He looked at the nearest wall. An orifice opened, tiny cilia-like protrusions inside – ready to offer nutrients, Roger assumed – then melted shut.

‘That’s very nice,’ said Roger. ‘And I’ll take your recommendation. Thank you for your help.’

‘Any time, Pilot.’

Roger walked to the ramp which flowed upward, carrying him to the next level. There, orange and white blossoms – fine-structured quickglass extrusions, he thought – arched around an eatery entrance. Inside, small nodules in the floor indicated potential table positions; only three tables were currently formed, each with a solitary diner.

Near the rear wall, he chose a nodule, cranked up the submenu in his tu-ring, and commanded a table and seat to form.

No wonder the guy thought it loaded quickly.

His tu-ring was already configured to access local services, including city-admin functions not available to the general public. Timestamps showed his ringware making adjustments since his arrival – updating out-of-date configurations, coming back into synch with Barbour.

Dad? You were here?

So many secrets when you worked in the covert world. Dad had never mentioned spending time on Molsin; yet the ringware he had transmitted in those last seconds on Fulgor showed all the signs of an earlier visit. From the number of seconds spent on re-synching today, Dad’s visit had been years or even decades ago.

Perhaps before Roger was born.

Ah, Dad.

Now the time of his parents’ existence was gone, and it was his turn. The best he could do was make a fraction of the difference that they had. To be half the man his father was: that would be good enough.

‘Trust your instincts,’ Dad had told him. ‘Uneasiness comes from deep neural processing of atavistic senses – like smelling danger – which even with modern psych techniques are hard to bring to conscious awareness. Bad vibes are your primitive brain’s way of warning your civilized self of danger. For example, don’t ever step into an enclosed space with someone who makes you feel uncertain, never mind whether it might seem impolite. The point is to remain alive.’

Roger ordered a citrola from the table, broke off the quickglass goblet when it formed, and took a sip. The sweetness gave him a flashback to Lucis Multiversity and the day he met Alisha – and Dr Helsen.

He put the goblet down.

Helsen, and the day he first heard those nine strange notes: da, da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da. Perhaps it was not just the taste of citrola flinging him back into the past. Earlier, with Bod in the reception hall, he had – for a moment – caught the end of that sequence, and told himself it was imagination.

… da-da.

It was not sound, no more than the darkness twisting around Helsen had been an optical phenomenon. Instead, his perception came from synaesthetic processing in his brain – like people sensing auras or vibes – delivering exotic data translated to a mode he could recognize, much as his tu-ring used adapters and façades to link to Barbour’s local services.

If Dad were here, he would tell Roger to trust himself.

‘Shit.’

He tapped his tu-ring.

‘Jed? Listen to me.’

Roger knew that, to make his report, Jed would have to re-enter mu-space, and establish signals contact with a group of seven ships due to arrive in several hours. Before that, he would have to complete the formalities here in Barbour. Or he could try talking to local law-enforcement authorities, but he would need more than Roger’s fleeting auditory hallucination to convince them of danger.

Roger understood that.

‘I’ll wait in the city,’ he told Jed. ‘Just in case.’

Catching a glimpse or echo of a single darkness-controlled individual in a teeming sky-city was unlikely; but if he left, the chances dropped to zero. Plus Alisha was here.

Still sitting in the Orange Blossom, he ordered a pair of smartlenses – his tu-ring indicating that he had a substantial cash reserve: monies deposited by Dad and earning interest – and when they rose through the tabletop, he unwrapped them and popped them onto his eyes.

There. No longer a Pilot standing out from everybody else.

Conjuring a holospace, he created a virtual sketch –for his eyes only, invisible to other diners –and outlined Dr Petra Helsen’s features. Once he had approximated the colour of her eyes and hair, he collapsed the image in cache; then he set about ordering food.

He believed someone in Barbour was infected by the darkness, hence the auditory phenomenon. Perhaps it was not Helsen, but someone local, a stranger. He did not know which to hope for: a profusion of darkness-controlled individuals, or Helsen’s escaping the catastrophe she had caused.

I’ll find you, bitch. If it is you.

He forced himself to eat, his thoughts still of Helsen. It took a while to realize that a woman with silver-and violet-striped hair was staring at him from another table.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘I beg your pardon, Pilot. Don’t let me distract you.’

Her voice was wonderful. She was older than he was, though by how many years, he could not guess.

‘How did you know I’m a Pilot?’

‘I saw you’ –smiling, her chin dipping – ‘put the lenses in. I assume you want to blend in, so I shouldn’t call you Pilot, should I?’

‘Er …’

‘I’m Leeja,’ she said. ‘Leeja Rigelle. Would you like me to join you? I can tell you about places to go and all.’

Everything was serious and confusing. He had no time for making friends with anyone, no matter how charming, or how intelligent the dance of light in their eyes might be.

‘Yes, please,’ he added.

A second chair morphed into place as she came over.

‘I’m Roger Blackstone,’ he found himself saying.

Her hand – man-meeting-woman implied a handshake rather than touching fists – felt soft when he took it. Her eyes widened; perhaps his did likewise.

‘Um … Shall I order food?’ he asked.

‘I’ve pretty much finished,’ said Leeja. ‘I’ll have a drink with you, though. Is that the remains of a citrola?’

‘Er, yes.’

Two fresh citrolas rose through the tabletop.

‘You want to take a walk afterwards along the main thoroughfares?’ said Leeja. ‘I’ll show you how to read the morph-plan annotations.’

‘Annotations on what exactly?’

‘On holomaps. If you live on board a quickglass sky-city, you’re amid architecture that’s always morphing. Main routes change slowly, but even the overall city-shape changes over time. There are fifty-three levels of authorization to determine who’s allowed to cause what alterations.’

‘That’s … different,’ said Roger.

‘For you.’ Leeja gave a sort of mature simper (for even her facial expressions were new to Roger). ‘We live with, well, fluidity. Static surroundings make me feel edgy. Have you ever been to Earth?’

‘Er, no.’

‘It was interesting – I went there on holiday – but I was very glad to get back home.’

‘So …’ Roger tried for an intelligent question. ‘Does that mean you can alter your own dwelling’s layout, but not this place, for instance?’

‘Actually, I’ve a one-hundredth share in the Orange Blossom’s ownership. But the main hall outside’ – Leeja gestured – ‘requires city council oversight for every amendment. There’s a core principle of keeping the centre of mass well-defined and sensibly located.’

‘So you can’t shift all the quickglass mass to one end of the city?’

‘Exactly. Have you finished your citrola?’

‘Er, almost.’ He swigged down the last of it. ‘All done.’

‘Then I’ll show you my city,’ she said.

At some point as they walked, Roger smothered a laugh at the sight of orange pennants outside a confectionery shop: on Fulgor, such pennants had signified porn stores offering off-Skein perversions. He felt no need to share that information. But Leeja, her arm tucked in his, said: ‘I don’t like it when I don’t know what you’re thinking.’