

Hurt World One

& the

Zombie Rats

Stuart Parker

Copyright © 2016 by Stuart Parker

Cover Design: SelfPubBookCovers.com/Daniela

Year: 2092

1 Risk and acquisition

The Savage Alliance board meeting was being conducted on the fifty forth floor of the newly built Grey Uncle Tower's in downtown Zurich. The view from the single pane of glass that wrapped the entire floor was one of the most expensive in the world - as much for the quality of its glass as for the picturesque scene featuring Lake Zurich and the distant snowcapped Alps. It was Sheer Diamond glass, strong enough to withstand missile and laser-acid attacks, but more importantly for a company such as Savage Alliance, it was impervious to all manner of X-wave and Sonar spy-intrusion. It helped ensure that what was said within the board meeting remained secure. To the same end, the conference room was devoid of wall paintings and any other forms of decoration. To Haddad Caixa, the Savage Alliance's President, such niceties were simply not worth the risk they created. Art, he would say, was merely a breeding ground for bugs, of the surveillance kind. And besides, in Caixa's mind the real art in the room was the power being wielded, the type of power that only came with being one of the world's biggest companies. A power to influence world events, perhaps even to control them. The truest kind of power: that which was impervious to the law.

Caixa was tall and slender. He had neatly combed velvety black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His complexion had a radiant sheen, the frequent plasma skin treatments having removed any sense of aging from his complexion. He was resplendently dressed in an Italian black silk suit. He stood confidently at the foot of Conference Room One's immaculately polished Mahogany long table. 'Now ladies and gentlemen' he said, 'let's move on to the main business of the day.'

The twelve Ministers of the Board sitting attentively around the table were also immaculately presented: to a person they were rich, ambitious and ruthless. Caixa, with all his sleekness and confidence, stood before them as a beacon of success. One of Europe's super-wealthy. He held his hands out to them. 'This room has been the location in which many a grand project has been unveiled. Savage Alliance wouldn't be the organisation it is now if not for most of those schemes having been bold, brilliant and successful. We are gathered here today in this hallowed room for the announcement of the next great venture in our company's illustrious history.' He gestured to a woman sitting closest to him at the table. 'The Minister for Risk and Acquisition will conduct the briefing.'

President Caixa sat down and the Minister for Risk and Acquisition rose to take his place at the head of the table. She was a demure, intensely serious woman of Middle Eastern extraction. Although quite short, she stamped her presence with bright colour: orange tints in her black shoulder length hair, a fiery red blazer and ebullient opals set into a gold rolo-chain necklace.

'Thank you, President Caixa,' she said. On the thought-activated table screen she brought up the latest stock results. 'Fellow ministers, we are all aware of our ongoing positioning to break into the Big Ten Trade Index. You will also be aware that we have been on the verge for quite some time. Our investments in technology, medicine and real estate have all been skillfully managed. But also there have been complications. Our weapons and military medicine investments have remained stubbornly unproductive. The good President put me on assignment some months ago to look into what can be done to spice them up. I have found a small crack of opportunity and I intend to pry it open into a gaping hole.'

Applause broke out amongst the board members. 'We were beginning to fear this announcement would never come,' said the Minister for Employment excitedly.

The Minister for Risk and Acquisition stared at her dispassionately a long moment before murmuring, 'I am sure you will appreciate that at this stage and even in Conference Room One confidentiality must be maintained. We have assembled you here not for a detailed briefing but rather for a heads-up. And when the moment for action arrives - which I assure you it will - there are two words I want you to remember: don't hesitate.'

The ministers looked expectantly amongst themselves. The Minister for Risk and Acquisition glanced out the window at a drone flittering around the exterior of the building in yet another security measure - set to automatic kill, it was not something to be trifled with.

President Caixa was meanwhile rising back to his feet. 'Did you hear that everyone?' He slammed the table with his fist. 'Don't hesitate.' He let the words soak in. 'I became President of Savage Alliance with just one goal in mind: to break into the Big Ten Trade Index. And I have assembled the team to do it.' He looked around the ministers and nodded. 'You people right here. The codename of the mission is Operation Advance. When your instructions come, you will have a 24 hour window to implement them.' His eyes bore down on a silver haired man halfway down the table. 'Minister for Communications, I will want your best work on this one. When we make our play for the top ten, all the world's eyes will be upon us. I want the messages we send out in return to be meaningful and pure.'

'Will our actions be pure?' replied the Minister for Communication in all seriousness.

Caixa shrugged. 'There will be a pureness to our aggression. But let's keep that to ourselves.' He returned his attention to the entirety of the group. 'As of this moment, I have raised the security level to 5, which means you must remain connected to the System twenty four hours a day. If anyone drops off line for any reason, he or she will be erased.'

Mouths opened to protest, but no one was so reckless as to let a word slip out.

'Entry into the Big Ten Trade Index will change our lives in so many ways,' said Caixa. 'The rules and laws that apply to other companies will suddenly become mere playthings for us. A privileged position of power in which all trade becomes Free Trade.'

'There hasn't been a shift in the top ten in fifteen years,' said the Minister for Technology. 'So, whatever move you intend to make, I can only assume it is significant.'

'I would estimate an additional two trillion New Dollars added to our books,' said the Minister for Risk and Acquisition, 'but that is only an element of the operation.'

'Just so long as you are aware we do not have the leverage to raise that kind of purchasing power. Not with any reliable degree of risk management.'

'We are well aware of the kind of leverage at our disposal,' snapped Caixa. 'Our plan has been analysed and approved by the Super Strategic Computer. The plan is in fact already underway.'

'Did you receive my report about Missile Abduction Technologies that you requested?' queried the Minister for the Trade. 'Is that part of the strategy?'

Caixa smirked. 'You have all played your part with your own particular responsibilities and talents. And there is more to do. This briefing must necessarily be limited in its scope but I ask you to keep faith and to know that the company you work for has large plans.' He turned and marched for the door. 'Very large plans.'

'Faith?' murmured the Minister for Finance once Caixa had left the room. She looked sternly to the Minister for Risk and Acquisition. 'I just hope you know what you're doing. Playing off against the companies in the Big Ten Trade Index is fraught with danger. It has been tried before by other companies with resources equal to ours and the results have been decidedly ugly.'

'I'm aware of that,' the Minister for Risk and Acquisition replied, 'and I intend to buck that trend with a little ugliness of my own. Have a pleasant afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.' She headed nonchalantly for the door too, leaving behind on the table screen an image of a giant, fearsome looking rat.

2 A Jungle of death

Claps of thunder were shuddering through the small Russian made Disposable Jet, the aircraft pitching disconcertedly in the gale force winds. The all too frequent bolts of lightning were illuminating the dense black cloud within which the aircraft was immersed. The lightning was also illuminating the large cracks emerging in the Disposable Jet's ultra-light wings - the Disposable Jet was simply not designed for the intensity of storm cells. Still, for the pilot and solitary occupant of the jet there had been no temptation to go around the storm. Mas had spent time and money in acquiring the coordinates displayed on her military-grade wrist-computer and she wasn't going anywhere else. The computer told her there were still ten miles to destination. A red light began flashing on the console panel. Disposable aircraft did not carry sophisticated warning systems at the best of times, and for this base entry model, its solitary warning light could have been in response to practically anything. Mas, however, suspected that it meant her journey was about to fall ten miles short and that at thirty thousand feet above the darkest corner of the Panama Jungle her journey was about to become vertical. She tied back her long blonde hair as she readied herself for the fall. She was a strong, fit woman in her late twenties and she was listed in the United Nation's criminal rankings as the world's most wanted poacher. With the top ranking came a one million New Dollar bounty on her head, pooled by twelve different countries, including her native South Africa. But she was not frightened by it. She had been raised in the vast Congolese Forests, and had been raised by them. Discomfort and danger had always been with her and she viewed them like family. She looked at the flashing red warning light and was strangely soothed by its gentle rhythm. Cracks were opening up in the control console around it. Without weldings or premium glues, the craft was surrendering its joints to the hostile winds whipping in over the jungle.

Mas took a red backpack from under her seat and put it on. She devoted valuable time to ensuring it was fastened tight, for it was the only thing from the aircraft that she did not consider disposable. She readied a hand at the emergency eject handle and with her other hand pulled down her tech goggles over her eyes. Data glowed on the lenses in bold green. The main number that caught her attention was the eight miles until her destination - eight miles of treacherous jungle. Mas pulled the handle and was shot out into the buffeting winds of the storm. She fell blind through the tumultuous darkness, but after the confines of the aircraft she found terminal velocity liberating. And she could be comforted by the knowledge there was nothing base-model about the descent vest she was wearing over her black bodysuit: small pockets of super-treated helium would activate at five hundred feet and she would touch ground as though being lowered by a gentle hand. That was unless lightning turned her into cinders first. And there was certainly enough of it about, the sky literally humming with electricity.

Mas, however, fell calmly. Even while still at terminal velocity, she was absorbed by the alerts on screen, informing her of what lay between her position and the target coordinates. Most importantly, there was a group of people - 6 males and 2 females - located very close to the final destination. Mas suspected she would meet them soon enough. Scattered about the jungle before them, as an added consideration, were 188 snakes, 341 scorpions, 2596 rats and 54 giant spiders. But the species Mas's attention settled on with a frown were the clumps of Killer Belizean Fireflies. The display screen simply listed them as swarming, which meant that even with this level of sensory technology, there were simply too many to count. Mas fell into memories of her past encounters with the fireflies' work: animals as large as fully grown elephants with their internal organs completely holed out. And people too. Faces frozen in eternal agony and bewilderment, their bodies grotesquely hollowed out. It had only ever been like that, indirect contact, which went some way to explaining why Mas had survived them. Concocted in a military laboratory, the Belizean fireflies somehow escaped - or so the story went - and soon became prevalent over large swathes of South America. The rumour went that the fireflies had been developed to keep human activity out of forested regions. If so, the success was undeniable: it was no coincidence there were so few people being detected in the jungle below, for the killer fireflies were indiscriminate in which creatures they attacked, and a swarm of them gouging a hole through someone's body was a death worth avoiding.

Mas dropped down through the jungle canopy to its muddy floor where her feet touched ground with an easy step. She immediately removed her backpack and zipped it open; a large brown and white Wedge Tailed eagle jumped up from it onto Mas's arm and unfurled its broad, elegant wings. 'Sorry about the bumpy ride, Zelda,' Mas murmured. 'There was too much lightning for you to do it by yourself.' She attached to one of its talons a small black metallic capsule that was shaped like a hand grenade. Once the capsule was secure, Mas launched the eagle into the air. She paused a moment to be sure it had taken to flight before breaking into a hard run, following the 3D direction arrows on her goggles' navigation display. She was a natural runner and even in the midst of dense jungle struck a bounding rhythm that she could hold for mile after mile. Her bodysuit was coming into its own then. The soft, ultra-light material was a hundred times stronger than skin and would protect her from the worst of what the jungle had to offer – that was apart from bullets or Belizean fireflies.

The pounding rain was intensifying still. It was a good night to remain in shelter and most the jungle's creatures seemed to be doing just that, the usual howls, cries and rhythms all but absent. There did, however, emerge a sound other than that generated by the storm: a low-pitched humming noise, just barely detectable at first but quickly growing louder, approaching from the south. There was something ominously familiar about it, perhaps not the sound, but the feeling of danger that accompanied it. Mas flung herself to the ground and froze. A swarm of Killer Belizean Fireflies streaked by overhead, an organism of a thousand tiny lights, effortlessly weaving in and out of the vegetation. It was a chillingly beautiful sight that could have easily been Mas's last. The rain and her bodysuit must have conspired to conceal her scent; there was no other explanation a swarm would come so close without striking. Mas was enthralled, stealing a glance at what had been the death-view for so many countless thousands. And it was likely to become millions if the swarms ever migrated out of the jungles. The eerie lights of this particular swarm tailed away inland on its relentless quest, a tentacle with a thousand spears.

Mas held her position a moment longer before picking herself up and recommencing her pursuit of pointing arrows through the jungle. It wasn't lost on her that the fireflies had her running towards a destination of extreme danger as though it were some kind of sanctuary. The first scent of the sea was quickly overpowered by a noxious, sickly sweet chemical odour that resembled a cheap, stale perfume applied to an armpit. It marked her arrival at her coordinates. Mas's weapon of choice was a laser-acid gun nestled in a holster against the small of her back and it slipped neatly to hand as she moved forward into a clearing. Visibility was poor, her goggles struggling to focus on anything. But then they locked onto the shapes of people: all eight that had been detected in free fall were there, sitting around a campfire under a fluttering canopy. Also under the canopy were racks laden with fishing rods, tackle and nets and some of the fruits of their labour were being grilled. The smells were mouthwatering, strong enough even to break through the chemical stench being emitted from the canisters on all four corners of the camp.

'Do you take reservations?' Mas said, removing her goggles and stepping in under the canopy.

All heads turned. Icy cold expressions.

Mas held her gun up threateningly. 'Be careful,' she warned. 'It's rude to point at strangers. Especially when it's a gun.'

There was a gruff chuckle from the man sitting on the log closest to the fire. He had piercing black eyes and a long brown beard that completely hid his mouth even when he was laughing. 'And yet you are content to point a gun at us,' he said.

'True, but only because you are not strangers to me'

'Is that so?'

'You go by the name of Dragon Tay, the captain of this sorry looking pirate crew.'

The eyes narrowed murderously. 'Am I?'

'Maybe she's come to arrest us for our dinner,' said one of the crew flippantly, leaning forward on his log. 'It's a twenty year sentence these days for catching and consuming tuna.'

'That would be a difficult arrest,' said Tay menacingly. 'The nearest prison is a long way from here.'

'I didn't say anything about being a cop,' muttered Mas. 'In fact, I'm not dissimilar to you.'

'How?'

I'm a poacher.'

Tay was not cheered by the revelation. At least police had some concept of rules and protocols. There was nothing wilder than a poacher. Living long stretches in wilderness, they were usually just as wild as the animals they hunted. Nothing better than undomesticated gangsters. Capable of anything. 'What's your specialty?' he queried.

'Elephants a lucrative market this year. I had a wedding in Delhi that took twenty of them. That job alone paid fifty thousand New Dollars. Finding twenty elephants these days though isn't easy. We had to break into zoos to fulfil the order. A bloody business but profitable enough.'

'I am just a humble smuggler,' said Jay, 'but I have worked with my share of poachers – when cages have needed filling. I do not believe I have worked with you but I may have heard of you. Tell me who you are.'

'I grew up in places as remote as this and my name is not on the System. And that's the way it's going to stay. So we're not going to get too chatty.'

'I know who she is,' said one of the two women in the group. 'Her name is Mas. She is dangerous. She'll kill us all without a second thought.'

If Tay was concerned, he didn't show it. He leaned over the fire to tend to the tuna with a sharp metal prod. He gave Mas a half-glance and murmured, 'I wonder what animals could bring you to these parts. There is nothing but those damned fireflies. Or are you hiding like us? If it is that then you are welcome to sit by our fire. You'll find that the CO10 gas keeps the fireflies at bay alright.'

Mas screwed up her face. 'It also brings on hallucinations and rather unpleasant seizures. Unpleasant in the sense that bones have been known to break. Ribs, I am led to believe, can make quite a crack.'

Tay frowned. 'Rum seems to keep people nice and steady and we've got plenty of that. Sure it's not a likely way to live forever, but there isn't anyone here who has been making plans for that. And I dare say you are not too. Running through firefly infested jungles in weather like this is not the mindset of a long, healthy career.'

'Well, I'm not here to sit by your fire and it's not one of the creatures in this forest lame after.'

'Then what?'

Mas eyed him coldly. 'Your boat.'

'The Zopez?'

'Two years ago you traded for it with Indian gold on the black market in Tangiers.'

Tay spat with anger. 'What's it to you?'

'You are a living, breathing example of the dangers of doing business on the black market. You see, before the vessel was rebranded the Zopez, it had another name: the Kudos.'

'So?'

'It was a smuggling vessel back then as well. Mostly around the Mediterranean. It was carrying weapons and diamonds bound for Russia when it was attacked by pirates. It disappeared without a trace. That was fifty years ago. Did your purchase come with the skeletons thrown in? The crew was never found.'

Tay's voice darkened. 'How do you know such things?'

'Because your boat is just what I'm looking for. I want to hire it along with your crew.'

'That's why you came all this way? And on a night like this?'

'You'll be paid well. A million New Dollars for the crew. And a million for the Kudos.'

'It's the Zopez. And we would never take on a job that pays that well.'

'Wouldn't we?' said one of the crew.

'No, we wouldn't, because when it comes to pay up, eight bullets may seem too good a value to pass up. Anyway, we have orders to fill. Tigers for a school in Dubai. Horses for a carnival in Palermo.'

'And more nights with toxic gas while unfriendly fireflies circle?' queried Mas.

'We have other hiding places.'

'Your life will be the death of you, I guarantee it - unless you break away, make a fresh start. My job doesn't involve tigers or horses. Nothing better than a colony of a few thousand giant rats. But the money is real, enough to retire on.'

'Did you say a colony of rats?' Tay chuckled disparagingly. 'Well, you've come to the right place, at least. I saw giant rat ran under that log just a moment ago.' As he distracted Mas with a pointing finger, he pulled a gun from his boot. The movement was fast and masked within the flickering shadows of the campfire. Mas was only just sensing the assault with the gun already pointing at her. A gunshot rang out from the fringe of the camp, sounding little different from the numerous claps of thunder - the thud at the end of it, however, was grotesquely unique, the sound of a human head exploding. The gun fell out of Tay's hand and what was left of his body crumpled down off the log. The crew around him sprung to their feet in horror.

'I warned him not to point anything at me,' said Mas. 'Now he knows why.'

'We get the message,' said one of the crew members. 'And we would love to be your crew.'

'But why do you need us?' bravely called out another. 'You obviously aren't alone.'

'A poacher is always alone,' replied Mas. She held out her arm and Zelda swooped down from the tree branch it had been perched on.

All eyes moved from the Wedge Tail eagle to the deadly smoking capsule bound to its talon. Mas fed the eagle some seed from a pocket. 'I do have a pet though.'

The woman who had recognised Mas stepped boldly forward. 'There is no longer the slightest doubt you are who I said. I am Titov, the First Mate.' She bowed formally. 'I am sorry Captain Tay got himself killed. But I always feared he would one day get us killed as well. As you came to see, there was recklessness in his actions.'

'Yes, Captain Titov, there was.'

Titov smirked, liking the sound of her new title. 'I dare say it is better for you he is dead. He was a proud man and unlikely to take orders. A blade at your throat while you slept would have been a distinct possibility.'

'I am a light sleeper.'

'I do not doubt it. If any of the rumours I have heard about you are true, you will be a leader worth following. I assume you are still interested in hiring a crew.'

'That's right' Mas looked amongst the crew for any signs of dissent. 'Is the boat fueled and ready for departure?'

'Yes,' replied Titov. 'We always have the Zopez ready for a quick departure.'

'Good because that is exactly what I want.'

One of the crew knelt urgently by the fire, poking the tuna with his prongs. 'But dinner is almost ready.'

The eyes of the crew were imploring. Mas wondered how long since they had last eaten. 'Very well,' she said. 'If you think you will be able to hold it down in rough seas.' She shook Zelda back into flight and it returned to watch over her from its perch within the trees. Mas looked around for a place to sit; the only free log was the one Tay had been pointing at. Mas stepped that way but hesitated. 'Is there really a rat under there?'

3 Cold comfort in the sauna

Haddad Caixa caught up with the Minister for Risk and Acquisition in the executive sauna. For a moment, he was not quite sure it was her, for she was looking much younger with her makeup off and her hair down, and what skin was visible beyond the white wraparound towel was far more supple and alluring than her stiff, sharply tailored suits gave her credit for. Indeed, for just one moment, standing in the doorway of the sauna, Caixa pondered what it would have been like to have an affair with her, but he quickly banished the thought from mind: an affair with the Minister for Risk and Acquisition would simply be too ridiculous to ever live down.

'Jalanti, may I join you?' he asked, breaking protocol by using her first name.

The Minister for Risk and Acquisition was momentarily caught off guard, having been lost in a daydream. She sat up on her bench and tested that the towel around her body was secure. 'You may,' she said.

Caixa was wearing only a towel as well, but to Jalanti's unease he was not quite so vigilant with its knots. She looked away awkwardly as he took position on a white marble block close to her. Caixa inhaled a deep lungful of the warm steamy air and nodded his head approvingly. 'There is a lemon infusion, is there not?

'Yes,' Jalanti said, 'And I added lavender as well.'

'I would recommend a dash of Chemical 5. It is not necessarily legal but wonderfully refreshing.'

'You are a connoisseur of the senses,' Jalanti murmured, overcoming her reluctance and locking eyes onto him.

'Yes, I suppose I am. In this business, it is certainly an asset. So, tell me how you think your briefing to the board was received.'

Jalanti pondered this question a moment. 'I sensed enthusiasm. I could see in their eyes that they wanted to know more.'

'And they will ask you for more; they will make it sound vital that you tell them more. You must resist them no matter what.'

'Because you think we will fail?'

'This is not the first time there has been a move inside Savage Alliance for the Big 10 Index. And as you are aware we haven't made it yet.'

'What brought failure to the plans in the past?'

Caixa shrugged. 'There were complications.'

'My plan is not complicated. It is simple and clean and there is nothing I can see that will interfere with it.'

'Fair enough. Nevertheless, it is the unforeseen that must give us pause.'

'The President is scared?'

Caixa wiped the perspiration of his forehead with the back of his hand. 'The unforeseen is a tiger stalking in tall grass. No matter whether or not you fear it, the tiger is stalking.'

Jalanti was not about to get into a poetry recital session with a Harvard graduate. ´I would be interested to know where the President sees the possibility of trouble. Perhaps, there are extra measures I can take.'

'You mean, where do I suspect the grass is longest?'

Jalanti nodded.

Caixa answered quickly, not needing to think. 'This poacher Mas is quite a curiosity. Do you really think she has what it takes to complete the mission?'

'She saved the last wild snow monkey in China. A businessman had put a bounty on its head. A very large one. He was convinced that being the last, its brains would contain mystical properties. Mas tracked it down to a monastery in remote mountain range and smuggled it to the Las Angeles High Security Zoo. With the obscene amounts of money involved, it was little wonder the body count was so high.'

Caixa frowned. 'To think someone would want to eat the last living specimen of a species.'

