‘I don’t—’

And when the big hands pushed him back, strands of quickglass hooking inside the bartender’s flesh pulled the skin outward.

‘—think so.’

‘The fuck is this?’ The big man took hold of Roger, squeezing and hauling him off the ground. ‘Get this off me or I’ll snap you now.’

Roger’s bones felt about to give way.

‘No,’ he said.

His free hand slapped against the back of the man’s neck.

‘You lose.’

Quickglass tendrils infiltrated the cervical vertebrae, a narrow filament targetting a ventral junction of the spinal cord. The big man shuddered, then collapsed.

Roger fell on top of him.

‘You saw her.’

‘No, I—’

A stench grew in pungency.

‘You just shat yourself,’ said Roger. ‘I keep this in your neck much longer, the paralysis is permanent. Or you can tell me where she is.’

I really can’t believe I’m—

‘Not . . . here.’

—doing this.

‘Tell me.’

‘At . . . Ingram’s Corner, man. You know.’

‘What’s that?’

‘No . . . Uh. Drone Dollies. Garber picked her up.’

‘Who’s Garber?’

‘Pro-procurer.’

‘What does he procure?’

The bartender was beginning to cry.

‘Come on,’ said Roger. ‘What does he procure?’

‘Girls, man. Drones.’

‘Are you talking mindwipe here?’

‘They’re far gone when they come here.’ A sob. ‘Like, almost drones already.’

‘Drones.’

But he was not going to get anything more from the paralysed bartender. He formed the command, and the quickglass sucked free from the man’s body.

When Roger stood, only one of the drinkers was looking in his direction, raising a purple stripe in toast.

Roger looked at his own untouched drink, and considered knocking it across the counter or throwing it at the supine, sniffling bartender. But he carried on walking.

Did I just do that?

Whatever had happened to Alisha was more terrible than he had thought. And he realized, as he came out on to the bright, sleazy street, that he himself was capable of so much more, and so much worse, than his comfortable life had taught him.

His quickglass gloves glistened on his hands.

FORTY-FOUR

LABYRINTH, 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)

They tried to stop Carl; but they could not.

His former interrogators, Clayton and Boyle, were perhaps overwhelmed by the thought of their own impending amnesia treatment, Carl’s innocence in the matter they were investigating - Admiral Kaltberg’s murder - and their genuine sympathy at Miranda Blackstone’s death.

Still, they attempted restraint holds when Carl pushed himself away from the med-drone containing his wife’s body and started to run. But he moved in a torrent of sorrow, a whirlpool of rage, spinning and twisting so Clayton and Boyle and grasping medics were flung aside; and then he was sprinting into the open, summoning a fastpath rotation dead ahead.

‘Stop that—’

Hands reached but he was past them, and then he was into the fastpath and the others had no chance.

He spun back into reality inside his ship. She reacted immediately, sealing her entranceway and gathering power, her hull reactivating its protective event membrane, sealing it off from fastpath intrusion; and she was already backing away from the dock, turning inside the great vault where other ships floated. Now she gunned for the exit tunnel.

Only Labyrinth itself could stop them now.

But the city chose not to act, and within seconds Carl-and-ship burst free into golden mu-space, their minds unitary once more as they flew hard, getting separation from the mass of Labyrinth, before shifting with precision to a chosen geodesic; and then they were gone.

It was a tough trajectory they followed, to appear in realspace in a short elapsed time, while the onboard duration would be long, a relativistic dilation they both needed, Carl and ship: one to think, the other to cope with her Pilot’s grief, both to make their preparations.

They flew on.

FORTY-FIVE

EARTH, 1940 AD

Three weeks after her journey across the North Sea - the memory a montage of seasickness, waves and fish-stink - Gavriela was sitting in a snug Oxford pub, a small pressed-cardboard suitcase at her feet, trying to understand how she had come here. Some kind of process had been set in motion, and now she was waiting, scared and happy to be meeting someone she didn’t just know but cared about.

Will he even remember me?

In Zürich he had never responded - but she had been too young; now she was a woman who could act when she had to, because opportunities were temporary, and fragile.

If he doesn’t take the initiative, I will.

In front of her was a glass of sherry, which she did not like but knew Englishwomen drank, if they entered pubs at all. All around were chattering voices, the sounds bouncing and washing around the dark bar, a sea of accents and too-fast words from which she plucked occasional minnows of meaning.

In a corner near the fireplace, an intent man was writing in a notebook. While ordering her drink, Gavriela had seen the runes he was inscribing in the middle of dense English prose. Now, from her small round table, she could hear - but not quite follow - conversations about shear forces in Gothic arches, lepidoptera speciation, the difference between polycentric hologenesis and polyphyletism, and Shakespeare’s unspeakable relationship with the Earl of Southampton. Not to mention the paucity of butter rations, the difficulty of obtaining a decent pipe tobacco, and the desirability quotient of Vera Lynn’s legs.

Two young men in RAF uniform were drinking at the bar. A much older man, from a corner table, watched them, his eyes bereft, perhaps remembering a lost son.

She adjusted the other chair at her table, and realized that someone had left a book on it. The title was Mesmerism: History and Techniques, by D.A.R. Greene, and it opened naturally at a page where someone had underlined a passage in pencil.

One may utilize extended fixation of the eyesight upon an object, the text said, such as the traditional fob watch, or indeed any bright object, to induce mesmeric trance. As a dramatic alternative, the patient may be induced to plunge into an altered state almost instantaneously, by interrupting an ingrained, automatic behaviour. This latter requires skill and timing, and has as much in common with a sporting practice, such as lawn tennis, as normal psychological technique.

It is useful for the practitioner to recognize the exterior signals of trance, viz. rapid fluttering of the eyelids, defocused eyes, and altered skin lividity. In addition, limb catalepsy is a both an indicator and a convincing—

She read on, lost in the book.

‘You can keep it if you like, dear.’ It was the barmaid, clutching more empty beer glasses than seemed possible. ‘I know the gentleman who left it. He’s off to the Army, so he won’t be coming b—I mean, it’ll be a good while before he’s back.’

‘Oh. Thank you. Let’s hope he’s all right.’

‘Yeah. You Polish, is that it?’

‘Um, sort of.’

‘Thought so. Got an ear for an accent, I have.’

Gavriela tried to smile, but the barmaid was already moving on to swap a cheeky comment with the men at the next table - the ones enamoured of Vera Lynn - and remove their empties.

What if I said I’m German?

She remembered Professor Hartmann talking about the splendour of German culture, but here Germany was the fount of bloody barbarism spilling through the world.

‘Gavi!’

It was the same intelligent eyes, though the face was older and the curly hair had receded a little.