her, we know.’

‘I’m a, er, student. At the multiversity.’

‘Good for you.’

‘I . . . Thank you, officer. Thank you.’

He backed away, waves of sickness washing through every internal organ, nodded to the officer, then strode to the corner, turned and carried on walking to the end of the block. There, he leaned back against the wall, not caring about the faint scent of ancient urine, just rubbing his eyes and trying to bring his mind together.

‘Hey, lover.’ It was the woman again. ‘Don’t pay any mind to him. The girls are still there waiting, and you know they’d just love to meet you.’

‘No. Just . . . No.’

‘Are you sure?’ When she wiggled, waves of motion rippled up her cleavage. ‘Really, really sure?’

‘Go away.’

Something seemed to snap out of existence inside her eyes, and she simply turned and walked away. Once at the corner of the main street, her gait changed, becoming a saunter once more.

Roger turned away, and realized he was at the head of an alleyway that ran behind Killian’s Dive. One step at a time, while an internal voice complained, he made his way to the rear wall, then stopped.

The wall was black quickglass, worn and crusty outside, its interior still malleable. He stared at it for a moment, then pulled up a menu in his tu-ring, checking the expanded list of commands available to him now: the maintenance services and engineering aspects normally hidden beneath security.

He formed the instructions, pressed his forearms against the wall, and waited. It took some twenty seconds for the inner layers to respond and seep through the hardened parts like liquid tar. First several drops, then runnels of black quickglass twisted around his forearms.

When he backed off, the quickglass came free with squelches and popping. He gave it another two minutes, allowing it to merge with the smartmaterial sleeves of his clothing, and begin to creep downwards. While the integration continued, he set up several shortcut commands, and kept them in the tu-ring’s execution space, ready to initiate.

Earlier, fear had made him want to throw up. Now he felt like a sick patient in the euphoria when the vomiting was past, able to move and not care. He was almost lightheaded as he walked back on to the side street, then turned again and found himself at Killian’s Dive; and then he went in.

The huge bartender was still there.

‘Excuse me,’ Roger said.

But the bartender pointed to one of the other customers, then at the man’s empty glass.

‘You want I should get you another purple stripe?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Big fingers, his hands like crushing machines, tapped a control sequence on the metal countertop. An iris opened before the drinker, and a glass rose up, its contents a Turing pattern that reminded Roger of fog in the hypozone.

‘So whaddyou want?’

‘Um, one of those, please. Purple stripe.’

‘Huh.’

The command was a single tap against the countertop. The bartender was already starting to turn away when Roger held up his fist, a small holo image floating above his tu-ring.

‘Have you seen her?’

The man’s eyes flickered to his left.

‘No, pal. I serve drinks.’ He raised his massive shoulders then pulled them down, causing them to widen. ‘You drink ’em. That’s it.’

‘Please, I think she’s in trouble.’

‘Huh. Girl like that in here’ - when he sneered, an old scar twisted the bartender’s pale lips - ‘she’s past caring, pal.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Fuck off.’

The bartender walked to the far end of the bar, and folded his massive arms.

Now what?

All his years of schooling, and there had been nothing to cover situations like this. Teachers lived in a world where clever words were everything, including weapons; but here was reality.

Oh, shit. Here I go.

As Roger walked behind the bar, his sleeves stirred and began to flow downwards, covering his hands like slick gloves.

‘Hey.’

‘Sorry. ‘ Roger held one hand up, palm forward, not threatening. ‘I just wanted to ask about the woman.’

The bartender unfolded his arms, and grabbed Roger’s shoulder with painful force.

‘Go back around the—’

Roger’s palm slapped against the muscular slab of the guy’s chest.