'Unfortunately, his appetite lived to see another meal, but a lot of people working for him were not so lucky. There was a trail of blood and wreckage from China all the way to the zoo.'

'That is not the kind of publicity Savage Alliance is looking for.'

'She has never been recorded on the System. Not a shred of DNA or even a picture. She lives in the same jungles she hunts her prey. She is truly wild.'

'Then are you sure you have employed the real Mas? If the System can't identity her, what chance do you have?'

Jalanti considered this question carefully. 'She'll need to be her. Operation Advance has started in earnest and she is in it up to her neck. Me too, I suppose.'

'The difference is you're the Minister for Risk and Acquisition. Your job is to take risks and make acquisitions. And for that you are well rewarded.'

Jalanti nodded. 'Although I am taking risks, I want to assure you that Savage Alliance is not. I have only met Mas once and she is under the impression I am the front for a consortium of bankers. The cover will stand up to a rudimentary check, which I suspect is all that a poacher is capable of.'

'Be careful not to underestimate this woman,' said Caixa. 'If you think you have lured her with the thickness of your money roll, just remember she had the opportunity to cash in handsomely on the snow monkey bounty and yet she chose a trip to the zoo.' He shook his head. 'So, do not get too close to her. More importantly, do not let her get too close to Savage Alliance. Try to pat a wild creature like that, you're going to lose a hand.' He inexplicably broke into a broad grin. 'Having said that, she sounds perfect for the job.'

4 The Stamford Transaction Facilitators

The man didn't care if the police stopped him, for he had a gold badge to flash them: Harry Murtle of the CIA. If that didn't work, he also carried gold coins with which to bribe them. He had his hands in his pockets, surreptitiously holding onto both. He was plump and anemic looking. He walked with a slight limp which he tried to make a swagger. He had well-groomed black hair streaked with grey and he wore a stylish dark blue suit. He certainly liked to think he stood out in this grim Guatemalan coastal village, where illegal fishing crews and smugglers predominated. The town's name was San Paul. The few people out and about on its unswept streets were keeping their distance from him and their eyes to themselves, apparently assuming he was either a police officer dressing up or a gangster dressing down. The building the man was heading to was constructed of thick grey concrete and all its windows were barred. Ostensibly it was to keep out the tropical storms but in a town like this customers were attracted for other reasons by the impenetrability of its windows and walls. The man stopped at its entrance and scanned over the list of proprietors trading from its ten floors. His eyes stopped on the Desear on the ninth floor. The inscription underneath read Tapas and Spanish wine. The man withdrew slowly across the street to a corner opposite doused in later afternoon shadow, and there he stood and watched and waited.

*

'I do not think we should be docking at this port,' said Titov, the new captain of the Zopez. 'It is very dangerous. And I am not talking about currents or reefs.'

Mas was glad to hear the concern in her voice. It sounded just about right. She had made a down payment on the crew's services that she had hoped was enough to keep them interested in their work while still retaining enough money in the pot to keep them interested in success - and it took a lot to keep her interested in a lousy job like this. She had learnt early on in her life within the harsh Congolese badlands that it was the lower, weaker creatures in the food chain that relied so much upon camouflage and deception for their survival. In so called civilisation, there weren't many creatures able to evolve beyond that point. Jungles were better than banks to try. But the problem was jungles were getting smaller and towns like San Paul were getting larger.

Mas gazed out across the port, less than a kilometre away now. A few lights had already come on, even though the night was still an hour away. The boats moored to the piers remained inactive. Illegal fishing was best done at night when the fish were biting and the police were not. For many of the boats, old and rusty, it seemed like the piers were holding them up; the houses lining the foreshore weren't in much better shape, their fronts filthy and dilapidated. Mas, however, was not fooled by appearances: there was profit enough in illegal fishing and no doubt beyond the closed doors and shuttered windows there would be good living and the weapons to protect it.

'Dock there,' said Mas, pointing to a free berth at the end of one of the piers.

Titov hesitated. 'If we are simply here for provisions, there are other ports in Guatemala that I'd recommend over this one. The cops here are particularly hard on strangers; they have to be, for they have been paid off so handsomely by the locals.'

'I am meeting someone here so there is no going around it. But I am happy for you to stay aboard.'

'You had better take your bird then. You might find there is some unfriendly pointing your way in this town.'

Mas nodded. 'I will take my eagle.'

Titov hurried from their position at the port side bow to take control of the bridge. Mas meanwhile set about climbing the vessels lookout tower, which, owing to the boat's illicit line of work, was particularly high. It provided an expansive view over the town and she took it in with a hunter's eye. The town did not occupy a large area of land and yet all the dwellings were squashed together as though engaged in a competition to push each other over. Beyond the town was grassland for as far as the eye could see - a buffer from the killer fireflies, which once had terrorised these parts. It left Mas feeling uncomfortably exposed, for there was no cover of trees should something go wrong. She gazed down at the boat beneath her and found no comfort there either. The Zopez was an old, creaking cargo boat that had been lucky to make it through the black market without being sold for scrap. At least the missile she had set up on the lookout tower platform packed a punch. Mas tested the missile launcher's purchase on the platform and once satisfied held out her arm and Zelda promptly landed upon it.

'Where have you been?' Mas queried, feeding her some worms from out of her pocket. 'I suppose as soon as we are in sight of land, you are up circling the sky, looking for prey. In this town I do not think you will be disappointed.'

*

Titov steered the Zopez into dock with an assured hand and Mas was ready, leaping over the side-railing and into an easy walk without missing a stride. Over her body suit she wore loose fitting cream shirt and trousers with deep pockets that hid her weapons well, particularly the laser-acid gun she was gripping down at her thigh. She ignored the lingering looks coming her way from the unsavoury looking men loitering about the docks and the adjoining streets. They could look but not touch. And if a man broke that one simple rule, she would hurt him without compunction. She was not one to flirt with.

She reached the nondescript concrete building with the Desear Restaurant on the ninth floor and, as the entrance door slid open for her, she stepped into the scanning room. A blue X-ray beam swirled around in a whirlpool of colour and a small slot opened in one of the metal walls. There came a voice command in the kind of Spanish referred to as Spangish, which Mas did not understand except for amla which meant weapon. She dropped her laser-acid gun, stick bombs and knives into it and a large door at the back of the room opened. She moved through the doorway into a lavish foyer of royal blue carpet and strikingly provocative abstract portraitures on the walls.

'Good evening, madam,' said the maître de, stepping forward to greet her. He was immaculately dressed in a black silk suit and his hair was oiled even blacker. His skin had the hard marble look of laser skin treatment done too cheap.

'I am a guest of Gustavo Fall,' said Mas.

The sly sneer she received in return was familiar enough. All towns like San Paul had at least one such restaurant, a place where most things to be purchased did not appear on a menu. And it appeared the maître de had already been paid.

'Come this way, madam.'

Mas was led into an elevator that stunk of tobacco smoke and perspiration. It was a quick trip to the ninth floor. The restaurant that emerged from the elevator doors was breathtakingly beautiful with luscious green carpet and tables draped in rich Persian silk table cloths upon which the silverware gleamed. The few diners already in the restaurant were contributing to the spectacle with seemingly every earlobe, neck and wrist, of both males and females, taken up with diamonds, gems and gold - this was a detail Mas was lacking, but she was not the type to worry about things that glittered, for to her way of thinking they were just more examples of things taken from nature and tamed.

The maître de led her to a table near one of the large plasma-windows, which was currently showing a superbly colourful tropical beach at sunset, the colours exceptionally vivid - and they could be enhanced still further for anyone able to afford the optical implants. The maître de seated Mas and was promptly replaced by the waiter. Mas ordered Russian vodka with Canadian ice. She found it amusing: two of the biggest rivals in the First Artic War now coalescing perfectly within her crystal glass. Mas closed her eyes to sip the drink and savour it. And she kept her eyes closed a while longer, for her memory was more vivid than any plasma-window, taking her back to the jungles of her youth with the sounds ranging from the lonely cries of solitary apes to the mad laughter of hyenas. For Mas, they were the sounds of home.

Footsteps approaching the table encroached upon the moment, compelling Mas's eyes open again. It was the waiter, bringing on his silver tray an oversized floral porcelain bowl.

'Gustavo Fall has been briefly detained,' he explained, 'and he humbly requests you to start the entre without him.' He rested the tray on the table and slid the bowl across to Mas. 'Soup of the Day is seafood. Enjoy.'

Mas gazed down at the soup curiously. The thick brown liquid did not look particularly inviting. And Mas couldn't quite place the smell. Something vaguely fishy. Probably the day's catch brought in on the back of an oil slick. Mas eyed her spoon with a kind of revulsion. She was a poacher. She liked hunting big animals and throwing them on the fire and eating them with her fingers. Anything else was too convoluted for her liking. She was still gazing at the soup when she noticed a series of bubbles moving along its surface. It seemed peculiar. Was the soup still boiling? She cautiously touched the side of the bowl to test its temperature - it was dead cold. Mas's eyes widened as she sensed danger. She started to pull back from the bowl just as the tiny scorpion lobster sprung out of the soup. Its legs attached onto her neck and the spike on the tip of its tail plunged into the skin. Mas grabbed it and ripped it away, but she knew it was too late: the poison would be in her system and it was fast acting. Her blood was already turning noxious, a foul taste in her mouth and she could feel her heart pressing up against her tongue. Her attempts to get up off the chair were doomed from the start. The poison was washing through her muscles, leaving her with nothing. Her eyes rolled into unconsciousness and she collapsed onto the table, her face landing flush in the soup.

The waiter was back at the table: he stroked her hair a moment before using a clump to pull her head out of the soup. He looked around at the other diners in the restaurant, daring them to look up from their own plates. But no one took up the challenge. A nervous hush had fallen over the tables.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said the waiter in a dull, flat voice, 'it seems our soup has quite a bite to it today.'

*

'Come and join us,' came a voice through the darkness. 'The anti-venom is taking effect. You are still on the right side of oblivion.'

Mas felt herself returning to consciousness on the back of the voice. It was the waiter's voice. She didn't like how comfortable and assured it was sounding. She would have an enemy more vulnerable than that.

She opened her eyes to see that she was handcuffed to a chair and her arm hooked by intravenous drip to a champagne glass containing a cloudy pink liquid. Her heart beat quickened and she forced herself to take a deep calming breath to slow it back down. Then set about taking in her surroundings. It was a small dark room with evenly spread box-windows and a rhythmical hum of engine emanating from the arched metal ceiling. It was the inside of an aircraft. A cargo hold. But there was no sensation of forward movement. The aircraft must have been hovering. Possibly a magno-chopper. Mas's neck was starting to throb with pain where the scorpion lobster had bitten her. The handcuffs kept her from rubbing it. Leaning into her shoulder was the best she could do.

The waiter was standing beside her. He was dressed in the same black shirt and trousers though now was without the apron. Mas realized the apron had been hiding a paunch and a gun holstered at his hip. The man had thick brown hair, hard eyes and a crooked nose. Mas guessed he had a military background or in law enforcement. Judging by his method of snaring her, he was well versed in dirty tactics.

'Who are you?' she snapped.

'My name is Mlit Hopital,' said the man calmly. 'And the name of the creature you encountered in your soup is Scorpius Acquakillus. The scientific name that is.'

'I'm into science too,' Mas spat. 'I'm particularly fond of thanatology.'

'Please do not be like that. Although the poison injected into you is fatal, the antidote is reliable. You are in no danger. I have even had the soup washed from your face and hair. You see, your face fell into the soup.'

Chuckles directed Mas's attention to the cargo hold's other occupants. They were standing back behind Hopital. Two females and one male. The male was familiar to Mas, having been loitering out on the street when she first approached the Desear Restaurant. Obviously he had been a spotter. Mas glared at him and tugged furiously on her restraints. 'Let me go.'

'Soon,' said Hopital. 'This extreme measure has only been authorised by the firm because you are such an extreme client. You see, although the scorpion lobster poison comes with an antidote, the toxin you are seeking to purchase does not. Dr Gustavo Fall does not feel comfortable conducting the transaction himself. And with good reason. There are many dangerous operators in the black market who are quite ruthless in the way they tie up loose ends.' He pointed behind him. 'My colleagues and I are field operatives of Stamford Transaction Facilitators and Dr Fall has hired us to ensure there are no double-crosses in your dealings with him.'

'You're trying to say this isn't a double cross?'

'Certainly it isn't. The Stockholm Compound is on board and will be presented to you once payment is confirmed. If you have been considering trickery of any kind, I would suggest you accept the predicament you are in and fulfil your obligations in the transaction.'

Mas temporarily put aside her burning desire to avenge herself on these people. The compound was her priority and she had to secure it no matter what. The exorbitant price attached to it was of no concern to her as her clients had accepted it without pause - she just had to hope that they didn't suddenly develop a case of cold feet when payment was required.'

'I will need to see the compound before I initiate payment,' Mas said.

'One of the personnel lurking at the back promptly stepped forward, holding up a steel canister that had previously been out of view.'

'As a sign of good faith,' said Hopital, 'Dr Fall has added twenty five percent extra of the compound. Enough to do a lot of damage. Unfortunately, because there is no safe way to open the canister, I would humbly ask you to refer back to the laboratory analysis for its authority.'

'Give me my glasses and free my hands and I'll make payment.'

'Very well. Before I do, however, I should inform you that we are hovering above a Guatemalan swampland where a body is unlikely to ever be found. To remain on board you will need to be on your best behaviour.'

The assistants set about removing Mas's handcuffs and her utility glasses were returned to her.

'If you please,' said Hopital.

Mas put on the glasses and with a series of voice codes and a retina scan, payment was made.

The co-pilot emerged from the cockpit. 'You wanted to know when payment was made,' he said to Hopital.

'Thank you,' said Hopital. He smirked at Mas. 'You have been very professional. The canister you have just bought will be handed over to you on your departure from our craft. First, though, let us cast our eyes to the future. There is a danger to Dr Fall that you may feel you have unfinished business. At Stamford Transaction Facilitators we take steps to ensure such things do not happen. It is a part of our after care service.'

'You mean after service care,' snapped Mas with an angry glint, taking off her glasses and rising from the chair.

Hopital signaled to his team with a nod, prompting two assistants to rush at Mas's flanks, grabbing hold of her arms.

'Need I repeat my warning?' said Hopital. 'We sell canisters of toxin but we do not sell parachutes. And we are very high up. Fortunately for you, we are willing to share. It just requires compliance and a little patience as I introduce you to a friend of mine.'

He whistled sharply and a black Jack Russell terrier ran to his feet. 'Her name is Blast. She is a trained signature dog. Do you understand what that means?'

Mas just glared.

'It means when I give the command it will take in the target's scent and it will remember it permanently. In this case, the target will be you.' Hopital clicked his fingers and the dog busily started sniffing at Mas's feet.

'I ain't no street post,' said Mas, pulling back.

'Don't worry. She's only sniffing. And that's all we need. You can change your appearance, you can alter your fingerprints, you can fake your ID card, but the one thing that can never be manipulated is your scent. That's what makes a well-trained K9 so useful. You can rest assured if we need to find you, you'll be tracked.' Hopital clapped his hands two times and yelled, 'Blast, remember!'

The dog took one more sniff at Mas and sat erectly at her feet.

'The command has been given,' said Hopital. 'Your scent has been recorded to memory and Blast will never forget it. That is Dr Fall's insurance policy.'

Mas glanced at him coldly. 'I value my privacy.'

Hopital shrugged indifferently. 'Then we will give you some privacy courtesy of Stamford TF.' He looked to the assistants grappling onto her arms. 'Throw her out.'

Mas was promptly dragged to the cargo hold's side door, which shot open to the roar of rotor blades and a rush of cold air. Hopital came up from behind, strapping on a backpack in provocative fashion.

'That's the canister and a good old fashioned parachute,' Hopital yelled into her ear. 'Nice doing business with you.'

A firm push sent Mas flying out into space. She could see now that it was indeed a magno-chopper they had been flying in. The cloudless sky below enabled her to gage that it would take a good few minutes for her to reach the ground – less if in fact there was no parachute. She recognised the San Paul coastline below and realized they had more or less flown straight up. The docks were coming into focus as terminal velocity brought her ever closer. Not yet close enough to pick out the Zopez but Mas was becoming convinced that she had only left it a short time earlier, that she had not been unconscious for too long and that it was still late afternoon. Possibly the magno-chopper had plucked her right off the roof – with her face still covered in soup. Although most people bitten by a scorpion lobster never woke up, Mas did not feel privileged, not even as the parachute on her back opened. It was pure rage that flowed through her. She held out her arm and waited with no thought to steer her descent as she drifted with the wind. Zelda swooped in a moment later to land on her wrist. 'There you are,' said Mas. She unclipped the black box from the wedge-tailed eagle's long stubby leg and activated the central control system. She scrolled to the missile function and had a satellite missile lock on the magno-chopper now heading east. She fired the missile from the Zopez's lookout tower. The puff of smoke visible from amongst the docks let her know which vessel she was aiming for. She shook of Zelda to free her hands on the parachute steering lines and turned that way. The missile roared up past her, leaving behind a sweet smelling smoke trail in its wake. If the Stamford Transaction Facilitators were as efficient as they claimed, their magno-chopper would be equipped with a missile defense capability to keep out what was coming its way. Still, the missile warhead was potent; it would shoot out high explosive spikes at the engines while itself locking onto the fuel chambers. A lot of ordinance to repel.

Mas would follow up on the result later. There was unlikely to be a catastrophic explosion in the sky. Not unless the fuel chambers completely erupted. More likely, the craft would stagger a distance before finally succumbing to its damage. A long way from where Mas was descending. Putting it out of mind, Mas focused on her landing. The parachute was quite responsive and nimble, and the winds lessened considerably at a lower altitude, making for ideal conditions as Mas steered for the Zopez. The rush of the freefall had helped Mas shake off the throbbing headache that the scorpion lobster toxin had inflicted, and the roar of the missile shooting by had helped dissipate the fury suffocating her. She skillfully negotiated past the Zopez's lookout tower before landing on the foredeck.

Titov hurried out from the bridge to meet her, surprise etched upon her face. 'You've been in the air? What's been going on?'

'There were complications.' Mas scooped up the ultra-light parachute and gazed out into an empty sky. 'Has the radar picked up any explosions?'

'You mean, as a result of that missile that had the crew diving overboard in panic?'

'Sorry about that. My drone brought it on board during the night.'

'The back-flame has ruined our fishing nets.'

'I was after a bigger fish. So, did I hit anything?'

Titov shrugged. 'I jumped into the water too. It was hard to know which end of the missile we were dealing with.' She looked at the canister which Mas unslung from her chest. 'What is that? Another missile?'

'It's what I came to San Paul for. It's a chemical formula that induces homicidal madness. Don't let yourself get too close.'

Titov's mood darkened. 'If you got what you wanted from them, why did you fire a missile?'

Mas recognised in her reaction a healthy fear of betrayal. 'Don't worry, I pay my bills. As soon as the crew has dried themselves, we'll get underway. And tell the cook there will be no soup on tonight's menu. No soup ever again.'

*

Flames and acrid smoke were trailing through the sky. The Stamford TF magno-chopper had suffered direct hits from explosive spikes in the rotor mount and fuel distributors - fatally crippling blows.

Hopital remained calm and in charge, standing next to the pilot as she fought desperately with a violently shuddering joystick.

'How are we doing?' Hopital asked, leaning forward as though all those read out displays on the console actually meant something to her.

'Why have we been hit?' said the pilot. 'This is not a war zone.'

'Let's worry about that once we have landed.'

'We won't be landing, we'll be crashing. All power to the drive-thrusters is lost and the emergency chutes are not opening.'

'What chance do we have?'

The pilot considered the question a moment, her eyes remaining fixed on the windscreen of super strengthened glass and the mountainous jungle beneath them. 'You would want the ground beneath us to be very, very soft.'

Hopital put an encouraging hand on the pilot's shoulder. 'You're trained for this. I have every confidence in you.'

He retreated from the cockpit back into the cabin to find his colleagues anxiously gazing out windows.

'Are we going to make it?' one of them asked nervously.

'We have to get off this damned vessel right now,' Hopital bluntly replied. 'Where are the jetpacks?'

'We were waiting to ask you,' one of them replied. 'There are only two in the designated storage space. Is there another unmarked space reserved for emergencies?'

His name was Eblane, and Hopital gazed intently at the two jetpacks in the man's hands. 'Only two you say?'

The vessel jerked abruptly, knocking the man to his knees. Hopital pulled his gun and shot him through the head. The others had a similar idea and gunfire erupted in a deafening roar and the unique bitter-sweet smell of laser-acid connecting with human flesh. Hopital did not duck or flinch despite being in an exposed position. He believed that bullets were similar to wasps in that they were attracted to fear. His time in the Albanian military head impressed on him that the bold were somehow less often hit than the weak, even if they were the first to put themselves in harm's way. So, here he was, in a gun battle with three other shooters and bullets ricocheting off the walls and ceiling and he remained the only one not screaming. And with the screaming came less shooting. Three shooters became two, then one - the smell of the acid-lasered flesh was becoming truly abhorrent. Hopital did not even consider ceasing fire. It did not matter if there was now the equation of two people left standing for two jetpacks available, a gun battle was as hard to stop as a train without breaks, and trying was a shortcut to getting shot. And, besides, the Stamson company obviously did not consider safety a pressing expense: it wouldn't be wise to take for granted that both jetpacks were fueled and in proper working order. He would keep shooting until one shooter became none.

His last opponent had taken up a stubborn position behind a support pylon. Although concealed, Hopital was sure it was Olienga. She had been a Chicago cop and no doubt had plenty of experience in staying alive. But Hopital suspected that Olienga was a little too conventional in her ways and that it just might prove a weakness in a gunfight in a crashing chopper. He maintained the centre of the floor, ignoring the instincts screaming at him. A gun emerged from behind the pylon, aimed his way; a lurch of the chopper to the side revealed more of the shooter than just the gun and Hopital fired. Another scream and a body fell. A splash of long black hair confirmed that it was Olienga. The limbs were just as limp and lifeless.

Hopital rushed to his prize, the two jetpacks. He ripped the newest looking one from the dead Eblane's hand and inspected thoroughly its technicals screen: despite low battery cells, the pack was functionable.

'What's all this?' cried the pilot from the cockpit entrance as she gawked at the battle scene. 'I told you I would land us.'

She was starting to wilt. There was a thick patch of scarlet around her shoulder. A stray bullet must have breached the cockpit. Hopital turned his gun on her and fired, ending her without even skipping a breath. He didn't need the magno-chopper to land now; in fact, he preferred it if it crashed big.

He strapped on the jetpack and leaned out the chopper. He needed the engine fully firing to get him away from the rotor blades. The ground beneath the magno-chopper was coming on quick, a deceptively smooth looking carpet of Guatemalan jungle. Hopital let the thrusters build to eighty percent maximum before trying to the voice activation function on the controls: when nothing happened, he reverted to the manual controls. The jetpack shot away from the chopper, narrowly avoiding the rotor blades as the magno-chopper pitched to one side. The jetpack responded well to Hopital's direction, enabling him to move into clear sky where he could steady himself and watch over the impending crash.

The magno-chopper's trajectory was not as sharp as it had seemed being aboard; still, it clearly did not have the height to reach the tall cliff face ahead. Hopital rued the fact, for having it explode in a fireball upon it would have solved many problems. He, however, knew well that people didn't last long relying on wishes coming true and so he set himself to consider his predicament. The question he asked himself was if shooting five colleagues might be deemed legal. He knew international law well enough to be confident it was given the particular circumstances; he decided, therefore, to put his faith in the justice system.

'SOS, emergency, emergency,' he said over the emergency frequency. 'Magno-chopper down at these coordinates.'

The despatcher's voice came quickly into his earphone. 'Are there casualties?'

'Yes.'

'Injured?'

Hopital thought back to the shootout and how cleanly the bullets had hit their targets. 'Deceased,' he said.

There was a pause. 'How many?'

'Five, but there may be more to come. I am claiming the crash site on behalf of Stamford Transaction Facilitators Inc. and reserve the right to use lethal force to protect it from looters. Which means your people had better attend the scene quickly if you would like to avoid a bloodbath.'

The despatcher was replaced by a harder edged voice. 'This is Colonel Dandridier of the Guatemalan Air Force. We are scrambling two Interceptor Fighters at this very moment. They will be upon the scene in approximately four minutes. Is there a fire or smoke at the crash site?'

'No, but the vessel hasn't actually crashed yet.'

Another pause. 'Not yet crashed but there are five deceased?'

'I'll explain when you get here.' Hopital ended the call there. He was keen not to get into any lengthy descriptions about what had transpired inside the magno-chopper.

The vessel had reached the jungle canopy at last. Hopital hovered in a good position to view the impact though it proved disappointingly unspectacular. Trees flattened and deep skid marks gorged into the earth was all there was - whether it be from missile impact or crash, the magno-chopper simply refused to explode. Hopital supposed he couldn't be too aggrieved. Having the magno-chopper intact was going to make it easier to report back to the Stamford TF board, which was what he needed to do next.

He hovered beside the thin line of smoke still emanating from the magno-chopper's main engine. He took to hand the jetpack's accompanying rapid-fire automatic pistol and cleared his throat, wanting for it sound at its most professional.

'Priority call to HQ,' he commanded of the jetpack's communication system. Waiting to see if it worked, he noticed movement on the jungle floor below and almost opened fire on pure reflex. He almost opened fire again when he realized it was some kind of animal - perhaps, it was a wolf already on the scent of fresh meat. But it seemed too small. It was hobbling, following its tail in circles, dazed and disorientated.

A flash of recognition suddenly struck Hopital. The black fur, the small lean body, he descended for a closer look and the dog looked up: it was the signature dog, Blast. She had survived the crash. The emergency doors must have opened automatically upon coming to rest, allowing it to flee the magno-chopper. But it was plainly injured.

'This is HQ,' came a voice into his earpiece.

'There is a situation with Team STF910,' said Hopital. 'Developments are still fluid. Stand by.'

He cut the call and drove the jetpack into a sharp descent; his pistol pointed more intently than before: Blast had to be protected at all cost, from humans and from beasts. She had the scent of that poacher in its memory. It meant Mas could be tracked down and made to pay for her attack. Stamford Transaction Facilitators would require redress. Its reputation depended on such acts of defiance being dealt with in a timely and ruthless manner. For attacks such as this, death was the only suitable recourse. Hopital could only hope he was given the mission himself: with Blast still alive, the poacher's fate was already sealed.

5 Backroom deals in the centre of the world

One measure of a company's strength was the number of executives it could afford to support. Executives were the company's elite; removed from the day to day runnings, they lived lavish lifestyles and jet-setted the world as they moved within the narrow exclusive circle afforded to them alone. The Big Ten companies could have as many as five executives whereas for a much smaller company such as Stamford TF, having just one was all the prestige it could manage. And being the company it was, Stamford needed one who was a slick talker, morally ambivalent and supremely well connected. Lacy Tiber was all of those things. She had grown up in Hungary of Egyptian parents and had first made a name for herself as the curator of the largest commercial museum in Europe: Amsterdam's the Tragedy Museum. She had been recruited by Xiuan Qang, the Stamford TF president, as an executive when she had just turned thirty, which made her one of the youngest in Europe. From the very first day she found the lifestyle very much to her liking. Playing polo with royalty, box seats at the raw-opera and late dinners at Michelin Six restaurants. And on this particular day, she had managed to fit them all in, or at least she had gotten as far as the Trifles Le Crème main course when the call came. Executives were rarely called on to perform specific tasks for their companies, and if they did it usually entailed lobbying for favours from one government or another, but with this task there was an air of urgency that she found appealing, the Stamford TF President taking the time herself to explain the situation on the high security wrist-piece she wore day and night. A detailed briefing, during which Tiber excused herself from the dinner party and rushed to a terrestrial transport capsule, directing it for United Nations Central. The transport capsule buzzed through New York on the priority level of the citizen road grid, which executives shared access to with emergency services and other dignitaries - including those with money enough to call themselves dignitaries. It afforded rapids speeds, intersection pass-throughs and access to restricted roads like the one that took her into the heart of the United Nations Central complex.

'Emergency,' she told the United Nations automated navigation system upon request.

The transport capsule promptly surged into the tunnel network that webbed out from the main junction. The capsule remained underground for a series of turns before rising out on glass tracks in a rapid sweep across a compound of shiny black glass and metal buildings set around an impressive oriental garden resplendent with a red footbridge traversing a small perfectly circularly turquoise lake.

Even for someone as well lived as Tiber, the journey was impressive. She gazed attentively out the window and felt a pang of disappointment when the capsule peeled off for one buildings - her passage across United Nations Central was coming to an end. She took a moment to slow her breathing, to run through her mind the situation Xiuan Qang had laid out for her and the exact purpose of her visit to what many considered the very heart of not only New York but the entire civilised world. She was keenly aware that the reputations of executives were forged in moments such as this: their endless days of fun and frivolity could only be justified in those rare occasions they were required to be serious.

The capsule entered the building halfway up, rolled into an elevator and rose another ten floors. To complete its journey, it moved down a wide brown and white striped passageway and its door opened to a warmly lit office with a man in uniform waiting to greet Tiber.

'Good evening,' he said. 'My name is Sunil and I am the Incident Response Officer on duty. You have something you wish to report?' He smiled calmly and pointed an ushering hand towards his desk in the centre of the office. 'This way, please.'

Tiber almost hit her head on the top of the capsule doorframe as she climbed out, for she was intently looking Sunil over. He was tall and young and quite good looking, but it was his assuredness that sparked her interest. Indeed, he moved with all the calmness and freshness of an expert practitioner of transcendental meditation. Tiber, however, knew this was no monk she was dealing with. He would have been wearing a brain regulator cap in order to keep his brain alpha waves at their optimum level, so that his faculties would be fully honed for any world crises that might break out on his watch.

Tiber was wearing a light green cocktail dress nice and tight and she walked across the room making sure Sunil saw it. She was a society girl and she would get those alpha waves flowing again. After all, she had a crisis to sell.

'Take a seat and we'll talk,' Sunil said.

Tiber did so without a word. She knew that all the cameras and sensors the room was no doubt riddled with would be busily turning her inside out, retrieving and crosschecking data from since her birth to this very moment - they would not find any real truth but what mattered was that they didn't preclude her from being truthful. She waited for Sunil to take his position on the other side of the polished steel desk before beginning her pitch.

'There is a situation in Guatemala. It requires urgent attention.'

Sunil was not excited by this. He was just another machine taking readings. He barely even blinked.

'Stamford Transaction Facilitators, I'm afraid to say, has a checkered history as far as the United Nations is concerned. Shady dealings in many parts of the world. Trading in weapons, industrial secrets and unapproved medications.'

'Unapproved but not illegal,' said Tiber. 'And we are not the sellers. We bear no responsibility for the products.' Her voice perhaps came off sounding hard. Never mind, the machine was going to inform him of her dislike anyway.

'I assure you we'll not be taking responsibility for the situation that has brought you here this evening.' Sunil was losing his cool already. Tiber almost felt like offering to go get his brain regulator cap for him. He was going to need it.

'We are taking responsibility for our offer,' she said pointedly.

Sunil smirked icily. 'I see. You've come to the United Nations Crisis Office with an offer.'

'Our client is name Dr Gustav Fall, and the transaction went bad. The purchaser fired a missile into our magno-chopper. There was a survivor and he is currently being held in a Guatemalan prison. He is facing charges.'

'For being the only survivor of an aircraft shot down by missile? I do not know any country that has a law against that.'

'He killed the rest of the crew. That's why he's the only survivor.'

Sunil double-blinked 'Why would he do that?'

'There weren't enough jetpacks to evacuate the chopper. Our lawyers inform us it is a legitimate form of self-defense. The murder charges will not be sustained.'

'I'm happy for you, but it does not explain why you are here.'

'Although Dr Fall's transaction was successfully processed, there are two things that must be done to ensure that Stamford's good reputation is maintained.'

'Being in a company in which employees are killing each other, I suppose reputation is a sensitive concern.'

'The first thing,' said Tiber, 'is to keep Hopital from trial. Although Stamford respects the law, we would prefer to have nothing to do with it.'

'And the other thing?'

'The purchaser must not be allowed to get away with blowing up our magno-chopper. Such defiance would reflect very badly on the Stamford brand.'

Sunil was still hardly enthused. 'It is a matter for the local police. Or, if you ask nicely, perhaps the CIA would get involved - depending on whose missile was used. They are funny like that.'

Tiber did not appreciate that she wasn't being offered any kind of refreshment. Even for the United Nations, denying an executive hospitality was disrespectful.

Sunil leaned forward accusingly. 'Let me tell you why I think you've chosen to come here. The local police are easily paid off but it's a classic case of getting what you pay for. The CIA, on the other hand, is far less controllable and much more likely to go deeper than you would find palatable. Dr Gustav Fall, for example, is a licensed scientist in a few remote corners of the world, but in the United States he is banned from working or even stepping foot on its territory - something to do with his willingness to sell deadly biological agents to whomever and wherever.'

Tiber frowned. 'It is the purchaser who fired the missile. She is the one with the blood on her hands.'

'Well, who is she?'

'We are not sure. And she clearly does not want us to know. In fact, Hopital believes she destroyed the magno-chopper purely to keep her identity a secret. You see, he had her scent captured by a signature dog. Do you know what that means?'

Sunil shrugged vaguely.

'You can try to change your identity in all sorts of ways, but you can never change your scent.'

'Is that so?' murmured Sunil indifferently.

'Now of course since the attack, we have done our best to identify the purchaser. We have facial imaging and voice recognition tools to help and we have come up with a candidate: a poacher named Mas.

Sunil froze with the name. 'You have captured her scent?'

'Yes, which makes our dog quite valuable, doesn't it? There are no legal obligations for us to hand him over and we would never consider doing it for the CIA or anyone else for that matter – except the United Nations. With your record of kind treatment of animals, we could be sure that Blast would be in good hands.'

Sunil was still staring blankly.

'You better not waste time,' said Tiber. 'Blast was badly injured in the crash. She is currently in the hands of the local vets in Guatemalan City and is not expected to survive. With such rudimentary care, why would she be? You have a very narrow window of opportunity. Get a good vet to keep Blast alive and a good lawyer to keep Hopital out of jail. In return, you'll have a play at one of the world's most wanted criminals.'

Sunil shrugged. 'We'll see.'

'I suggest you go wake up whoever needs to be woken up to make the decision. I'll wait here.'

Sunil lifted himself out of his chair. 'The people who will make the decision,' he muttered on his way to the door, 'are not the type to sleep.'

*

'It's Fall I want. If our job is to let people feel safer in their beds at night, then taking Fall down would be the perfect night cap.'

The curt voice belonged to a colonel of the United Nation's Peace Keeper Strike Force: Colonel Smithers. He stood tall with a flat forehead, large ears and a bent nose, and upon his dark khaki uniform he was wearing the medals garnered from a distinguished thirty years of service. He was addressing a small gathering of the top tier of the United Nation's decision makers. The round table at which they sat was the same polished grey steel as the walls. The view from the Central Command Tower took in the sprawling lights of New York stretching out to the blackness of the harbour in a beautiful display that had the nearby cloud bank brightly aglow. Smithers, however, had been a soldier too long to be caught up in the romance of views. His gaze honed in on Oanh Kim, the Chief of Lawyers. 'Is there scope to go after Fall in all of this?'

Kim, a stout middle aged woman shrugged. 'I doubt it. He was not practicing in countries where he is banned.'

'The civilised world,' Smithers shot back

'And through the Stamford Transaction Facilitators he has compiled with all his legal obligations in this particular scenario.'

'Which does not include declaring what exactly was in that canister he sold to our renegade killer?'

'No,' said Kim flatly. 'Compounds for scientific purposes is all he has to say.'

'But Fall hasn't been banned for selling watered down cough drops. His specialty is lethal biological agents.'

'I'm sorry. As the seller in this incident, he has done nothing inherently wrong. It is only the purchaser with a case to answer.'

'And if what is in the canister is as dangerous as you make out,' chimed in the Sergeant for Public Order, 'that should be a priority.'

Smithers frowned. 'We only have limited resources and this alleged transgressor has not been on our radar at all. He flicked through the files looking for the shot of Mas taken by the Stamford surveillance cameras. 'What's her name again?'

'Mas,' said Sunil. 'A poacher. She specialises in abducting and smuggling animals, illegal breeding and assassinating government sanctioned predators.'

Smithers' frown deepened. 'What does that mean? Can you assassinate an animal? And what was that other thing? Kidnapping pets?' He shook his head bemusedly. 'The Strike Force doesn't have time for this.'

'I have time,' came a voice from across the table.

All eyes moved to Gwen Renaissance, the Director of the Hurt World Agency. She was part Chilean and part Peruvian and it showed in her rich black hair, deep hazel eyes and dark olive skin. She had been brought in from outside the United Nations to lead the Hurt World by the Secretary General himself and the details of her background had been locked away in a secure vault. The rumours and speculation, however, were plentiful and ranged from spy networks to military special forces. With these came suspicion and wariness, but also begrudging respect. There was nothing about her intense demeanor to indicate she did not know what she was doing.

'And I'll want the dog too,' she said. 'I have a vet in mind who will give it a fighting a chance of recovery.' She turned to the baby-faced Officer for Emergency Finances. 'It won't be cheap. Funds will need to be released.'

'All Hurt World operations require a court order,' voiced the officer. 'Nothing can be done until that has been granted.'

Renaissance needed to swallow her anger. 'The reward for Mas is one million new dollars. An advance on that would be a useful start.'

Colonel Smithers half-suppressed a chuckle. 'Are you sure that wouldn't be a tad premature? If the files are accurate, the Hurt World has had operations against her in the past. Something to do with the Cobra X species if my memory serves me correctly. It didn't end well on that occasion, did it?'

Renaissance pursed her lips and said nothing.

The one person at the table with a position high enough to know who Renaissance really was cleared his throat to speak. 'The Hurt World's mandate is to act against crimes that will directly be of hurt to humankind,' said the US Special Envoy, Kalp Falno. 'I would be interested to know what crime you perceive that to be.' He scratched his salt and pepper beard and his striking green eyes settled on Renaissance.

'I will assert that it is a Hurt World Five case,' Renaissance replied.

'Hurt World Level Five is reserved for the crime of genocide,' murmured Falno doubtfully.

'That's right. And without knowing exactly what was in that canister, the threat of genocide cannot be discounted.'

'It is quite an assumption considering we are dealing with a canary smuggler. Perhaps the canister contains bird seeds.'

'Mas's mere presence proves it is bigger than that.'

'She can't be that good.'

'Stamford TF make their living by roughing people around and we saw how Mas dealt with them. Do you really think they would be coming to us for help if they thought they could extract retribution themselves?'

'We are the United Nations. We do not have retribution as part of our charter.'

'True enough.' Renaissance paused. 'But you had better accept that Mas is worth ignoring that. She is running wild and unchecked and in possession of a chemical compound made by a mad doctor who cannot legally come within ten thousand kilometres of New York. Our only possible path to her is a dying dog in Guatemala. So, we need to make a decision now.' She eyed each person at the table in turn. 'We take her on or we let the moment slip and find out the hard way what that canister really contained.'

'I will be happy to make the application for the court order,' said the Chief of Lawyers.

'Thank you,' replied Renaissance. 'The disposition is being worked on at this very moment.'

'A unit of the Peace Keepers Strike Force will be placed on standby,' said Smithers in a conciliatory tone.

The US Special Envoy nodded his blessing. 'I suppose the United Nations needs people who dream bad and have the courage to assume the nightmares are real. Very well, Renaissance, let's see if the judge grants you the opportunity to pursue this particular one into the light of day.'

*

The World Court, situated in Lower Manhattan, was colloquially known as the Glass Cabbage, very much because that was what the ten level structure resembled. It stood boldly in the night all the same with internal and external lights blazing and its showpiece Justice Beacon floodlight shooting ten kilometres straight up. It was four thirty in the morning and those milling around the foyer on ground level, waiting for whatever case had brought them there, were looking tired and anxious. The World Court operated on a twenty four hour schedule and there was no favouritism given to hearing times. A good measure of the anxiety could be attributable to the widely held belief that it was in the early hours of the morning when judges were at their most irritable and their sentences at their harshest. Although many of the courtrooms were taken up with corporate and civil matters, Court 14 was dedicated to criminal cases: homicides, assaults and sexual assaults. If the accused were individuals, they were often presidents of companies or governments or the generals of armies. Application 4009HW, however, was somewhat different and it had perked Judge Furtle's interest even if it barely showed in the droopy, bloodshot eyes. 'Let me get this straight,' she said in a commanding tone from her highchair in the direction of the United Nation's Chief of Lawyers. 'You're alleging the plaintiff is guilty of murder because she forced the captain of the magno-chopper to shoot the rest of the crew?'

Oahn Kim was on her feet as she addressed the court. 'There were not enough jetpacks to go around, Your Honor. Stamford TF must of course bear partial responsibility for this. Nonetheless, it was Mas's direct assault on the vessel that precipitated the murders. The United Nations contests she has primary responsibility for the incident.'

Judge Furtle pulled a face. 'An interesting legal argument is lurking there but that is a side issue for us today.'

'Regrettably so,' replied Kim, having rushed into court at such short notice, she had not had sufficient time to read up on the subject.

Judge Furtle glanced at the wall clock. 'I realise the situation must be grave to bring you out at this hour. The United Nations are usually such good sleepers.' She read through the disposition on her desk once again. Then she looked up to the crowded room of drawn out faces. 'No doubt the matter lends itself to lawyers quoting precedents at one another; fortunately, we are here to consider a more tangible issue: should the involvement of the Hurt World be warranted?' She scanned the back pews and sure enough there was Gwen Renaissance sitting quietly with a calm concentration. She was there virtually without exception whenever the Hurt World had an application before the court. It was a signal for a presiding judge to consider the matter carefully, for if provoked, Renaissance was on good speaking terms with most the Presidents of the free world. Having the United Nation's Chief of Lawyers present the application was another useful ally in her corner. Not quite in the same class as the highest paid corporate lawyers, but not someone to micro-sleep in front of either. Judge Furtle delivered her ruling looking Kim square in the eye.

'I'm not convinced that the world we live in is such a dangerous place that the fate of an entire population may be jeapordised by the transfer of a single metal canister from a scientist of dubious integrity to a poacher without any known associates or affiliations. If it is a disease, there are cures. If it is a poison, there are antidotes. Weaponry might be another matter, but Dr Gustavo is not known to dabble in such areas. And besides, world threatening bombs are far larger. I do understand, however, the Hurt World Agency wanting clearance to assign its best operatives against Mas considering its past failures in this regard.' She looked to Renaissance to see if she had chipped any of that calmness from her face. Disappointingly, no. 'Unfortunately, there are simply not enough grounds to assign Hurt World Level Five to this incident. I must wonder, in fact, if the local police should not be in charge of the case. That being said, the smuggling of animals is no doubt one of the most serious crimes facing humankind today. With more and more species being exploited and pushed to the brink of extinction, those most involved and, dare I say it, most skilled in exploiting this precious resource are certainly creating pain on a global scale. The prospect, therefore, of once again being on the trail of Mas, the notorious poacher, is too important to ignore. The court thus grants Hurt World Level One permission to pursue this case. The specific terms of reference are that the signature dog named Blast is to be recovered and kept alive at all cost and then used to locate and bring to justice the poacher Mas. That completes the matter of 4009HW.' Judge Furtle stood up and the court rose in turn.

The Chief of Lawyers bowed deeper than anyone else. She found it the best position to be in when she pulled one of the contorted, twitching faces she couldn't much control when a verdict went against her. She had to move quickly to catch up with Renaissance, who had already left the courtroom for the VIP Atrium.

'I'm sorry we didn't get the right verdict,' she said. 'Judges just don't like to label things as genocide.'

'Yes,' murmured Renaissance ruefully.

'Especially when only four people have died.'

Renaissance stopped and glared in the middle of the luxuriously well-furnished lounge. 'Five.'

'If you'd like, I can file an immediate appeal. Not on those grounds. But some of the world's best scientists will be waking up soon. I can have them testify on the kinds of lethal toxins that could wipe out a population.'

'No, never mind. Not unless one of those scientists is Dr Gustav Fall and you can get him to tell the court exactly which one of those toxins was in the canister.'

'Unlikely.'

'And Stamford TF's cooperation is only fractionally more reliable. If Blast dies now, they will claim that we didn't move fast enough or provide the best care, and they will wash their hands of the whole incident. They will do it cleverly, for they are a company well versed in using others for its own advantage.' Despite the urgency in her message, Renaissance sat down in a plush yellow sofa-chair, hooking an arm over the cushioned back. 'But you can be of use outside the courtroom.'

'How?'

'Simply by doing what lawyers do best. Send a bill.'

'The United Nations doesn't send bills.'

'That's fine, I doubt the receiver will pay it anyway. I want you to send a bill to Stamford TF. Put whatever figure you feel is appropriate. Include in the bill the legal costs for extracting Blast from the Guatemalan criminal justice system and the medical costs for taking care of Blast during her stay at the Leanov Gekko Veterinarian Clinic in Switzerland.' Renaissance smirked. 'And don't offer friend prices.'

Oahn Kim frowned. 'I don't get it?'

'The United Nations network is secure but I can't be as confident about Stamford TF's. In fact, if Mas has the resources to shoot down one of its magno-choppers, chances are she can hack its communications as well.'

'So, you're laying a trap?'

A United Nations pilot stepped into the exclusive atrium and picked Renaissance out from the sprinkling of other VIPs around the room. 'Your Air Shuttle is ready, mam.'

'Thank you.' Renaissance stood up and eyed the Chief of Lawyers. 'I would have bought you breakfast, but I must be going to San Francisco without delay.'

'Before I didn't think there was much difference between Hurt World and the Peace Keeper Strike Force,' said Kim, 'but now I see it. Smithers will only move when he has established a clear target, whereas you will turn your people into the target.'

Renaissance shrugged. 'It's a hungry hunter that doesn't get close enough to be the hunted. Now that Mas is back, I have to wonder what has sparked her appetite. One way or another, it is likely to have the world hurting.'

*

The Air Shuttle engines purred with the latest magnotronic charged engines. From New York to San Francisco was a smooth thirty minute flight. Renaissance's position as the head of the Hurt World saw her crisscrossing the skies on a daily basis and she was one of the select few permitted to fly at forty five thousand feet, the coveted number at which the congested skies suddenly cleared, the altitude set aside for royalty and government and those they trusted enough to allow at the same height. In some countries there was no one. A hundred countries had granted Hurt World access to that altitude; not that it could do its job that high up.

Renaissance was sharing the lavishly decked out cabin with her Manager for Operations, Spiros Pardos. Pardos didn't look comfortable in the bright purple lounge chair, sitting forward, rubbing his thick moustache, the only hair above his stiff red collar.

'Gustav Fall has doubled the security at his Tunisian laboratory,' he said. 'Like me, he obviously can't see one good reason why we wouldn't pay him a visit.'

'Forget it,' snapped Renaissance. 'If we over-reach the World Court judgement, we'll have the Stamford lawyers all over us and I want Mas too much to be closed down.'

'Well, who will you send after her?'

Renaissance had a more relaxed posture on her own garish lounge sofa. She pondered a moment and murmured, 'Recommendations?'

'I suggest your choice be based on one of two considerations.'

'Which are?'

'The technician who successfully brings Mas to justice will certainly be in line for promotion into Hurt World Two, so you might want to choose the person whom you would like for that to be. Alternatively, you can base your selection purely on the continental region involved. In that case, the Central American technician is Alice Organe.'

'I see. There is a third consideration, however. To bring in a technician deemed most likely to survive a confrontation with Mas. And, unfortunately, I'm afraid that's the shortest list of all.'

'They've all had the necessary training.'

'Yes, but there will be a moment against Mas when no matter how well practiced the skills, life and death will be purely decided on instinct. Surviving as long as he has in Asylum City he must have plenty of that.'

'Kaptu Z is stateless. Parents unknown. A police officer who gets arrested as often as he makes arrests. We can't control him.'

'He's been taking on hard cases. Illegal dog fighting, bio-murder, the brown bear fur trade.'

'He might tarnish our reputation. I mean, innocent people could easily get hurt if we set two people of this calibre against each other.'

Renaissance glared. 'We need to think about the welfare of the many.'

'I am. The World Court has given us powers and can just as easily take away powers. We have cases involving genocide and thousands of lives that could be jeapordised.'

'It is other sections in the United Nations that talk themselves out of action. Our operations in Hurt World One have saved at least one hundred species from extinction. We have stopped animal smuggling rings, inhumane captivity and illegal scientific experimentation. All that came with risks. And when I say we, I am including Kaptu Z's achievements in his three years in Hurt World One.'

'And all that time has been spent in Asylum City. It is a city that lives by a different set of rules. Those rules don't necessarily translate well in any of the one hundred and ninety nine nations that make up this world.'

'I understand your background is in politics. But remember politics is just the dust that action stirs up. I want Kaptu Z pulled out of Asylum City without delay. He has cases on his plate so threaten him with abduction if he doesn't comply.'

'Wouldn't it just be enough to tell him he has a chance at Mas? Her name will have come up often enough in Hurt World correspondence. Is he so provisional he doesn't even keep up with that?'

'Let's just say he has his hands full in Asylum City.'

'One city when all the other Hurt World technicians have responsibility for entire continents.'

Renaissance shrugged. 'Asylum City is a tough place. Come to think of it, Kaptu isn't the type of person to threaten with kidnap. Tell him we've booked the entire twentieth floor of the San Francisco Towers Hotel as our command centre and we'll extend it for a whole week for his personal use once the mission is complete.'

Pardos chuckled. 'You're going to blow the emergency funds on a hotel suite.'

'Call in Marco McRaven for the extraction. We're going to need the best. And that means not using the Peace Keeper Strike Force.'

'He doesn't come cheap either.'

'Make the calls on the cryptic encoder. I'll call the Leanov Veterinarian Clinic on a cold line.'

'Without letting Leanov know his involvement in a trap? It's debatable how close we'll draw Mas anyway. She seems to enjoy firing missiles. She could do that without even getting out of bed. She might even afford herself a little smirk knowing the dog's name is Blast.'

'What do you want me to do, rename the damned dog?'

6 The Meltman Express

It was the most dangerous car in Asylum City. Just to be sitting in it meant a death sentence. And it was barely even crawling along. But the danger was not to do with speed. At least not yet. It was a red plastic and white glass bubble and looked like all the other cars on the Grid. The steering wheel hidden underneath the front window was one hint of the difference. Free cars were strictly forbidden in Asylum City. It was a decree issued by Mayor Glutter after the first assassination attempt against him. All vehicles were to run connected to the Grid, their destinations declared and set. Checkpoints and random spot checks throughout the city ensured that the law was being enforced. Transgressors dropped to almost zero when the first firing squads illustrated how serious Mayor Glutter was. With DNA scanners fitted to every vehicle, no one could move around Asylum City without Glutter having access. It also gave him a power of life over death, for any person who stopped into the Grid was at his mercy. Inexplicable high speed crashes into walls or off high bridges could be explained on computer glitches. There were many ways for Glitter to dispose of his rivals but this was one of his favourites. So clean and easy. His only regret was that he had to use it sparingly for fear of starting a panic. He wouldn't want the whole city walking to work. Nothing would get done.

Kaptu Z and Al Jaqaintas were the two passengers in the red bubble car. They were facing each other in wall seats, their senses attuned to all around them. The Grid was pulsating along in its usual hectic rhythms, seemingly unaware that this particular car was not actually plugged into it. An interloper. The technology was unproven in the field, and the CIA had been pushing it at Kaptu for some time, wanting him to pit it against Asylum City's Grid. Kaptu had not rushed into accepting the offer because it came with catches. Not least of all was the presence of their agent Jaqaintas. Although he was feigning interest in the operation, Jaqaintas's primary purpose was to ensure the stealth technology did not fall into the city's hands. The CIA was unapologetic in reserving the right to blow up the car at the first hint of trouble. Kaptu doubted it would make much difference if he happened to be in it at the time. There was certainly no reassurance to be had in Jaqaintas's jumpy eyes that refused to take Kaptu in even on those brief moments they were actually pointing his way.

'We're approaching the Maldives district,' Jaqaintas murmured. 'There's no sunshine and beaches in those crime-ridden alleys. Unfortunately, the rising sea levels really did wash away those things for good.'

Kaptu moved into the front seat, pulling out the steering wheel and slotting into the wall mount. 'I'm too young to remember the Maldives's beaches,' he said, 'but I grew up in its alleyways.' He disengaged the car from the Grid and used the accelerator lever built into the steering wheel to scream through a series of turns that took the capsule off the main overpass into the narrow streets of the notorious Maldives slum. He weaved impatiently in and out of the sanitised, regulated traffic.

Jaqaintas slid across his seat to be in his eye-line. 'Going above standard speed puts us at risk of detection by Grid surveillance.'

'I'm not breaking free of the Grid just to do the same damn things as it does,' snapped Kaptu.

Jaqaintas refrained from saying anything more when he saw the murderous intent in Kaptu's eyes. Although Asylum City was located in the USA, it certainly wasn't a part of it, so he had to assume he was on his own in a hostile foreign state. He would observe and record and if his report turned out to be an obituary then so be it.'

After a few blocks of decrepit high-rise buildings, Kaptu made a hard turn into an underground carpark, slamming on the breaks so hard they screeched – a sound almost never heard with cars in the hands of the Grid's state-of-the-art computers.

'Stay here,' said Kaptu as he got out. 'I won't be long.'

'And the police might not be long either,' said Jaqaintas. 'I will take up a vantage point at a safe distance.'

'Don't get too safe. We might need to leave in a hurry.' Kaptu did not take the time to explain why and would not have done so even if asked. One of the city's most wanted fugitives was residing in the innocuous building above them and not everyone believed enough in his cause to want to get so close.

Kaptu got into the elevator and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. He was relieved to have left behind the CIA agent he knew almost nothing about, for it was a death elevator and its poison gases and other primitive methods of death were indiscriminate when put to use. The ascent to the eighteenth floor went without incident and the doors opened to a dark quiet corridor. Kaptu stepped out somewhat reassured, for a decision had clearly been made to at least allow him to live long enough to make it to the front door.

The door itself was made of heavy steel and bore a green and white sign: World Society for the Protection of Animals. There was an electric hum as the lock bolt was remotely released. Kaptu stepped through and was greeted by a smiling old man.

'Kaptu Z, it is always a pleasure,' said the old man as they embraced as friends. 'On this occasion, a dubious pleasure. If I am not mistaken that is a CIA agent that has accompanied you here and a rather illegal car that you have ridden in on.'

The old man's name was Noice. He had moved to Asylum City with the first Maldivian refugees and in quieter moments would talk of the days before the Maldives Islands were swamped by the ever rising sea levels. Quieter moments did not come often, however, for his thoughts remained occupied with his work and all the ways animals were being mistreated in his adopted city.

The room was much brighter than the passageway would have suggested with large clean windows offering views across the sprawling African districts. And there were stunning artworks of all kinds on the walls and throughout the room: donations and acquisitions that could be sold when funds were required. Noice put his hand on Kaptu's back and led him to the centre window, his favourite place to talk.

'The good news is there is no indication that you have been followed here,' he said. 'I must assume that your business is pressing.'

'I'm being pulled out of Asylum City.'

'Oh. Sad news. Why?'

'Have you heard of the poacher Mas?'

'Yes, of course. Are you being sent after her? You'll find her a handful.'

'The World Court has given the go ahead. And I'm not sure I'll be back.'

'You have to think positively. She might not kill you.'

'What are you talking about? Renaissance says if I take out Mas, I'll probably be promoted to Hurt World Level Two.'

'And if you don't, there might not be enough pieces left of you to make it worth coming back.'

'Is that your idea of positive thinking?'

Noice shrugged.

'The extraction team is already hovering about the city,' said Kaptu, 'but there is something I want to get done first.'

Noice folded his arms and looked at him attentively. 'What do you have in mind?'

'Do you still want the Meltman's black bear?'

'You know I've wanted that poor thing for years.'

'Have you got somewhere to put it? And I mean right now.'

'I've got a home ready to go. But it would be wrong of me not to try talking you out of a rescue.'

'You've never tried to talk me out of anything before.'

'Let me put it like this. First you are going to take on Meltman and his army. In that it is likely you are going to get at least a little bit hurt. A little bit or a lot. And then you are going to rush off and take on Mas, who is not an army, but certainly very talented when it comes to either maiming or killing people. It is too much to expect to survive.'

'I'm sorry you feel that way 'cause I want you to come along. I don't know anything about black bears. Least of all where to take one.'

Noice frowned warily. 'Alright, I'll come along to give directions. I also know the way to the best hospital for snake monkey bites - some of the world's leading researchers are based right here in Asylum City. When you make your move on the Meltman Express, you might find some comfort in knowing that. Of course, you might not if you knew the reason the researchers are based here is because of the ready supply of victims they have access to. Nice, juicy bites that have all its poison's horrendous symptoms on full display.'

Kaptu shrugged. 'I've been bitten by worse.'

There was a flash of fire in Noice's eyes. 'I hope you're not referring to my daughter.'

Kaptu looked around the apartment for any trace of her. There was nothing. Perhaps, that was why the room seemed drab to him despite all its paraphernalia. Kaptu had heard she had married and moved to the Mali sector. He tried not to think about her. Kaptu patted Noice on the shoulder. 'Come on, let's go get you a bear to cuddle.'

*

The steel tracks were beginning to tremble. The Meltman Express was not far away. How many carriages would there be? Each one carried about twenty debtors and in tough times like these, there were a lot of debtors to deal with. Fifteen carriages? More? The train did endless loops of Asylum City and for the passengers, it was a one way trip unless somehow their accounts could be settled. If death eventuated, which was a regular occurrence, the body would be tossed into the front carriage, food for the black bear that lived there - simply another meal to be had. The Meltman would usually consider that as a sufficient balancing off the books. But if he was still not satisfied, he would have a family member or friend replace the debtor. He had been known to wipe out entire families that way. Not that customers didn't keep coming. People needed money to live, and the Meltman would lend large sums readily when banks had turned their backs. He was not concerned by risky loans. He enjoyed his train.

Kaptu Z was waiting for it on Banaba Bridge in the heart of the Kiribali zone. He was hanging off one of the steel girdles beneath the roadway. He wanted the waiting to end. He didn't like waiting for any kind of action unless there was a plan to occupy his mind. Still, he could focus on those vibrations; the Meltman Express ran on an old vintage combustion engine and was giving the ground a fair shake. Kaptu had misjudged how far away the train actually was and been left dangling off the bridge longer than was comfortable. His hands were starting to tire and with all those weapons weighing down his body he was not about to climb back up for a spell.

Kaptu was twenty eight years old: he did not have an official birth date but instead a found date. His parents had at least made the effort of abandoning him in the Kashmir zone, where the local Army Base took in such babies as future recruits. Kaptu had received a well-rounded though quite deadly education. He had served ten years in the Asylum City police force, reaching the rank of lieutenant in the homicide squad before being released into the United Nations' Hurt World Agency. It had required a significant exit fee, enough to train and equip four new police officers, and Kaptu paid it himself. He used the reward money for the safe return of a kidnapped aid worker in the Mali Square ghetto. Kaptu finished that episode dangling from the balcony of a burning skyscraper seventy floors up. It proved a hot and sweaty ten minutes before a rescue crew arrived. Sweating hands had almost proven his undoing then, though at least all his ammunition had already been spent, making for a much lighter load.

Three years had passed since then. Hurt World One had kept Kaptu Z busy. Of all the wild life in captivity in Asylum City, it was the residents who were wildest. Breeders, gamblers, traders, killers, and when they grew too ugly in their ways, people like Noice would come to Kaptu asking him to do something about it. And it had to be Kaptu. Anyone else faced the risk of provoking the wrath of Mayor Glutter, for he had his fingers in many pies and was vicious in seeing his interests protected. But what gave Kaptu protection was the amount of aid money Glutter received from the United Nations, so much more than he ever made in his side-businesses and it often came in the form of New Dollars or gold bullion rather than the Asylum City Yen. Glutter wouldn't risk biting that hand. It did not mean Kaptu was untouchable, however, simply that the mayor did not see any profit in touching him up himself. Getting himself killed in the line of duty was another thing altogether though and Glutter was sure it was only a matter of time. He would have his fingers crossed now.

The Meltman was the most dangerous of the Asylum City gangsters. He was entirely ruthless and his reach extended across the whole city: he made a point of gaining access to anyone who slighted him, and of being in return nothing but a shadow, of being nowhere, lost within the tunnels and hideouts that centred in the Gibraltar and Basque zones and that webbed out into an endless maze. Kaptu had not gone after him before because it would have in turn driven him into the shadows as he braced himself for lethal retaliation - and the only tunnels at his disposal would have been those he dug in his head. He had seen the result of such things often enough in the Asylum City police. Cops getting buried so deep they became lost even to themselves - like disorientated cavers who no longer knew which passageway would return them to the surface. Asylum City had developed so many ways to shake the shackles of reality, both lethal and non-lethal, that there had not been a confirmed case of suicide in over twenty years. People would slip away from themselves and just keep going. But Kaptu would hold onto the surface just as tightly as he was the bridge.

He glanced down at the tracks he was centred above. Sixty miles of it winding through the city, linking up the Meltman's many loan houses, massage parlors and gambling dens. A train line without stations and that didn't sell tickets. A gangster without building permits and a track that even the Mayor himself did not dare touch.

The train had arrived. Kaptu watched the carriages speed under him in a blur and let go. Detecting the sudden descent, his belt thrusters instantly activated. Originally designed to protect the elderly from falls about the home, Kaptu had modified his to provide an extra spurt of speed. It gave him twenty seconds, but that was all he needed. He latched onto a roof and quickly turned the thrusters off. If he was thrown from the train, there just might have been enough power left in the batteries to save a bone or two.

The Meltman Express was reaching speeds of 150 kilometres per hour, entering into the Ukrainian Sector with its densely packed buildings and its grimy coal-burning factories. The Meltman's track was the newest piece of infrastructure in the district, its shiny high-grade steel a stark contrast to the crumbling roads and crumbling sidewalks that provided for general use.

Someone was wailing in the carriage beneath Kaptu. It sounded like Ukrainian. A forlorn male voice. It might even have been singing.

And then the first of the snake monkeys came. The creatures were genetically modified African chimpanzees bred for extra strength agility and aggression. But it was the immensely razor sharp teeth and toxic saliva that had earned the creatures their name, that struck such fear in the heart of Asylum City. The Meltman Express had two rear carriages set aside for them. Those carriages were kept clean and well-stocked with fresh meats and fruits - a standard of comfort the creditors crammed into their filthy carriages with only stale refuse to eat could only dream of. Kaptu pulled a long-blade from his military pants, seeing in this particular snake monkey's hateful glare every intention to attack, its territorial instincts a burning fury.

Kaptu lunged across the roof to get in first. His thrust was quick, though the snake monkey almost beat it with its own lightning fast movement. Kaptu kicked the dead body off his blade with the rancid smelling jaws just a few inches away from his neck; he did it quickly, wanting to free up his blade for the next one. But most importantly, he had to get to the black bear before the snake monkeys had time to gather in numbers. That carriage was also at the front, right behind the snake monkeys'.

Six carriages to cross. Kaptu moved in a crouch. Another snake monkey charge resulted in another head being decapitated. Kaptu, however, was not being fooled by these easy victories: the snake monkeys' more assured movement on the carriage rooftops and their fearless approaches could easily have him caught. In fact, it was inevitable if he did not hurry. War cries were starting up in the snake monkey carriages at a volume to drown out the poor wretched Ukrainian's voice, underscoring how limited was the time available to get the black bear.

The train rose high into a long loping bend into the Norwegian Sector. The smells immediately became more pungent and it was not simply to do with being downward of the debtor carriages. The heyday of the Norwegian Sector had long since passed as Norway recovered from the nuclear catastrophe of 2085 had and asylum seekers were granted special permission to return home. The once thriving community that was left behind consisted largely of thieves, drug dealers, junkies and the mentally ill. The Governor of Norway Town was herself all of these at once. Few people wanted to live under her control and so the streets and houses were largely abandoned: it made for the ideal spot on the Meltman Express's endless journey to eject a bear.

Kaptu felt he had gotten sufficiently used to the rooftop conditions to make his advance upright and at full speed. He leaned hard into the wind as he sprinted, leaping over the gaps between carriages with a reckless intent.

More snake monkeys came at him. He slashed through them until their numbers became too dense, prompting him to stab his sword onto the roof beneath him as an anchor and going to the laser-acid gun holstered to his chest. Practising one-handed fire with the large weapon at the shooting range had always felt like showing off but he appreciated the familiarity of the action now. He spun one hundred and eighty degrees, mowing down a swath of the deadly snake monkeys and sending the rest scurrying over the edges. There was no doubt, however, that the snake monkeys would regather and attack again.

Kaptu ran, leaping from carriage to carriage, making quick progress along the train. But in a flash, a snake monkey leapt up at his legs, tripping him up and setting itself to plunge its grotesque yellow teeth into his side. Kaptu had braced his fall with one hand, keeping his sword free for a defensive swipe that had his entire body contorting with the effort. The monkey caught the blade in the chest and was sliced clean in two.

Kaptu recovered his balance in a kneeling position and again drove his sword hard into the roof; this time he activated the "can opener" function built into the sword and dived for cover. The blade actioned into a drill, sinking down to the hilt, and the explosion charge within punched a gaping hole into the roof. Kaptu was caught closer than the stipulated distance for detonation, leaving his body hot and bruised and his ears ringing loudly. There was no time to try to shake it off, however, for even with the ringing inside his ears, he could hear the snake monkeys advancing along the sides of the carriage below. They came rushing over the edges in a wave of savagely bared fangs. Kaptu dived head first into the blast hole, plunging into a carriage that was dark and smelled of animal - it wasn't lost on Kaptu that the animal in question was a large bear with a well-honed taste for human flesh. He braced himself for the impact with the floor, and was pleasantly surprised that a soft layer of straw was there to cushion the fall. He tumbled awkwardly through it, catching as he went his first glimpse of the massive bear. The creature was lying in a corner and rose onto its hind legs, releasing a deep roar of displeasure at Kaptu's sudden intrusion. Kaptu fumbled to hand his tranquilizer gun and turned it on the bear. His aim, however, was blocked by pursuing snake monkeys as they descended through the roof's blast hole in a giant tangle. Kaptu had to refrain from unloading laser-acid upon them for fear of hitting the bear. The bear, on the other hand, set upon them without restraint, its long, razor sharp claws cutting them to shreds. One of them was tossed Kaptu's way, flying backwards through the air. Kaptu picked it off with a single shot, though suspected it was already dead. He took a step back and flung a jelly flare onto the wall. The extra light revealed a hideously blood soaked scene, the bear's claws slicing through whole bunches of snake monkeys in each swing. The last of the snake monkeys were starting to cowering back, providing Kaptu with the space to unleash the Death Queen's quick-fire mode upon them.

The black bear dropped back onto all fours, its attention returning to Kaptu. It charged at him, snake monkey blood dripping off its claws. It was such a massive target, there was no chance of missing. Kaptu felt enough sympathy for the wretched creature, however, that he chanced the time it took to draw his tranquilizer gun and fire a dart into its gaping mouth. He dived away across the, firing a second shot into its chest. The drug he had administered contained a synthetic paralyzing agent that travelled to the brain along the central nervous system just as quickly as the pain that accompanied it. It sent the bear tumbling into unconsciousness with a loud thump against the carriage wall. Kaptu meanwhile slid headfirst along a section of floor with a severed human hand pressed against his cheek. He realized he was sliding on the slime of human remains. There were more body parts at the wall, including an open hand, which seemed to be reaching out to cushion his impact. Kaptu's face contorted with disgust as the blood and guts covered him. He began pulling himself out of it, only for a giant snake monkey to come crashing down on his chest. Kaptu rued having lost track of where his guns, watching the snake monkey release a ferocious cry as it scouted where to sink its teeth upon him.

The brakes of the train came screeching on, flinging the snake monkey into the wall. Kaptu lunged to the Death Queen and ripped the snake monkey to pieces.

Kaptu settled into a kneeling firing position, his ears attuned to the footsteps outside the train.

'Kaptu Z, are you there?' bellowed out a male voice. Kaptu was surprised it was not Al Jaqaintas, for he had supposed the CIA agent had taken the wrong turn on their prearranged meeting spot. At least, the voice sounded friendlier than any of the Meltman's thugs.

'I don't really need to ask,' the voice continued. 'The hole in the roof gives it away. Whether or not you're still alive with all those furry friends of yours is another question. But let's do this quick. Asylum City is one of my least favourite places to execute an extraction and doing it out of the Meltman Express only makes it more so.'

There were no holes in the wall large enough for Kaptu to see who was doing the talking, but he could tell it was someone holding a gun, someone having a good time. He got up slid open the carriage door. The man standing before him was tall and strong and had jet black hair. He was wearing a brown military uniform without any identifying insignias. His gun was large and heavy. 'Kaptu Z, I am McRaven. He pointed at the magno-chopper landing on the track further ahead. 'That's for you.'

Kaptu felt a pang of anger. 'You've got me in the middle of something.'

'I can see. But I'm not a bounty hunter, I only get paid if you're alive, not if you're dead. As entertaining as it was looking at you running amok on this train, I didn't get the impression you had long to live. So, here I am.'

Kaptu leaned out of the doorway to see the wisps of smoke emanating from the bullet holes in the train engine. The Meltman wouldn't be happy. And he would certainly be on his way there. He turned to McRaven. 'Alright, I'll come along. But one of my furry friends is coming too. And he's big.'

'You're not bringing one of those dirty, diseased monkeys on my chopper.'

'It's a bear. It's been tranquilized nice and quiet.'

McRaven frowned. 'So, that's what this is about? I had guessed you were here to liberate one of those debtors.'

'We'll do that too. It's only fair considering they've formed a large part of the bear's diet.'

'That's Asylum City for you. Nothing is right about this place. Fortunately for you, it's the reason I brought the whole team.' He raised a clenched fist and six soldiers came running out of the chopper. 'I must be crazy for agreeing to this. I suppose it is the novelty of seeing the United Nations jumping all over a train. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.' The soldiers arrived before him and he ordered three to get the bear and the other three to get the debtors' cages open. The soldiers on bear detail rushed into the carriage. 'It's not going to wake up, is it?' McRaven murmured.

'Not just yet,' murmured Kaptu.

'And what do you intend to do with it before it does?'

'The President of the World Society for Animals is waiting down the road.'

'Waiting in the CIA's so called stealth machine? Well, forget that. Life gets longer when you're not in bed with the CIA.'

'I hope you've got a big back yard then.'

'That gets taken up with my magno-chopper, but I've got a better idea, anyway. Our next stop is a world renowned veterinarian clinic in Switzerland. If the likes of me is getting paid to take the likes of you there, I am sure a man-eating bear would be within the clinic's range of experience.'

The cage doors began to hum open and the decrepit prisoners climbed shakily down onto the tracks, their eyes flicking madly around them, riven with fear of the Spider Monkeys. McRaven looked them over, wanting to shout out some reassurance and perhaps even receive some gratitude for their freedom. Their pitiful condition, however, compelled his eyes away. The soldiers on bear detail emerged from the train. With the giant creature on their shoulders, their legs were every bit as shaky the prisoners on the tracks. McRaven and Kaptu moved in to help.

'We came into Asylum City airspace on the pretext of a humanitarian flight,' said McRaven. 'And I'd say getting this bear away from its residents has actually lived up to that. Taking you away will probably qualify too.'

7 The rats

Las Gabos, Mexico was one of the sunniest places in the world and the crew of the Zopez were beginning to cheer up after the disappointment of having to pass by Acapulco without being granted shore leave. The late Captain Tay would absolutely have dropped in for a visit, and it would not have ended until all his money had been exhausted on wine, gambling and women. In Acapulco, the whole process would not have taken no more than a day or two. Mas, on the other hand, had not betrayed a whiff of temptation as Acapulco drew excruciatingly near. Titov wondered if that was the difference between them: Captain Tay had always been serious until he fell apart, whereas Mas was just plain serious. The morale of the crew, nonetheless, was upbeat. It might have been more than the sunny weather or the proximity of their destination: perhaps it was the promise in Mas's hard exterior of something they had never really experienced under Captain Tay: to come out of a job ahead.

'The wharf dead ahead,' ordered Mas to Captain Titov, peering with binoculars out from the bridge. The binoculars told her it was three miles away; she took some time to study the seemingly deserted factory complex beyond the wharf. She noted, however, that the razor wire surrounding it still seemed well maintained and in perfect condition.

Captain Titov had a pair of binoculars of her own and was joining Mas in the inspection. 'Who are we meeting?' she murmured. 'It looks abandoned to me.'

Mas left the bridge without replying. She moved across the deck to the aft and looked out with her naked eye. The factory complex consisted of two large corrugated iron buildings and three towering silos numbered in weathered red paint. Rust was streaked across almost every surface. Nonetheless, to Mas there was a more telling indication even than the quality of the razor wire that the site was in active service: the crane upon the wharf was shiny new - no rust at all. If it was a super crane, as Mas suspected, it would have the capacity to lift the entire Zopez out of the water, cargo and all. Mas decided against trying to make radio contact with the complex. The puttering engines would be announcement enough of their arrival. Mas admitted to herself that she wasn't sure who in fact would come to receive them. She was confident the organisation Jalanti Jones represented was rich and powerful, for it had met every payment she had requested without fuss or noise, and it had provided every piece of equipment she had asked for, including technology whose very existence she had only heard rumours of.

The solitary figure of a woman emerged, striding along the wharf. The woman was short, and she was shielding her eyes from the sun as she peered out at the Zopez. It took a moment for Mas to recognise Jalanti. She studied her countenance intently through the binoculars, not that there was much to see beyond blue lipstick and a stern gaze.

'She looks like a pissed off school teacher,' said Titov, joining Mas at the railing.

'All I see is money.'

'We're working for her?'

'She's the face of who we're working for.'

'So, you don't much know who we're working for then?'

'If things go bad, I might take the time to find out. But don't let that look on her face fool you. Things are going good.'

Jalanti reached the end of the wharf and folded her arms as she continued to glare their way.

'I'll take your word for it,' said Titov.

'Stay on the boat while I have a word with her.'

'Alright. I just hope your eagle has your back.' Titov started back for the bridge.

Mas leapt up onto the wharf and left the crew preoccupied with securing the mooring ropes.

'What do you think of her?' queried Mas, walking over to Jalanti as she gave the vessel a hard looking over. 'Rarely in maritime history has so much been paid for so little.'

'But is it really the Kudos underneath?' murmured Jalanti.

'That's right.'

'Then it is worth what we are paying. And don't forget that money will include reverting it back to its former self. No matter how bad that might be.'

'The crew will go straight to work with Captain Titov to supervise. By the time they are done, the Kudos will live again. It will be a piece of junk, but it will be back.'

Jalanti's razor sharp eyes turned on Mas. 'Clearly not everything in the operation is running so smoothly, so let's talk.' She led the way off the wharf and into Silo 2. Within the vast expanse of darkness there was an office space complete with desk, cabinets, a hospitality corner and reading lamps. 'Would you like a drink?' Jalanti asked, visibly relaxing once she had closed the door on the outside world.

'No, thanks,' said Mas. 'My poor sea legs have me queasy enough as it is.'

Jalanti took from the bar fridge in the hospitality-corner a premade iced strawberry gin. She sipped it zestfully and shook out her hair. She smirked ruefully at Mas. 'You're quite comfortable in the sky though, aren't you?'

'Am I?'

'Comfortable enough to be blowing up magno-choppers. Why did you do that exactly?'

'Stamford Transaction Facilitators had sampled me. As a guarantee that no moves would be made on Gustav Fall after I had gotten the Stockholm Compound.'

'You couldn't make that guarantee?'

'I certainly can't make it on your behalf.' Mas peered around the silo. 'I get the impression this is a large operation, probably involving the kind of people that do not like leaving behind loose ends. Gustav Fall obviously sensed it too or else he wouldn't have enlisted the services of transaction facilitators.'

Jalanti leaned against the cabinets, enjoying the cool of the glass in her hands. 'Are you worried too?'

'I have my own guarantee. My drone is hovering above with a nuclear-armed missile that will be launched if there are any anomalies in my vital signs. My grave will be ten miles across and shared by many. You, of course, will be welcome.'

Jalanti squirmed with the thought. 'Let's hope you don't have any pre-existing health conditions.'

'I appreciate the concern.'

'I have some developments to inform you of. The signature dog that has marked you survived the magno-chopper crash.'

Mas stiffened. 'Is that so?'

'Too bad you did not use your nuclear warhead at that moment.'

'Where is the dog now?'

'I'm not sure I'd care to tell you. Now that our operation is so far progressed, there can be no distraction. There is no way the authorities can track you down to here. After our objectives are met, I will point you in the dog's direction.'

'Who are they?'

'The dog's name is Blast.'

'I know that. We were introduced. Does Stamford TF still retain possession of it or has it been acquisitioned?'

Jalanti sighed. 'Don't worry, it's no one serious like the FBI.'

'Which means I can go take care of them nice and quick. Unless you are underestimating them, in which case it is much better I take them out right now before any real damage is done. There's time for it. The crew will be busy restoring the Zopez back into the Kudos and the scientists have their rodents to prepare. That will give me at least a week to take care of this situation.'

Jalanti shrugged non-committedly.

'So, who are they?' Mas queried.

'Have you heard of the Hurt World Agency?'

'Aren't they United Nations peace keepers?'

'Something like that.'

'Well, I suppose everyone wants peace just so long as it's on their own terms.'

Jalanti finished off her strawberry gin and left the glass on the cabinets. 'Allow me to show you what peace looks like on my terms.'

She took Mas out of the Silo 2 and across a sandy compound to Silo 1. She explained on the way that the complex had been built at the height of the Great Food Crisis fifty years earlier. A hub for the shipment of grain across Central and South America. A dark time when the world was at its closest to fighting a nuclear war over bread. Mas listened with only scant interest, preoccupied with the thought of that signature dog in the hands of the authorities. It didn't matter if it was FBI or any other acronym. Anyone with a propensity for travel could use the signature dog to track her down - and most likely through the most troublesome route: the past all the way to the present. Try as she might, she had not managed to separate them enough for her satisfaction, at least not yet.

Stepping into the silo immediately succeeded in taking her mind off her predicament. There was an overpowering odour of rodents and in a dark corridor a man in a white lab coat stepping forward to greet them.

'Is this the one?' the man queried. The man had greying hair and bloodshot eyes sunk into deep sockets. Peeking through the lab coat was a pink silt tie and green shirt. 'I saw the boat docking and was sure the wait is finally over.'

'This is Dr Franco,' said Jalanti. 'He is proud of the rats he has been breeding for us and is keen to see them reach their full potential.'

'You did bring the Toxoplasma G formula?' the scientist asked expectantly.

'They called it the Stockholm Compound.'

'Named after the city where it was first made illegal.'

'It wasn't easy but I managed to track some down.'

'No, it wouldn't be easy. Otherwise, humankind would certainly be doomed. Let me show my gratitude with a guided tour of my lovely little creatures' temporary residence.'

'Alright.'

They walked through an iron door into an elevator and rode it to the top. The doors opened onto a steel gantry overlooking one of the most grotesque sights Mas had ever come across. Thousands of enormous rats were tearing into each other in a seething dark pit that reeked of death.

Dr Franco leaned over the railing in awe. 'Magnificent, aren't they? Another couple of generations of them feeding on each other and I will start introducing them to human meat.' He looked at Mas with a twitching eye. 'I am concerned that when the time comes there will not be enough meat to go around. We are dealing with some serious numbers. Some serious appetites. Anyway, that is Jalanti's department and she assures me I have nothing to worry about.' He was breathing heavily as he spoke, exposing Mas to a breath of uncleaned teeth. 'The Toxoplasma G parasite infects a rat's brain, turns it into little more than a zombie. Instead of running away from cats, the rat will become attracted to them, get themselves eaten. That is how the parasites are able to enter their new host. I find the inherent cruelty of nature quite extraordinary. Putting to use the Stockholm Compound you have brought me, the rats will become attracted to humans in a manner you cannot begin to imagine. A hunger beyond the most extreme versions provided by nature.'

He dropped some spit down onto the rats just to see if he got a reaction. But there was nothing. 'Do you feel safe from them up here?' he asked Mas. 'At the moment, you are entitled to, although you wouldn't want to slip off the edge.' He tried to give her a playful nudge, but she was strong and did not move. 'When my breeding program is finished, to stand where we are now would spell certain death. Stripped to the bone in a matter of minutes. A very unpleasant death. Come back then and I will show you.'

'The breeding program will continue on the Kudos as we move towards destination,' interjected Jalanti.

'Which is very exciting,' said Dr Franco. 'I wish I could go. I haven't been on a boat since I was a young boy.'

'The boat we've got for you is so old it might be the same one,' said Mas.

Dr Franco's smile turned to the consistency of oil. He looked Mas up and down with leering eyes. 'The Stockholm Compound is apparently not on your persons. I would very much like to confirm its authenticity before I get too excited.'

'You're already too excited if you ask me.'

'The canister is close,' said Jalanti hastily. 'Unfortunately, further negotiations are required before it can be released. I'm sure you can appreciate that in addition to the scientific value there are also significant business considerations attached.'

'I've shown you the only kind of rats I'm interested in,' replied Dr Franco stone faced. 'I will leave the rest to you.' He marched off the gantry in a mood.

Jalanti glared at Mas. 'So, here's the negotiation. Handover the canister and I'll give you the location of the signature dog. And I'll agree to your temporary release. I'd rather have you creating havoc with our enemies than our allies.'

Mas gave the cauldron of cannibal rats a parting glance and headed back into the elevator where Dr Franco was waiting. 'I just need you to keep reminding me which is which,' she murmured under her breath.

8 Animal rescue

The Atlantic crossing was being made in a Lava Proton Jet. They were travelling high within the stratosphere, which was only for missiles and people travelling like missiles. The journey would be over too soon for Kaptu Z's liking. He had never had a vacation from Asylum City and the only experience he felt he had been missing out on was cutting through the sky at speeds no simulator could ever recreate.

Marco McRaven did not seem to appreciate the look of excitement on Kaptu's face. He was strapped in at the mostly automated controls with tensely puckered lips that smacked of unease. 'We'll be over Switzerland in fifteen minutes,' he said. He idly gazed at the dull grey cloud whipping by around the rocket jet. 'I'm surprised Renaissance personally got in touch with you to brief you on this job. She usually just picks her technicians and has a cats-land-on-their-feet faith in them.'

'A bodyguard for a dog,' Kaptu murmured. 'There wasn't much to talk about.'

'There are always choices to be made in these matters. Enough choices for you to checkmate yourself to death. I must say, you're already moving in that direction. Taking out the Meltman's train was a noble example of that very thing. Cutting off your path of retreat is what your enemies would want you to do. There's no way you can go back to Asylum City now. So, using a busted up dog to try and track down the world's best poacher is your only chance of being promoted to somewhere new. But if the mission falls through there will be nowhere left for you in the Hurt World. There will be nowhere left for you anywhere.'

'I'll be going back to Asylum City,' replied Kaptu casually. 'Rescuing a bear was nothing. There is an entire city to rescue.' He smirked at McRaven. 'You may even have the pleasure of escorting me there. You did such a good job on this occasion.'

'No one who gets out of Asylum City wants to sneak back in. And to what end? Do you think you can clear death out of the city of death?'

'No, perhaps just freshen it up a little.'

McRaven rolled his eyes. 'Let's just see what state you're in when the time comes. The pieces might be small enough that delivery can be done by carrier pigeon.' He picked up a black duffel bag from his feet and handed it to Kaptu. 'You might need this. It's my own personal survival kit. It's a lot better than what you'll get from the United Nations. Take out what you want and leave the rest.'

'Thanks.'

'Keep most of it. Whoever put Mas in the same space as the world's maddest scientist deserves a moment's pause. We'll try to find them. But, honestly, you'd better expect them to find you first.'

Kaptu glanced in the bag and didn't recognise much of what he saw. Amongst the stash there were grenades of black plastic, silver mercury vials that looked dangerous enough without being readily apparent why, and red balls of splatter gum.

'It's a step up from what you would find in Asylum City,' said McRaven, 'but the principles are the same. There are things to communicate with, things to kill with and things to stop yourself getting killed. In a quiet moment you'll figure out which is which.'

Kaptu zipped up the bag. 'I'll take the whole thing.'

McRaven flicked a switch on the control console and Kaptu's harness began to lift off him. 'The Swiss Alps isn't flat enough for a plane like this to land. So we're going to tip upside down. Get the idea what happens next?'

Kaptu looked out at the great swaths of snowcapped mountains ahead and started to put on his gloves. 'I should've brought a bone for the dog. What if it doesn't like me?'

McRaven frowned. 'Is that some kind of joke? Just for that, I'm not even going to slow down.'

*

'What's its chances, doc?' asked Mlit Hopital through his surgical mask as he watched over the surgery in progress.

Dr Leanov recognised the stress in the Stamford TF representative's voice and wondered if he was squeamish at the sight of blood, even if it was just the blood of a canine. A more likely explanation he supposed was that this particular dog's blood just happened to be more valuable than Romanee-Conti wine. Perhaps, he should have barred someone so dubious from his operating theatre, but surgery was such a lonely experience. 'Its chances are good,' replied Leanov with his crisp Georgian accent. He poked the sedated dog's hard, muscular rump. 'I say that because it is strong.'

Hopital had been giving Leanov a looking over of his own. There were busy black eyebrows; a broad, oval forehead; unkempt curly black hair; and large, intense eyes. Importantly to Hopital, there was no trace of hesitation or duplicity. Leanov appeared to be one of those no-nonsense, no-ego types that Hopital could trust without necessarily respecting. Having decided that the world renowned veterinarian's positive diagnosis was dependable enough, he could not wait to hear it again. 'Are you sure, doc? The poor thing was leaking blood all the way here. We patched it up as best we could with some of those Third World emergency staples. They weren't really up to the kind of hole Blast has got in its side. I mean, you could put hinges on that flap of skin and make it into a door.'

'I suppose Guatemala does not have all the facilities that we enjoy here.' Leanov was suturing up the dog's side gash with a fast, expert touch. He paused to slap the monitor displaying Blast's vital signs set up at the head of the surgical table. 'That is a heart that wants to keep beating. I don't make guarantees but I tell it the way I see it. I've had war lords with cute little puppies pull guns on me and I still didn't tell them anything less than the truth. You can pull a gun if you want to kill something, but it isn't nearly so useful when it comes to keeping things alive.'

'Honestly, Doc, an hour ago I might have been ready to pull a gun on you myself. Now that you're taking care of business, I'm feeling a tad more sociable. Sociable enough to tell you of the danger you're in.'

Leanov frowned. 'The people who tell the best threats are usually the worst at paying their bills.'

'You've got me wrong. You'll get paid sure enough. Say what you will about the United Nations, they can certainly pay a bill.'

Leanov glanced up from his suturing. 'Then enlighten me as to what you're getting at.'

'As grumpy as doctors are, I know in general the concern they have for their patients is real. In this case though I would strongly suggest you tone it down a level or two. And I'm not talking about the grumpiness.'

Nurse Null, who had been quietly assisting the operation, needed to pat the perspiration off her own brow. Leanov, however, retained his surgical-grade steadiness. 'So, what you're saying is you don't want Blast to survive?'

Hopital nudged past Nurse Null to get closer. 'I know how doctors play the game. Do a little operation and then prescribe a long rest as an inpatient. And why not? We all have to get paid. But on this occasion I would discharge the patient as soon as possible. Don't get caught up in the aura of working for the United Nations. The truth is the Hurt World Agency is just a rather nasty off-shoot. Its technicians do not answer to anyone and do not care who gets hurt when there is a mission to do. You should know this because that's all you'll have between you and the person you really need to worry about.'

'Who is that?'

'The other person coming for Blast.'

Leanov finished of the suturing and briefed Nurse Null on what to do next: saline proxy blood, protein milk and a level one anti-bacterial mist. Then he left the operating theatre, discarding to the floor his mask and bloodied gloves as he went. The face that was revealed underneath was streaked with wrinkles and blotches. Hopital thought he looked quite sickly and wondered if the high altitude of the Swiss Alps was an attempt at the doctor's own healing.

'I'm sad to say I may have let myself be swayed by the thought of helping out the United Nations,' Leanov murmured. He looked about the glass walled cubicles of the recovery ward he had marched into; the pandas, tiger cubs and yaks that occupied them perked up with his presence. 'I didn't do my usual background check into this patient, something I have started doing since I realized that attached to animals as cute as these are often people rotten to the core.'

'That is the way I view the Hurt World,' said Hopital. 'The United Nations might be a noble and benevolent institution but this thing called the Hurt World is fused to it like a wart on the toe of an honest young maiden. Although they would not reveal the identity of the technician they are sending, you can be sure these people are all cast from the same mold. And the animal division is the worst of all. The Hurt World obviously does not value our fellow creatures as much as you do, for it is their lowest prioritised department and the entry point for new recruits. And they are not particularly discriminating about who they take. Bent cops. Screwed up lawyers. Blood thirsty peace keepers. You name it.'

Leanov stepped out onto the terrace of the grey synthetic-stone chalet sucking in a lungful of the crisp cold mountain air as though suddenly in need of his cure. Part of it may have been the sereneness of the view of Mount Rosa nestled in a soft pink hue of an early summer dusk. He spotted a parachutist cruising towards the mountain from at least a thousand metres above. 'Is that the technician?'

'Yes,' said Hopital, looking up from beside him. 'He would have come in a very fast plane that will be out of Switzerland before he even lands.'

'They are bringing me a bear soon too. That must be in a slower plane and I assume it is actually going to land.'

'His presence will make you a target, for his enemy will know it is only a matter of time before Blast is moved to a more secure location.'

'Who is this enemy?'

'A poacher. She is good with a rifle, so she might be selective in who she shoots. But the time she shot at me she used a missile.' He looked around. 'This is a great spot for a missile.'

'No one has come to my practice by parachute before. I wonder if these are the kind of people you can really say no to.'

'You don't have to worry about long lasting grudges. The life expectancy of Hurt World technicians is brief. I hear that their insurance premiums are higher even than for the Arctic armies. And the technicians of the Hurt World One are worst of all. Young, inexperienced and desperate to prove themselves. It is not a recipe conducive to clear heads and smart decisions.' As Kaptu began to sway in the swirling winds bouncing off the mountain, Hopital sneered derisively. 'I don't mean to sound callous, but that leaf up there is all that stands between you and the person coming to kill Blast before its sense of smell returns.'

'And who is that?' The voice was edgy. Hopital could feel he was causing the hands of a world renowned surgeon to tremble. 'Mas,' he said bluntly.

'Yes,' murmured Leanov. 'I have heard of her. An assassin of animals.'

'An assassin of people too.' He patted the doctor on the shoulder. 'You have a good practice here and a lot of animals would be sorry the day it is lost. Take care of yourself.'

Leanov swung around as he headed off the terrace. 'Where are you going?'

'It's not safe for me here, either. Especially not standing in open view like this. For all I know Mas's sniper rifle is trained on me right now. I've had my run-ins with her before and the only thing that would be holding her back from pulling the trigger would be keeping her presence concealed. She's a particularly disciplined hunter in that regard but I wouldn't want to push my luck. And besides, visual contact has been made with the Hurt World technician. Legally, that is sufficient to constitute a handover.' He stretched his neck in an effort to update himself on Kaptu's progress but the roof overhang was blocking his view. 'He could break his neck for all I care.'

Leanov left him to find his own way out of the practice. He returned to the operating theatre, where the nurse was still at work applying the anti-bacterial treatment to Blast's wounds. 'Prepare the cocoon, Nurse Nell,' he said in his most formal voice. 'The patient will be travelling very soon.'

*

Renaissance was sighing in ecstasy. Or was it more of a purr? Devita, a young man who worked in the Hurt World in the capacity of a cleaner, assured himself that what he was conjuring with his lips and tongue were real. Sure women could fake an orgasm - out of politeness or to get some extra sleep - but could a woman really fake this? How could someone turn melting into a sound? And how could someone so effortlessly drop ten years from their face if there was even a smidgen of resistance? The couple were sharing the hotel bathroom's shower recess with the nozzle on steam mode. The luxuriously silky vapour was moistening skin, loosening tension from mind and body, clearing aside the mundane for the heavenly touch.

The bathroom was exquisitely clean. The best cleaner robots money could buy had ensured there was barely a speck of dust in the air and the slightest trace of grime on any of the bathroom's brass, gold and porcelain surfaces. The shower recess's tinted window was made of the finest diamond glass. Its anti-fogging properties maintained the spectacular view of the San Francisco skyline with colours and contrasts superbly sharp.

Devita was on his knees; he dipped his tongue in the mood salts he had close to hand and tortured her just a little more before bringing her to climax. She gasped and quivered with the moment. He was satisfied that he had done well. But he could have brought her up to climax a fraction slower, brought her to a scream. The time for that simply wasn't available. The Hurt World needed her.

Renaissance turned the nozzle into cold water mode to confirm that the moment was over. Devita knew better than to pursue her there.

'You still haven't lost your touch,' Renaissance said as she washed herself with soap.

Devita stood up and let her see his muscular torso. He put away the moods salts quickly for they were technically illegal, something she might mind now that the cold water was running. 'You've picked a nice bathroom,' he muttered.

'Designed by Folitane. This is the only hotel in the world she has outfitted.'

Devita stepped away from the shower recess and began to towel himself down. He wasn't particularly wet but the touch of the soft white towel was heavenly. He looked over Renaissance's body. It didn't look as good from afar as it had felt up close, but that was not surprising. Someone as important as Renaissance could be forgiven some sagging and wrinkles. In fact, just the thought of how important she was caused Devita to feel inadequate and his deep gravelly voice to weaken. 'Although no one would deny you such luxuries as these,' he murmured, 'I fear bringing your own personal cleaner to San Francisco may be one extravagance too many.'

Renaissance joined him at the towel rack and dried herself with a lot more purpose. She kicked him on the cheek and smiled. 'But you have special security clearance. You have access to restricted areas.' She moved into the bedroom and got dressed quickly, her clothes neatly laid out on the bed in their proper order. She glanced back at her tall, handsome companion in the bathroom. 'Now put your professional talents to use and give the suite a thorough clean, would you, darling? Having you here really does increase the need to ensure there are no hidden surveillance devices.' She smirked. 'It's a good thing you're the man for the job.'

Stepping out of the suite she was immediately confronted with an ashen faced Spiros Pardos standing in the richly carpeted passageway with his fingers busily twitching at his sides. 'Have you been unpacking?' he said. 'That might prove to be a waste of time.'

Renaissance stared. 'Why is that?'

Pardos's Adam's Apple popped out as he swallowed anxiously. 'The Government Insurance Agents are already here. They're waiting for you in the conference room. They look particularly pissed.'

'Why doesn't that surprise me,' murmured Renaissance as she marched down the passageway.

The San Francisco Tower Hotel's twentieth floor was a hive of activity with the hasty setting up of a temporary Hurt World headquarters. Enough equipment to monitor the whole globe. Spyware and anti-spyware in equal measure. And setting up the living spaces for all the analysts and consultants that would be coming in with the task of identifying locations where Blast might pick up Mas's scent or perhaps even track down where she was in the flesh. Living spaces that were a nightmare to get right, for the best analysts and consultants seemed to have eccentricities up to their eyeballs and endless lists of requirements from the temperature of the water in their glasses to the brightness of their desk lamps. The mood, however, became even more somber inside the conference room. The two Government Insurance Agents were sitting at the oakwood table in pinstripe suits. A male and female, both with shoulder length hair and briefcases open to virtual documents. Renaissance made a point of knowing all Government Insurance Agents who were at a level to bother her and these two were near the top: Chezel and Gift. Renaissance was surprised. She would never have thought there was an insurance premium high enough to bring them into the same room together. She greeted them with handshakes and pleasantries, all the while wondering how they could have gotten wind of the operation so quickly. If it was a snitch, she could understand. Insurance agents decided which treatments and drugs a patient could have access to. When someone was sick, the insurance agent was more important than the doctor.

'I imagine you were just about to contact us regarding your latest enterprise,' said Chezel, her harelip becoming more noticeable. 'Fortunately, we were able to find out for ourselves.'

Renaissance shrugged. She knew they were too smart for her to lie, but she didn't think telling the truth would help her much either.

'Not everyone wishes to see an end to the Hurt World experiment,' continued Chezel. 'Those that do, however, would be well pleased with the choices you are making.'

Gift quickly added, 'Our job is not to judge those choices, it's to put a price on them. You can be sure that is a far more important role.'

'The United Nations defines civilisation as any region or state in which there is insurance. That is why Asylum City is probably the most uncivilised place on earth. That explains my own personal disapproval of your appointment of Kaptu Z. He has grown up without any concept of insurance. In other words, completely uncivilised. And that is why the policy you need to take out is well above your budget.'

'Did your calculations factor in what the mission is all about? It is precisely the reason why the likes of Kaptu Z is needed.'

'He doesn't just lack a concept of the value of things,' said Gift disparagingly, 'he doesn't work either. Asylum City lacks modern forms of transport, dwellings and technology. You have sent him into Europe without any supervision or safeguards. He is likely to destroy or damage everything he encounters. Without any parameters having been places on him, the potential number of claimants is staggering. Kaptu Z is easily the most uncivilised client we have had the duty to create a policy for. I agree with my colleague that it is unlikely that the Hurt World will be able to afford it. It is a shame that you let the operation progress this far without first consulting us. Blackballing is not something we do lightly.'

Renaissance wouldn't let herself be fazed. She knew Government Insurance Agents liked to rattle people like they were maracas. 'Perhaps the parametres could be found to make this mission more insurable. Far from forgetting about you, I set aside the best suite on the floor for your work. Stay as long as you need. And my own personal assistant will be at your complete disposal to ensure you get all that you need. That too can be squeezed within our budget, I'm sure.'

Gift looked a little too excited. 'From the scale of the set up here, it's clear the operation is of some importance to you. We will try to accommodate it if we can.'

'I don't know why you've gone to the trouble of coming to San Francisco,' interjected Chezel, less impressed, 'but the first parameter we're going to set is that Kaptu Z doesn't get anywhere near here, anywhere at all on US soil. That would take way too much insurance for you to handle.'

Renaissance nodded. 'I get it. That won't be a problem.'

'Europe isn't much cheaper but there's not a lot we can do now that he's there.'

'At least, the UK can be made restricted,' said Gift. 'Tell Kaptu Z to stay away from there as well.'

'Alright.'

'Especially London. I couldn't bear to imagine the sort of costs involved if he went on a wrecking spree there.'

Chezel stood up from the table. 'I'm willing to spend at least an evening seeing if the operation can be salvaged. First, I would like a spa and some supper. Have your assistant organise it. I would see my suite first.'

Renaissance stood up too. 'As you wish.'

Gift remained seated, his business not yet complete. 'I'll launch a 426 interim emergency policy. That will provide enough cover for the mission to proceed. But you must instruct your technician to refrain from doing a number of things until more work can be done on the policy.'

'Refrain from what?'

'He is not to drive any kind of non-automated transport, action any kind of weapon not directly issued to him by the United Nations, or take any kind of performance enhancing substances. He will have to accept those conditions over the Code Whisperer and any violations will make the policy void.'

'And possibly bankrupt him for life.' Renaissance betrayed a flash of anger. 'Kaptu Z is on the most dangerous mission in the whole of Hurt World and all you're offering him is holiday insurance.'

Gift joined them on his feet with an indifferent look. 'Like all gamblers, you should only stake what you can afford to lose. In this case you've staked Kaptu Z. You can choose your player but you can't make the rules. If you want to turn them in your favour, you'd be well advised to find out what you're criminal, Mas, is actually up to. Insurance policies are all about numbers and you need to demonstrate that it is more expensive to leave a criminal alone than it is to catch her. It won't be easy when you're criminal is a recluse poacher who spends years at a time hiding away in jungles.'

Renaissance's cheeks pinched in a harsh smirk. 'I'll try. Meanwhile, I'll have my assistant show you to the public spa.'

'Thank you,' said Gift. 'That would be lovely.'

*

The Code Whisperer communications headset always turned Kaptu Z hollow. The shrill hissing voice issuing commands with cold finality carried an electronic signature impossible to forge. It was rarely used in Asylum City and Kaptu had only been on the receiving end when he was first recruited by Renaissance. That had been bizarre in its delivery, but predictable at least in its content, demanding pledges of loyalty and assurances of sanity. On this occasion, however, it was nothing short of disturbing. Hurt World had rushed him to the aid of Blast with a murderous poacher in pursuit and at the bequest of insurance agents was placing restrictions on transport and weapons. It was a bad deal, but it was made clear if he did not agree to it, the whole mission would be scrapped and he would be left stateless and adrift in Europe. Trying to negotiate with the subhuman hiss that was the Code Whisperer was in itself a criminal offense.

'Do you accept the terms outlined to you as legally binding?' said the Code Whisperer once the instructions were given.

'Sure,' Kaptu murmured angrily and pulled the headset off. He took a moment to recompose himself. He had taken the call in the recovery ward of the Leanov Veterinarian Clinic and he found himself noticing the animals filling the glass enclosures around him. He walked up to a lion in the corner and met its eyes. He had learnt during his time with Hurt World One to recognise in the eyes of animals whether or not they had ever been free. The dull, glazed eyes looking back at him now attested to a lifetime's captivity. Knowing that such things did not change whether it be Asylum City or here, gave him resolve, helped him to focus. The Code Whisperer's restrictions made it riskier but there was still a way out. He went to McRaven's backpack and searched through it for weapons legally available to Hurt World technicians. Quick firing laser-acid weapons were not on the list, nor were the aura-lock dart missiles; it left Kaptu a small laser guiding slug pistol of a kind to conceal in shoes or trouser legs. He looked it over, suspecting a battle hardened poacher would consider it little more threatening as crickets in the African savannah.

'Blast is ready to leave,' announced Dr Leanov poking his head out from the operating theatre. His voice softened somewhat when he noticed the pistol in hand. 'Is everything alright?'

Kaptu pocketed the weapon in his moleskin pants. 'She's ready?'

'Yes. Would you like to see?'

Kaptu joined him in the operating theatre. On the silver table in its centre, there was a sausage shaped black duffel bag. Nurse Nell was beside it monitoring the vitals signs on its monitor box.

Kaptu's eyes widened with surprise. 'You've stuffed the dog into a bag?'

'It's a Cocoon 41,' said Leanov. 'It's a rehabilitator environment. Blast is in an induced coma and she is set to be woken in two weeks from today. Your job in the meantime is to keep the bag out of harm's way in the meantime. If you can, a full recovery is likely.' Leanov had to battle to hold himself together as he said these things, for lying was not in his nature. At least he was only lying by admission, neglecting to mention that the Cocoon 41 was only intended for use in transporting a sick animal to a veterinarian clinic, not to take one away. Nurse Nell was well aware of the malpractice he was perpetrating and looked on stone faced. She might even have said something if not for Kaptu's menacing air and the way he had arrived at the clinic, dropped in by military plane. Clearly, this was not a usual situation. Not that Kaptu was so foul tempered or surly mouthed as those gangster types that had tormented Leanov's practice in the past. He even had a sense of humour, laughing as he saw what had happened to Blast: 'You've put the dog in the bag.'

Leanov folded his arms tensely. 'The Cocoon 41 is now ready to go mobile. You are of course welcome to stay here long enough to enact your escape plan.'

Kaptu pulled a face. 'It's not going to be as elaborate as I'd hoped. In fact, could you give me directions to the local train station?'

Leanov stared at him incredulously. 'We're quite out of the way here. The nearest station is down in the valley. In Par.'

'I think I saw it during the descent.'

'You'll have to descend a whole lot further to reach it. A couple of thousand feet worth of world class ski slopes stand in the way. Wouldn't the people who flew you here come pick you up again? In these parts, the sky is the flattest road you'll find.'

Kaptu shook his head. 'Things are going to get a little bumpy. Do you have skis and a sled?'

'We're on top of the Alps. Of course, I do. But the snow is sludgy this time of year. I could simply give you a lift to the station if you prefer.'

'Stepping outside is going to be too dangerous for kind offers. There might be people keen to undo the work you've done in keeping Blast alive.'

'The Stamford TF agent explained the situation to me. I've heard of Mas and the things she's done. You've got to move quickly before she gets here.'

'I've heard of her too,' replied Kaptu. 'That's why I'm assuming she's already in position.'

'If Mas is outside, I'm afraid you'll find yourself in a bag of your own: a body bag.'

Kaptu frowned. 'You've heard of Mas but perhaps you haven't heard of me. My name is Kaptu Z. I am from Asylum City.'

Leanov looked to Nurse Nell. 'Bring my skis, could you? The news ones.' He smiled despite himself and slapped Kaptu on the shoulder. 'As the recovery ward may have hinted at, I am well used to the company of wild animals. My sled is by the backdoor. I'll take you there.'

The corridor they walked along was lined with medicine cabinets including the anti-venom of the world's one hundred most poisonous creatures. Leanov pointed them out with some pride. Kaptu managed to nod despite being preoccupied with McRaven's operations bag. He found what he was looking for, promptly pulling out the Pulsar Flare. It was pen-shaped black Nithian metal and would be powerful enough to disrupt the functioning of any drone a poacher might throw against him.

They reached the backdoor, which led out to an expansive terrace and a remarkable view of the snow drenched mountains descending to the distant valley floor. The sled was strung up on the wall by the door. Leanov pointed to it and quickly stepped back inside the building. 'Are you sure you want to go through with this? I will give you my prognosis. It may not be entirely worthless. Surgeons resemble generals in the way they must sum up all the elements of a battlefield. Usually the battlefield is a living body but on this occasion it is the mountain on which I have made a home. And I would say your chances are slim. A thousand feet descent on avalanche prone slopes with an expert hunter poised on higher ground. Secondary considerations are your lack of skiing experience and the obvious reticence of the United Nations to get involved - if they've left you to catch a train you had better not count on them for anything much. Unless there is some miracle cure in that bag of yours, I'm afraid the condition may be terminal.'

Kaptu pushed the bag to him. 'Actually, I would like you to hold onto it. It belongs to a man named McRaven. He'll be coming shortly with a rather unfriendly black bear.'

'I spoke to him over the radio.' Leanov took the bag and glanced at all the weapons inside. 'These are just the sort of belongings I would expect of such a man.' He snapped the bag shut. 'Halfway down the mountain there is a monastery run by the Order of Saint James. You may way want to renounce your sins.'

'I'll keep it in mind.'

Nurse Nell arrived with the skis. 'Here you are, Doctor. The good ones.'

*

Mas was following Hopital's progress away from the Leanov Clinic. The Ferrari A40 was cutting neatly and at speed along the sharply winding mountain road, ducking in and out of the sparse traffic with a ruthless indifference, clearly not restrained by the traffic-control satellites, which only specially licensed vehicles were permitted to disengage from. The images were being transmitted with sharp resolution onto the lenses of Mas's tech glasses. She was perched on a steep slope overlooking the Leanov Clinic and she was aware she needed to be focusing her attention in that direction rather than on Hopital. But she was only plotting the demise of Blast because she had to. With Hopital, it would be a lot more pleasurable. She would have done it with the first glimpse of his departure from the clinic if not for the risk of betraying her presence on Par Mountain. She was still hopeful that Blast would make an appearance while Hopital was still in range, giving her the chance to take care of both in the one moment. It was a thought that kept her warm as she huddled behind a cold jagged rock in the snow with her hunting rifle in hand. It was a good vantage point, giving her a comprehensive view of the clinic's front and quick access to the rear should Kaptu attempt an escape that way. Mas had been encouraged by his arrival by parachute. There had been nothing subtle about it and did not give the impression he was the type to sit around for any length of time. An adrenaline junkie. And none too careful. Mas had come to accept these as the all too typical traits of probably the easiest species she had ever hunted: humans. Even predators as skilled as tigers and lions were not so complacent about their own survival. If an overzealous Hurt World technician got in the way of her shot at the signature dog, it would not mean much to someone who had spent a lifetime fascinated by the cruelty of nature. Mas tried to get more comfortable against the rock. Her thoughts started to drift to the plains of Africa. It had been so long since she had been home crouched in tall grass, stalking a lion in a long steamy dusk. Mas started to pine for her lost youth.

Suddenly her glasses went blank. It was so inexplicable Mas found herself momentarily frozen. Her initial thought that it was a malfunction was dispelled in an instant. Both the tech glasses and the drone were the best on the market. They simply didn't malfunction. The likely alternative came with a rush of excitement. A cloaking device had been employed. It seemed this was not going to be a turkey shoot after all. Mas whipped off her glasses and ran, her rifle poised to fire at the hip. There was movement at the clinic's rear terrace and she fired even before she had registered what it was. Bullets clanged off the terrace's steel railing with puffs of smoke and sparks. Mas sprinted further along the mountain face, weaving through tall Alpine pines, analysing in her mind's eye what she had seen: Kaptu Z had been leaping from the terrace on skis, a large, black backpack upon his back. It was the backpack that occupied her thoughts the most. It was bulky and by the way he had dropped so rapidly, it must have had some weight behind it. It probably even saved his life, for if he had dropped any slower, the bullets would have had their target. Still, Mas would only let it be a temporary reprieve. She recognised the kind of bag, having owned a couple herself and she knew that a dog could very well be inside, though she had only used hers to smuggle leopards and cheetahs. If the Hurt World technician was going to put himself that close to the target, he in turn would be the target.

Mas jumped up onto a rocky outcrop, rifle pointed towards the base of the terrace, ready to finish him off quickly should he have landed poorly. To her surprise, however, he was on his feet and already making great distance down the mountain. Her next volley of gunfire ruffled the snow around him without getting any closer than his ski tracks. And then he was out of range and there was no indication that she would get another opportunity at him anytime soon. He was well balanced and picking up speed. Mas felt the rage of it. When wildlife eluded her on a hunt, she could admire their tenacity. For people, however, she was not so forgiving; she would burn with anger until she had ended her pray.

She put her tech glasses back on. The screens were still down and there was no interfacing with her drone. Only a minute had passed but a change that could disable this level of equipment for so long was beyond even current recognised military grade.

Zelda swopped down at Kaptu. She had been trained to pursue anyone that Mas pointed a weapon at. No matter how fast Kaptu might be able to ski, Zelda would keep circling above him in an effortless glide. The tech glasses would not be suppressed for long and then it would be a straight forward shot with the dart missiles tethered to the eagle's feet. Although one missile would likely be sufficient to obliterate the man and his dog, Mas would fire the entire weapons load all the same. She would splatter their guts across the mountain.

She brought her telescopic sight to her eye to get a closer look at the technician. He might have been impossible to shoot from her position, but not to remember. And it was quite a memorable face at that. Thick black hair and heavy square jaw. Even from this distance, the intense concentration and air of menace were stark. Not a comfortable enemy to have. Mas felt her finger reflexively drawn to the rifle trigger.

Kaptu was doing something similar, crouching low on his skis and leaning back while aiming his pistol straight up. With a cold shiver, Mas realised what he was doing and flicked her rifle onto rapid fire. Her wild spray of ordinance zipped noisily around the snowcapped forest and did nothing to prevent Kaptu's one shot at Zelda.

The Wedge Tailed eagle dropped limply from the sky. Mas watched it fall. She fired her gun dry at Kaptu. Kaptu kept on skiing.

*

The San Francisco Tower's bellboy rushed enthusiastically to the limousine's rear door. Although he didn't recognise the flag on the bonnet, all that mattered was that this was a diplomat's and that diplomats were generally good tippers. He got the feeling sometimes that they didn't really understand the true value of things. He had once been given a day's salary by a Middle Eastern diplomat merely for opening a door. The man who got out of the limousine on this occasion, however, didn't even look at him.

'I don't have any bags,' the man muttered in some kind of Scandinavian accent. He was tall, the bellboy barely reaching his chest. He strode up into the hotel with large strides, buttoning up his elegant grey suit and glancing at his gold watch. He walked to the receptionist stationed at a desk of black enamel.

'I am Betz, the Swiss Ambassador, to see Renaissance of the Hurt World.'

The receptionist inputted his features into the hotel computer, which had direct access to the System: it meant that within twenty seconds Betz's identity had been confirmed and his whole life, including every image captured by surveillance camera and every word recorded by mike, from his first crying at birth to any one of the thousands of electronic ears that might have picked up a stray word on his journey to the hotel. With his identity verified, the receptionist pressed a red button at his desk. 'The elevator will take you to your floor, sir.'

The Ambassador gave her a half glance. 'Is it safe?'

'All the glass in our hotel is ordinance proof,' the receptionist reassured.

The Ambassador rode the elevator to the twentieth floor and Spiros Pardos was there to greet him.

'Good evening, Ambassador,' said Pardos. 'We appreciate your coming at such short notice.'

'I trust the matter is urgent,' the Ambassador snapped.

'Yes, it is. Now if you'll kindly follow me.' Pardos led him down the long corridor. The Ambassador, however, moved at his own pace, for he wanted it to be known he could be beckoned but not herded.

They entered the room at the end of the corridor and Renaissance was waiting. She was standing by a holographic image emanating from the table screen in the centre of the room. She waved a hand through the snow covered mountains being projected to the height of her shoulders.

'Ambassador Betz, do you find the scene familiar?' she queried.

'Yes, indeed,' replied Betz, moving forward from Pardos to the corner of the table. 'Par Monten. Named after a long dead poet. Are we here to plan my next skiing holiday?'

'There might be an opportunity for some winter sports. But not a holiday. The name of the game is apprehending a world class criminal.'

'That's why I seek you out at the cocktail parties in Washington. When you talk weather, you talk about super hurricanes. When you talk politics, you talk genocide. And when you talk recreational activities, it comes down to hunting killers. So, who are we talking about now? Your message said it was someone in the FBI top thirty most wanted and it's had me guessing all the way here.'

Renaissance looked intently to the hologram. 'Mas, the poacher. She is on that mountain.'

'What is a poacher doing on the beautiful slopes of Switzerland?'

'There is a Hurt World operation that has enlisted the help of the Leanov Veterinarian Clinic. Mas is in pursuit of our technician. Leanov has reported gunfire. This is happening in real time.'

'Shots fired? Should you have let it get this far?'

'This is just starting. If we lead you to Mas, we will need continued access to the prisoner.'

'After the dirty work is done?'

'The Alpine Special Forces are the only people you have with an insurance coverage high enough to go after someone like her. Your regular troops should be given a Too Dangerous to Arrest directive. It is going to be dirty work, but we'll help even up the contest by taking out her drone.'

The Ambassador frowned. 'She's got a drone?'

'Don't be so surprised, Ambassador. Surely you should know some of the world's most dangerous criminals have drones following wherever they go. Rumour has it this one is even armed with nuclear missiles.' She stepped around the table. 'Let's go talk with Rojas Hose. He's my best analyst.'

They went into the adjoining bathroom where a young man was sitting in an empty spa with a computer tablet on his lap.

'Ambassador, I'd like you to meet Rojas. He's been tasked with locating Mas's drone.'

'A man working in a bath,' said Hertz, looking down on him disapprovingly. 'Should I be impressed?'

'You should see it is as a good sign,' replied Renaissance. 'It means he's expert enough that I leave him alone to his little quirks.'

'Thank you,' said Rojas, touching his face where his fledgling moustache was taking shape.

'What is the state of play on the mountain?'

'It seems Kaptu Z has just shot Mas's pet bird.'

Renaissance frowned bewildered. 'What?'

'But that's not really the important part. A neutron particle discharge blacked out all the drones in a thirty kilometre range of the Leanov Clinic. The rebooting emits distinct frequencies which can be analysed to discern one sort of drone from another. Assuming Mas has a militarised model, it can now be narrowed down to one of four. It's fantastic because before that I thought we were going to have to blow up ten.'

'Blow up ten drones?' said Betz incredulously.

'Switzerland can afford it,' said Renaissance. 'You have super insurance. And besides, you heard what he said, we're only going to blow up four.'

'They don't belong to Switzerland anyway,' added Rojas.

'How would you know?' said Betz. 'That information would only be contained in classified databases.'

'That's where I'm looking.'

Betz shook his head and glanced around the luxurious bathroom. 'You're waging war from a bridal suite bathtub.'

'A war that has come to Switzerland,' snapped Renaissance. 'Mas has been unsighted for the past two years and now here she is on your mountain. Cooperate and you'll have the credit for capturing her. And there will be a lot of people wanting to know about it. Mount Par will be put on the map by all the news reports. That will translate to tourist visits. It means an injection of capital before the last of the snow has melted.'

'It means even a mountain the size of Mount Par is liable to get flattened in the arrest,' Betz countered. 'But I see two reasons to make the arrest. The first is the opportunity to clear the skies above Switzerland of Mas's weaponry. The second is the opportunity to clear the ground of Mas herself.'

'Thank you, Ambassador,' said Renaissance. She looked quickly to Rojas. 'Fire when ready.'

*

Mas's heart was pounding, her limbs within the body suit warm and limber. Her eyes were fixed on the body of Zelda at rest in a patch of bloody snow. She was trembling with anger. She cut the weapons capsule from the eagle's foot. Drone images returning to her tech goggles informed her of Kaptu's progress down the mountain. She fired the capsule's entire twenty dart-missiles that way. As the explosions ripped through the valley, the ground began to shake and the real weapon was unleashed: an avalanche.

Mas took off her goggles to view the spectacle. It occurred to her, however, that the massive wall of snow might have been unleashed her way as well. She turned sharply to look behind her and that was when she noticed the four distant vapour trails against the pale blue sky. They were moving fast and spreading out from different directions. They ended with explosions and were so high that it took a long moment for the booms of thunder to follow. Mas swore under her breath and put her goggles to her eyes to see that they were blank again. This time she knew it was going to be permanent. The Hurt World technician had been able to knock out her drone for a couple of minutes, but his backup could obviously do things on a much bigger scale. With a sense of foreboding she knew well they would now be coming for her.

*

The snowmobile's nuclear fusion engine could send it up almost vertical mountain faces like they were just bumps in the road. And that was despite the weight of its weapons and mountain rescue equipment. On its flexi-steel caterpillar tracks the snowmobile was tearing through the avalanche ravaged forest, the recently felled trees being cleared by the powerful grader out front. The two occupants of the snowmobile were brother and sister and were wearing the dark blue uniforms of the Alpine Special Forces. They had the same blonde hair and light blue eyes. The sister was at the steering wheel and she was making towards the man whose infrared image was on her console screen. He was under a metre of snow.

'Activate the retrieval arm,' she instructed her brother.

'Sure, sis,' he replied. The retrieval arm went straight to work, unfolding from its roof mount and plunging into the soft, freshly settled snow. Kaptu Z was the man being pulled from his cold, white tomb. He was conscious and remained calm as the arm did its work. Snow fell away in clumps and he shook out his hair. He was lowered through a hatch into the back of the snowmobile.

The female driver looked back at him. 'Welcome aboard. I'm Giselle and this is my brother Mischa. Are you injured?'

'I'm ok,' replied Kaptu, carefully removing his backpack and inspecting Blast's vital signs on the monitor panel. 'We both are.'

Giselle again had the snowmobile screaming across the mountain. 'Great, but this isn't a rescue mission. We would have left you to one of the Search and Rescue crews if it was.'

Kaptu looked over the two siblings, noting that they were both heavily armed. 'So why did you bother?'

'We are going after Mas and if anything happens to us, it will be up to you and your dog to avenge us,' said Mischa fastening armour plating to his chest. 'We'll take you to the edge of town. From there it's a ten minute walk to the train station. It will be a good way to warm up. Report to Central Police Station in Zurich. They'll be expecting you.'

'Alright.'

'Sorry we can't have some of our people take you. We can't spare anyone.' With the plate fastened, he set about recharging an laser-acid pistol. 'We don't take kindly to people who trigger avalanches in these parts. No better than mass murderers. So we have the whole mountain in lock down.'

'Before we drop you off,' said Giselle in the midst of her fast driving, 'you can tell us some more about this poacher.'

'There is not much to say. She had an eagle with a weapons system attached to its talons. I shot it from the sky. And she had a weaponised stealth drone hovering above the earth. Base has just blown that up. So, on the one hand, the poacher is more vulnerable than ever. But, on the other hand, you'll find she's in quite a nasty mood.'

Two black choppers roared by close overhead on the way up the mountain. 'They're Search and Rescue,' said Mischa. 'In these parts, we're very good at finding people. Not so good at Search and Destroy.'

'I'll come along for the ride,' said Kaptu. 'That's going to warm me up quicker than catching a train.'

'You can try hitchhiking up the mountains, 'cause you ain't coming with us,' snapped Giselle. 'Your job is to be a dog handler. Or a dog bodyguard.' She slammed on the brakes, bringing the snowmobile to a stop just above the town. 'You can see the train station from here, but we'll take you all the way to the platform if you think you're going to struggle.'

Kaptu stepped out with the backpack. 'I'll manage.'

The snowmobile sped off in a vertical ascent, leaving him with more snow to shake out of his hair. He put on the backpack and turned his attention to the town. Nestled at the bottom of the valley with a snow fed river running through its heart, it was a hive of activity. Pockets of floodlights indicated where the police roadblocks had been set up. The centrally located train station was one of the most concentrated. Kaptu started walking that way. On his wrist computer, he saw that he had ten minutes to catch the express to Paris. It was his quickest way out of Par, was worth hurrying for.

*

Mas had reached her snowmobile with the Search and Rescue helicopter stalking her overhead. She cracked off a few shots of small arms fire to keep it at a distance. But she held back her heavier ordinance for when the helicopter fired back or for when its reinforcements arrived. The manner in which the helicopter hastily pulled away suggested it was merely a spotter, reporting her location for the people that had shot her eagle and shot down her drone. A small bullet and some sophisticated missiles. Mas sensed a trap closing. She took from the snowmobile the weapons she would need. The snowmobile itself would be of no use to her, not with the kind of missiles her enemies had at their disposal. So, it was going to be a hard, messy ground fight. She sprayed herself in DNA scrambler fluid and gulped half a litre of energy drink. She sensed more than saw the arrival of the Alpine Special Forces, diving away an instant before the missile struck.

She slid down the bank of hard snow at speed, leaving behind her obliterated snowmobile. She flipped onto her back and fired. The helicopter, emboldened by the arrival of the Alpine Special Forces, was creeping closer and its tail was promptly shot off. Mas rolled back onto her stomach and she flew headfirst off the mountain. Tracer bullets hissed by around her and it wasn't until she reached terminal velocity that she began to put distance between them and her. She looked down on the valley floor and the town within. As the superheated helium bubbles inside her bodysuit began to activate and slow her descent, she instructed her tech goggles to list the fastest vehicles in the vicinity. The list came on screen immediately. There were sports cars, jet bikes and disposable planes. But the armoured trucks were what caught her attention, especially as they came with cannons attached. The location given was the Alpine Special Forces base. So that's where she would go.

*

Giselle and Mischa rushed out of their snowmobile, propping themselves against a rocky outcrop. They watched the descending Mas become nothing more than a dark spec against Par River.

'Is she slowing?' Mischa murmured. 'It's hard to tell from here.'

'If she had flown off the mountain without any sort of brake, I think she would have had more pressing concerns than blowing up our helicopter.'

Mischa glanced back at the black smoke billowing off the helicopter's wreckage further up the mountain. 'Do you think the crew got out?'

Giselle shrugged. 'It's not likely a Search and Rescue helicopter would have much experience of being shot down. But we'd better take a look.' She leaned into her collar mike, 'Suspect is descending to Par River. Armed and dangerous. Search and Rescue helicopter is down.'

'Engine failure?' queried the base operator.

'Missile strike. Lock down the town and call in the army.'

'Roger that.'

'The Hurt World technician is on his way to the train station. The poacher is in pursuit. Expect carnage.'

'Understood'

'Put Kaptu Z on the fastest damned train out of here. Do it now.'

*

Par Train Station was the third largest in Switzerland and was heavily endowed with level upon level of black glass set into arched bronze frames. The high ceilings and wide open platforms and hallways added to the atmosphere of grandeur. It was a building desperate not to be overshadowed by the surrounding Alpine peaks. Kaptu Z saw it as an attempt to draw tourists with the promise of a more comfortable skiing experience than the one he had had.

He strode across the thinly populated foyer to the Departures Board. Service Suspended notices glowed in red against every route. No reason was given but Kaptu suspected a rampaging poacher had something to do with it.

'Excuse me, sir. May I see your PIC?'

Kaptu turned to see three heavily armed police officers approaching him. Kaptu took a moment to realise what he was asking for was his Personal Identification Card. They were not used in Asylum City, it's population having been out of control virtually since its founding. Kaptu, however, had a United Nation's diplomatic card, which he handed over.

The police officer that looked over it muttered, 'You had better come with us.'

Kaptu was led to Platform One. He could see in the foyer people being unceremoniously herded out the exit. 'Have all the trains stopped?'

'Yours hasn't. In fact, it's being commandeered by executive order on the basis that the sooner we get you away from here the better.'

They stopped at the beginning of the platform where they were joined by a woman who was tall, olive skinned and decked out in leather. She glanced at her watch and then at Kaptu. 'My name is Gagel. I am here to see you board your train. And I'm thinking of joining you too. You must be some sort of catch. In five minutes, the train line from here all the way to Zurich will be cleared for you. And you will be riding a snub-nosed AT Express, the fastest train in the world. I like a man with those kinds of privileges.'

'To be honest, I have no interest in going to Zurich.'

Gagel smirked. 'That might be why I've been asked to escort you there. I'm probably the friendliest of the Alpine Special Forces that you're going to meet but that doesn't mean I take no for an answer.'

'And when you were asked,' murmured Kaptu, 'was it over a communication device?'

'Yes, but don't worry, we blew her surveillance drone from the sky.'

'She won't be using that one anymore. She'll be using yours.' Kaptu turned to the three police officers who had led him there and patted his Cocoon 41 backpack. 'You'd better tell the perimeter security detail to get worried. She really wants this dog.'

'There are twenty officers patrolling the station,' said Gagel, 'against one solitary poacher.'

'Deer hunting a tiger are still just steaks. She might come directly here or she might go

looking for some more weapons first. It wouldn't surprise me if your base received a visit.'

'I've just come from there and I can assure you it is all very calm.'

'And it might still be very calm with the slight difference being some of your sentries are now on the ground with their throats slit. The Alpine Special Forces is a modern, well equipped unit. So, why would Mas want to go shopping anywhere else?'

The snubbed-nosed AT Express innocuously pulled into the station beside them and Gagel gazed at the sleek, polished red chrome just as though it were a blank canvas for her thoughts. She went to her collar communicator and called the sentries at the Alpine Special Forces base. There was no reply.' Gagel looked to Kaptu before hurriedly making another call. 'Base has been breached,' she declared. 'Our assets are compromised. And don't ask me what we should do about it.'

*

'Have the sentries evacuated the station,' Giselle cried into her collar mike. 'Tell them to run and keep running. There won't be anything left to guard anyway.' Her recklessness down the mountain was lighting up the snowmobile's control panel with alerts. Giselle, however, was more interested in the weapon systems screen upon which Mischa was lining up the Alpine Special Forces base with target selection.

'Plenty of times I have programmed home base into the navigation unit,' murmured Mischa, 'but putting missile lock onto it is quite a different thing.'

'I'm sure there has been many a day when you would have enjoyed the opportunity.'

'That's true. If there wasn't the possibility of incapacitated personnel being on the ground, I would just send one big bomb and wipe the whole place clean.' Mischa hurriedly completed target selection of all the vehicles and weapons storage areas on the base. 'None of the assets are moving,' he said. 'Are you sure this is a good idea?'

Giselle gestured to the screen. 'Two of those vehicles are armoured trucks carrying nuclear missiles. By the time they start moving, it will be too late.'

'And the snowmobiles? They have some of the best Search and Rescue equipment in Switzerland.'

'Which Mas would use to destroy.'

'Well, it's going to be loud,' murmured Mischa as he pressed the missile launch button. With a shuddering roar, the missiles shot together away from the snow mobile in a flat trajectory towards the Alpine Special Forces base. 'Pull over and we'll watch the show,' Mischa said. 'And bring the sniper rifle.' He sprung impatiently out of the snowmobile without waiting for it to stop. He rolled through the snow and finished on his knees. He stared through his binoculars at the base down at the base of the mountain. The missiles struck, the balls of flame brilliantly bright against the backdrop of the late afternoon's fading light. Mischa scoured the base's perimetre for any sign of Mas. Giselle joined him in a kneeling position, looking down the scope of her sniper rifle. Amidst the fires taking hold throughout the base, people began to emerge, heading for the perimetre gates in dazed steps.

'See anyone suspicious?' murmured Giselle.

'They're all our people,' replied Mischa. 'You don't recognise any of them? They've been saluting you for years.'

Giselle noticed a slim, dark figure weaving through the flames. The movements were fast and fluid - a predator in full flight.

'Got her.' Giselle fired several rounds. Mas, however, did not slow, sprinting through the perimetre fence and away into Par.

Mischa jumped up and spat, 'How did she get away? There's no gate there.'

'I get the feeling we weren't the only ones blowing up things on the base,' murmured Giselle. She straightened up and said into her collar mike, 'Gagel, the target is coming and there is nothing standing in her way.' She waited for a reply but all she got was silence. 'Gagel, answer me. Mas is coming.'

*

Gagel was unconscious on the floor of the snub-nosed AT Express's lead carriage. Kaptu Z turned to the train driver, who hadn't yet noticed and shouted above the roar of the engine, 'Looks like she's fainted. The pressure of the situation.'

The train driver frowned. 'I thought Special Forces were made of sturdier stuff.'

'I'm sure she'll come good soon. Unfortunately, we're all heading for trouble unless we take evasive action right now.'

The train driver was a short, blonde woman. She looked incredulously at the streaking lights of the seemingly endless tunnel. 'We are travelling seven hundred kilometres per hour deep within a mountain. I don't think we have much to fear now.'

'Don't be so sure. Mas knows where we are and it's not only communication satellites we can hack. The chances of making Zurich are slim.'

'Weapons satellites are not so easily hijacked.'

'Perhaps those over Switzerland would take her some time. But there are other countries not so careful of the weaponry in their skies. Italy perhaps. Eastern Europe certainly. Mas can take over one of those devices and bring it within range. Even at these speeds, the trip to Zurich will give her time enough.'

The train driver was concerned. 'What can we do?'

'Change course for the French border. And keep it to ourselves. Go as far as we can before we're discovered.'

'We'll be discovered straightaway. Nothing moves on these tracks without the System knowing it.'

Kaptu Z reached into his backpack. 'I'm carrying more than just a sick dog. He pulled out a thin micro-wafer. 'It's a cloaking device from the CIA. It works.'

'Alright,' said the train driver. There's a junction beyond this mountain pass. We'll change there. How long will it take to go stealth?'

Kaptu moved to the control console. 'Thirty seconds once the micro-wafer is inserted.'

'Shifting the points will be detectable. We can be tracked through their movement.'

'The cloaking device works like a local anesthetic. We will not be detected.'

'Then you have two minutes to insert the chip.' The train driver disengaged the auto-controls and glanced at Gagel. 'How long do people stay fainted for?'

Kaptu did not reply. He was busy inserting the stealth chip.
9 On the run

The group of important people, huddled together on red velvet sofa chairs, were drinking Napa Valley sparkling wine and picking at platters of cheeses, olives and meat shavings from silver trays. The vigil offered of the nightscape from the San Francisco Tower's penthouse lounge was every bit as bubbly and pure as the ever so light nectar in their glasses. And they made a point of keeping their glasses constantly refilled, doing what the well of life could not.

Renaissance was at the head of the polished black marble table and was joined by her assistant Spiros Pardos, Swiss Ambassador Betz and Insurance Agent Chezel. It was past midnight but no one had any inclination of retiring to bed. They could not sleep for fear of what they might lose before they woke up again.

'It is only a matter of time before Mas is caught now,' said Betz, running his fingers along the rim of his glass. 'Our Government will be compelled to respond to her brutal actions on Mount Par. And we will pursue her to the ends of the earth to do it.'

'Yes, I'm quite sure your Government will apply for a death warrant on her at the World Court,' said Chezel. 'And they will be granted it too.'

'There is already a death warrant current for her,' said Renaissance. 'But such things are meaningless if there is no target. And she is not on the System, don't forget.'

'The death warrant already issued originates from East Africa. But she is in Europe now and there are no jungles there to conceal her.'

There was a knock on the door. All eyes turned expectantly that way, for there was only one person who had been granted access to their door. McRaven strode into the room like he was still carrying momentum from the jet fighter he had just flown in on. 'The train has been found at the border.' he said. 'The driver and Sergeant Gagel are alive but unconscious - drugged by some kind of barbed barbiturate.'

'Barbed barbiturate?' murmured Ambassador Betz. 'I'm not sure I'm familiar with such a substance.'

'They are drugs designed to react badly when antidotes are applied,' Pardos explained. 'In this case, it is a sleeping drug. We'd best let them sleep it off for risk of death.'

'Sounds terribly primitive. Why wouldn't your man simply use a standard memory inhibitor?'

'Because such drugs are not available in Asylum City,' said Renaissance. She turned to McRaven. 'Any sign of Kaptu Z?'

'No. It is quite likely he has already slipped into France. That seems to be the direction he is taking. But with all due respect this is not my team's specialty. We deal with emergency extractions, not playing hide and seek.'

'Perhaps, the adjusted mission statement should read wanted dead or alive for the protagonists on both their side and ours,' snapped Pardos. 'Kaptu is flaunting laws and is completely out of control. If we condone this kind of behaviour, our insurance premiums will not allow for another mission ever again.'

Renaissance calmly sipped her wine. 'It would not do to try having him arrested. That would require diverting resources away from the pursuit of Mas.'

'Which I can assure you are considerable,' added Betz.

'Yes, quite. I do not believe we will hear from Kaptu again until Blast has been revived from its cocoon. Two whole weeks from now. If we haven't got Mas by then, they will come into play. For now, let's just say that Kaptu has gone underground more or less like he was instructed to do. A chance for him to take a break from his grim existence. And who would deny him that?'

'Mas,' replied Insurance Agent Chezel bluntly. 'Pardos is right. Letting this play out risks bankrupting Hurt World in its entirety.'

Renaissance smiled at McRaven. 'Fetch yourself a glass. I'll pour you a drink.'

She waited until McRaven was settled at their table of polished walnut before giving the Swiss Ambassador a somewhat uneasy gaze. 'Of course, I cannot speak for your government. I can only hope they would not turn my technician into a fugitive.'

'At this stage there is no plan in that regard. We agree that all energies should be focused on Mas's apprehension. Switzerland will certainly claim the right to lead the investigation. And if Mas pursues your technician out of Switzerland, that will be fortuitous for us. It will mean our home assets are no longer exposed.'

'I've very glad you feel that way.'

'But my government would like to know where your technician is going. He commandeered a train intended for Zurich and absconded with it to the edge of France. Prior to that, he had purchased a ticket to Paris on the regular service. So why the interest in France? Do you have a safe house there?'

Renaissance shook her head. 'Kaptu Z is moving on his own free will. And to be honest, I think it is better that way. Mas is our uninvited third ear, so the less communication the better. Not that we won't continue to stay active. Our Operations Centre will remain open twenty four hours a day and I will remain here personally for the duration.' She picked up a cube of blue vein cheese from amidst the antipasto. 'You are welcome to stay as well. We have rooms at your disposal.'

Ambassador Betz nodded. 'I think I should remain close in case there are any developments.'

'I too should remain close to the decision making process,' said McRaven.

'And without knowing what the protagonists are up to, the insurance policy must remain adaptable,' said Chezel.

Renaissance looked around the table and seemed pleased. 'We will focus on retracing Mas's footprints, both short term and long term, uncovering leads for when Blast is operational again. The twentieth floor of the San Francisco Tower Hotel is on its way to being the world authority on Mas.'

'But a long way from the woman herself,' said Pardos.

'Closer than you might think. We've established one thing at least. She reads our mail.'

10 The whisky runner

Kaptu Z gained entry through the ancient sewers. The fossilized feces stained upon the walls bore no smells, the bacteria within having long since died. Kaptu wondered if the dirty bomb of 2038 had killed them too.

The Eiffel Tower was not scheduled to reopen for another thirty years - the results of a crazed Nobel Peace Prize winner who had wanted to remind the world of its injustice. Or at least that was the official French Government version of events. The case files would be classified for another eighty years - in other words, the state's secrets had greater longevity even than radioactive fallout.

Currently, however, the Eiffel Tower's radio activity was at a level to cause severe illness, including a number of cancers that were still considered incurable. Kaptu made sure his bodysuit was properly fitted before he ventured out from the sewers. He began to scale Paris's most famous landmark, using the iron steps of the framework, the bright lights of the bustling city gradually emerging into view beyond the contaminated zone's eerily dark wasteland. Kaptu started picking out the places he had only ever dreamed of visiting. The Louvre Museum, the Arc De Triomphe and the Notre Dame Cathedral were all clearly visible and Kaptu was thrilled by the thought of having two weeks to reside in their midst. Being born in Asylum City usually meant a life sentence in the world's largest prison, but he had found a way out. He was free. At least for the moment.

Passed the second level of the tower, he left the stairs, straddling the balustrade and climbing out across the framework. He swung the Cocoon 41 onto one of the outside struts and fastened it in place with synthetic-steel bindings, leaving it suspended more than a hundred metres above the ground. He recorded the spot to memory but did not linger. There was a reason he had put all his body monitoring alarms on mute and that this was a place untrodden in fifty years: the bomb had been particularly dirty.

*

Relieved of the Cocoon 41, Kaptu made quick work of the return journey off the tower and back through the sewer system. He removed his bodysuit at the perimetre fence and placed it in a led lined laundry bag. In its place he put on a grey shirt and a pair of brown suede pants. He strolled then through the streets of Paris for a time, happy to be in amongst people again. Off the Rue De Charlie, there was an alley with a red door and an illuminated sign that read "The Spanish Club". The door opened to narrow steps leading down into the basement. The stairs were old and grimy but the music coming up them was irresistible Flamenco guitar; the playing was not quite perfect enough to be a recording and was all the more interesting for it. He headed down the stairs into the bar and the first thing he did was confirm that the music was indeed live. There were two guitarists upon a small corner stage, their faces mostly hidden as they intently leaned over their instruments. All that Kaptu could really make out was that one was a woman with black hair tied in a ponytail and the other a man with spiky ginger hair. Although the musicians barely acknowledged each other, they were playing completely in unison. Kaptu turned his attention to rest of the bar and saw that the audience scattered amongst the dimly lit tables were absorbed in the performance. He did not pay the audience too much heed, for it was enough that they did not resemble police or fugitive poachers. He sat down at a table that was near the stage and that kept his back away from the door. The waiter came soon afterwards.

'Something to drink?' the man asked in a high pitched voice.

'It's you who will be ordering from me,' replied Kaptu. He revealed from under his arm a bottle of Johnny Walker red label.

The waiter's eyes widened upon it. 'Is it real?' he queried with his voice barely holding together.

'Bring some glasses and I'll let you find out.'

The waiter hurried away to the bar. Kaptu watched him closely, wondering if he was on his way to summon the police. A rich applause from the audience drew his attention back to the stage. A flamenco dancer stepped up onto the stage in front of the two guitarists. Her movements were precise and elegant, her dress and long black hair flowing in unison. She danced with tremendous energy and precision and the whole bar was enthralled. The waiter returned to Kaptu's table with three glasses and a tall, grey haired woman accompanying him.

'Hello,' the woman said. 'I'm the manager. I've been told you've got something worth pouring.'

Kaptu put the whisky bottle on the table and the manager inspected the label carefully with a jeweler's loupe magnifying glass. She looked Kaptu over with equal thoroughness. 'You're not from here, are you?'

Kaptu shrugged. 'I'm here now.'

'In Paris, having alcohol that predates the world liquor ban can have one of two consequences: you can either be rich or rich and dead. Just last week a barman a few blocks away had his head removed from his shoulders over a case of Budweiser beer.'

'That is not surprising to me. Why would people pay good money for something if they can kill for it instead?'

The manager sat down at the table and opened the bottle of Jack Daniels. She poured out three equal measures and handed the bartender his first. 'Take yours with you,' she said bluntly. Left alone with Kaptu, she said, 'You're from Asylum City, aren't you?' She smiled, saluted him with the glass and drank. 'Yes, that certainly is the real thing. I won't ask you how you got it, or how you got your freedom or where you're going. Only a handful of people have made it to Europe from Asylum City and probably all of them have passed through here at one stage or another. I take pride in it.'

'I will say at least one thing is true,' said Kaptu. 'I'm just passing through.'

'There are empty rooms in the building if you'd like to stay.'

'I don't know what value you place on old liquor, but if the bottle covers the cost of a room, you've got a deal.'

The manager smirked. 'I would recommend Room 48. It has the best view of Paris.'

'Including the Eiffel Tower?'

'No, but there are other rooms facing that way. I didn't mention them because some people consider it bad luck to face that way.'

'It'll suit me fine,' said Kaptu.

The manager refilled her glass. 'My name is Hannah.'

'My name is Z.'

'We'll let it be known you're my Scottish cousin. That will explain your extended visit here.'

'But I don't sound particularly Scottish.'

'None of my Scottish cousins ever have. And people know better than to point that out.'

Kaptu returned his attention to the beautiful flamenco dancer. 'What's her name?'

'Natalie. You'd better behave yourself. She's a cousin from Scotland, too.'

11 Space licence

Mas was pumping her arms, trying to get more speed into her legs. She leapt onto a brick wall, her finger tips just catching the top and with clenched teeth she frantically wriggled and fought to pull herself up. She was heaving for air, her body shuddering with the strain. She managed to hook a leg on the wall and paused a moment to rest before continuing the battle. She got her whole body at last on top of the wall and then lowered herself down the other side with some degree of gentleness. Her arms, drained of strength, gave out and she landed unceremoniously on her back in a pile of cold mud. She spat some grit out of her mouth and lay there exhausted.

The school director moved up to her, putting hands on hips. 'Are you alright?'

Mas nodded. 'I think so.'

'Come on, that's enough for today.' The director extended a hand. 'Let me help you up.' The man was in his sixties but in good shape and easily pulled Mas to her feet. 'We'd better get back. The class will be waiting for us.'

They walked in silence across the obstacle course and passed the swimming pool of cold dark water and into the tin sheds that constituted the Boudreaux Astronaut Training Academy's learning centre. Through the doorway of the seminar room the director and Mas separated. Mas went to one of the vacant plastic seats at the back of the room. The director went to the front of the classroom. A much younger version of him was hanging on the wall in a large portrait between two French flags, resplendently attired in the blue blazer of the International Space Union. He looked over the class of twenty muddy, exhausted candidates and ran his fingers through his thick silver hair. 'Our colonies on Mars, the Moon and the Saturn and Jupiter Space Stations are not as far away as you might fear. You are dirty and tired at the moment but the start of your journey is underway. We'll begin afresh again tomorrow. Pick up your homework pack at the foyer. Tonight you will be calculating entry trajectories for a Venetian landing. Classes begin 8am sharp.' With that he turned and marched out the room. A sigh of relief marked his departure and tender muscles were rubbed as the pain from the obstacle course was at last acknowledged.

'Holy crap,' said the young woman beside Mas, massaging her shoulder painfully. 'I don't know what planet he's been living on if he thinks we'll be starting fresh tomorrow. The vindictive bastard. And ignore that little feel-good speech he makes at the end. He does that every time. Let me tell you of a little calculation I've made myself. It would take eight hundred years to ride a bicycle to Venus. That is the pace I am travelling at on my inter-planetary journey.' She paused for a breath. 'And this is your first day?'

'That's right,' said Mas. 'How long have you been here?'

'Two months.' The young woman gestured to the students just starting to pull themselves off their chairs. 'Some of them have been here two years. As a collective I'd say we have about as much chance of reaching Mars as Mars has of reaching us.'

Mas smirked. 'Why are you here if you feel that way?'

'Most of us have rich parents. They'd rather be able to say their children are astronaut trainees with Pierre Prian than unemployed no-hopers.' She blew a kiss at the wall portrait. 'Dear old Pierre has forged a whole second career on such sensibilities.' She gripped her back and groaned as she stood up. 'Some of us like to go for a drink after class. You're welcome to join us.'

'Sure. I've got something to take care of first.'

'If it's homework, you don't have to worry about that. Pierre never remembers it. That's a part of beginning afresh again.'

Mas stood up too – surprisingly straight and easy. 'I'll see you later.'

'I'm Hillary, by the way.'

Mas replied, 'Hi, I'm Norah Lee.' She left the classroom in pursuit of Prian. He had left the sheds through a backdoor and was walking slowly with hands in pockets across the training centre's muddy compound, looking very much like he did not have anywhere in particular to go. All the same, he was not in any mood to stop as Mas called out to him. 'Mr Prian, I would like to try your obstacle course one more time,' Mas said.

'It will still be there tomorrow,' Prian replied without looking back. The pilotless helicopter that he used each day to commute to and from his hilltop chateau was emerging from in the distance as it did every day at this time. 'Go home and rest,' he added.

'That won't be necessary,' said Mas. 'In fact, although I have signed up for one month tuition, I'd rather graduate today.'

Prian stopped in his tracks and looked back at her. 'I like your spirit, young lady, but it takes more than willpower to get through an obstacle course.'

'In truth, I was having to use my willpower not to finish it.'

Prian chuckled with her supreme self-confidence. 'You were holding yourself back before? Alright, why don't you show me how good you are now then?' He gestured to the obstacle course. 'I'll be happy to see it.'

'Fine, but first you should make the course regulation. You know as well as I that the genuine astronaut certification course is twenty metres longer than yours and has a one minute less cut-off time.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes, and the electrified wire is lower and the wall a good metre higher. You even have obstacles missing. You couldn't afford the laser hurdles?'

Prian went pale. 'If you want authenticity, there are other schools that offer that.'

'I don't want any kind of school. I want to sit my Astronaut Grade One trials and I need a school director to nominate me.'

'Only after the two month program and the final exams have been completed.'

'Like I said, I want to graduate today.'

Prian frowned. 'Plenty of my students are rich, but you can't buy your way to being an astronaut. Trust me it's been tried many a time.'

'I just want to buy my way to the trials. I'll take it from there.'

'And you think I'm easily bought?'

'I think you need money, but it is not entirely your fault. How could you have known that while you were up in space observing black holes a new one would be opening up on Earth with your name on it. By the way, how is your ex-wife?'

Prian shuffled uncomfortably, looking around at nothing in particular. 'I'm not as cheap as you might think.'

'Your bank balance will tell you how cheap I think you are. The money has already been deposited. The sum is fixed. All that is negotiable is how it came to be there. Hiring a hitman to take care of your ex is the best I've so far been able to come up with. Do you like it? I'm sure I could make it stick.'

Prian's frown was spreading such that his whole face was becoming scrunched up like a pug. 'Who the hell are you?'

'I understand why you'd find me unfamiliar,' said Mas, stepping forward and looking up at the helicopter as it gently lowered towards them. 'I'm your first astronaut.'

12 Organisations

In the Ministry of Culture there was a door marked Office for Wine and Whisky. Phillipe Dumont was the officer on duty and he was not sure what to make of Kaptu Z. He scrutinized his ID carefully. 'You belong to the Hurt World Agency of the United Nations and you want more whisky?'

'Three bottles.'

'And yesterday you took one?' Dumont was inquisitively flicking through files on his desk screen.

'I'm on an undercover assignment,' said Kaptu. 'One bottle has got me in. Three more bottles will keep me there.'

'Any more details than that?'

'Confidentiality is important.'

'I am the French Government.'

'I know, and the best part.'

Dumont delved through files some more.

Kaptu's attention strayed to the vintage whisky and wine advertising posters decorating the walls. There were happy faces and sparkling glasses of alcoholic drinks in a time that had long since passed - although, perhaps not for Dumont and his department. His bloodshot eyes and bulging waistline hinted that perhaps not all of the Paris stockpiles were being accurately accounted for. Finally, he looked up from his screen, his voice measured. 'Your name comes up in an incident in Switzerland. Apparently, they are still repairing the damage. And you have your HQ confused. They think you are in Portugal.'

'They don't think anything. I'd say they are trying to set up another trap for Mas. It will have to be convincing if they want to get close to her again.'

Dumont felt his neatly bearded chin. 'We are in charge of the biggest cellars in France and our usual requests for liquor are for state banquets or state funerals. To my knowledge the only requests from police agencies have been for senior retirements, not operational matters. I am going to grant your request nonetheless. Hurt World has an A1 Integrity Rating, which of course is the highest possible. I warn you, taking wine for corrupt purposes will see that fall.'

'It is whisky I want.'

Dumont wrote a rapid message on the screen and signed it Officer for Wine and Whisky. 'There will be a case waiting for you at the reception,' he said. 'A thirty day Explain Clause is attached. It means you have thirty days to provide an official explanation to the French Government as to how the grant has been used. To put into context how we value our old liquor, if you had requested a sub-nuclear missile, you would have had fifty days to explain why.'

'Thirty days will be plenty of time,' said Kaptu.

Dumont slid his ID back across the table. 'I look forward to hearing more about how our whisky has helped heel the world.'

'Sure,' said Kaptu, getting up from his creaky wooden chair. 'I have to go.'

He left the office and took the elevator to the ground floor. He leaned with his elbows on the reception counter like it was a bar and smiled at the receptionist. After a few minutes, the bottles of whisky came in a non-descript black briefcase. Kaptu left the building and took a taxi to Port De Bercy where Natalie from the Spanish Club was waiting. Kaptu had not seen her in the light of day before and liked her freshness. They daylight suited her. Her blue eyes and pale lips were the centre of an intriguing, expressive face. She was wearing a light blue miniskirt and her hair was hanging freely over her shoulders. She was leaning back on the steel barrier of the Seine River, holding a bulging paper bag, which she held up to greet Kaptu with. 'I've brought the cheese and crackers,' she said. 'Have you brought the illegal one hundred year old whisky?'

Kaptu gestured to the briefcase. 'Two bottles for the Spanish Club and one bottle for us.'

Natalie smiled. 'Normally I would rather break an arm than have a picnic. So, it seems today is a special day.'

They set up their spot on some cobbled steps overlooking the river. Natalie produced a knife that did not seem to have been made with cheese in mind: it was a big blade and she used it to cut large slices.

'So, how did you get out?' she asked as she handed Kaptu a piece. 'I mean, from Asylum City. Some people would do anything.'

Kaptu filled the two glasses that had also been in Natalie's bag. 'It will take a few of these to loosen up my tongue enough to talk about that.'

'By then it may be too late. I'm trying to work out if the person I'm drinking with is insane before the whisky goes to his head. Of course, most the men in my company inevitably go crazy anyway. It's the performer in me that seems to encourage it.'

Kaptu passed her one of the glasses and smiled. 'I've noticed that.'

'It's how I got out. Asylum City has scientists and doctors and designers but it was because I could dance that I was granted a visa into Europe.'

'Was it Hannah that sponsored you?'

'No. She helped me to get away from the man who did. A very powerful man. A friend of sorts.' She shivered and took a quick gulp to settle herself. 'If he wants someone dead, that's what will happen.'

'He does not know you're here?'

'You cannot escape from him by hiding. You can only escape from him if he gives you permission.'

'Then you are not quite free.'

Natalie frowned and gazed out over the river. 'You walk around Paris with briefcases of whisky and you ask people if they are free. I have a bad feeling about you.'

'Are you concerned that I may be another friend?'

'No, I don't fear that.'

*

The San Francisco Tower's twentieth floor conference room was tense with anticipation. Seated at the long table were Renaissance; US Special Envoy, Kalp Falno; and Colonel Smithers. Falno and Smithers had only just flown into San Francisco and their very presence indicated that they were taking the mission seriously, for they were no strangers to luxury hotels and could not have been lured by the promise of one. Renaissance was pleased to have them, and she was even more pleased that Falno had ordered away the insurance agents: it meant the price of action was being left off the agenda for a change.

Spiros Pardos strode into the room. He was the one who had called the meeting and it very much looked like he had something to say. He stood at the foot of the table and cupped his hands together at his waist. 'The World Court verdict is in,' he began. 'The events in Switzerland have swayed the judges our way. We have been granted an all access search warrant for the poacher Mas. It means any individual the signature dog detects Mas's scent upon can be held without charge for up to one year, and any item of property can immediately be seized. Anywhere in the world.'

The US Special Envoy seemed surprised. 'We will have those powers?'

'We have those powers now. The warrant has been signed and ratified.'

'Which makes the signature dog quite important, doesn't it?' said Colonel Smithers. 'Where is it now?'

'Our technician has gone underground with it. Last known location was the Leanov Clinic in the Swiss Alps. Dr Leanov operated successfully and placed the dog in a Cocoon 41. He is confident it will be ready for active service at the completion of its two week recuperation period. That is five days from now.'

Smithers looked to Renaissance. 'Your technician is currently uncontactable?'

'That's right. But it is not of significant concern. As a matter of fact, we have been using faked communications in an attempt to lure Mas to Portugal.'

'Any indication of a result?'

'Not at this stage. We will transmit news of the World Court's arrest warrant and that may make the bait impossible to resist.'

'Perhaps, but when we start incarcerating people close to her, we won't need to fake our messages anymore,' said Falno. 'Do you know who those people are?'

Renaissance gestured to Pardos to answer.

'It is a decidedly short list,' Pardos said. 'We have a starting point, however. A woman in the Congo who we think trained her, a woman named La Pack. There is evidence they were hunting together when Mas was as young as five. We believe she may have been some kind of nanny.'

'So you're staking out a nanny?' Falno muttered unimpressed. 'Isn't there a mother or father or some siblings?'

'Her father is dead. He was a poacher too and every bit as secretive as his daughter. He might have known who her mother was, but no one else seems to.'

'Alright, so there's a nanny then. But we need to know what Mas is doing now in the heart of Europe, not twenty years ago in some Congolese backwater.'

'You'd be surprised how quickly the past can catch up with people, especially when a little pressure is applied.'

Falno stood up to leave. 'Just remember your own past and what Mas did to it.' He shook his head admonishingly. 'Don't let it happen again.'

13 Internally flawless

Naked bodies floated in silence on the warm waters of the European Science Society's central bath; it was known as the death pool, for its network of sensors could predict future causes of death so accurately that it had become the most sought after bath in Europe. It was located in Baden Baden and was constructed of comet-forged silver and glass of absolute purity. Pierre Prian had captained the mission that extracted it and it gained him access to the control room as the European Space Agency scanned its latest batch of candidates.

'How's she doing?' he asked, looking down on the pool through the one-way mirror.

Inga Huffine, the Chief Scientist, was monitoring the twin control screens' flood of data. 'Which candidate?'

'C19.'

'Well, your question needs to be more specific. We're running a hundred tests simultaneously. If you're wondering what natural death is awaiting her should she make it that far, it's simply going to be an old, worn out heart that stops beating, a long time from today.'

'That sounds promising. How is she doing overall?'

Huffine zoomed onto Mas's superbly toned physique in one corner of the pool. Her vital functions and genetic makeup were surrounding her on the screen in charts and graphs that meant nothing to Prian but had Huffine's eyes widening.

'Where did you get her from?'

'She's just another student.' replied Prian, trying his best to sound indifferent.

'I find that hard to believe. Her genetic integrity is flawless. Governments scour their populations looking for that level and draft them straight into the military, or for medical research if they're not so lucky. It appears she has been through her own wars, however. The scars on her body are quite exotic. The scans are inconclusive but it seems the marks on her left leg are the result of a crocodile bite.'

Prian shrugged. 'I'm sure you'll see on the obstacle course that she moves freely.'

Huffine chuckled dryly. 'With an A1 rating, she doesn't have to go jumping around obstacle courses. She is genetically strong enough for space.'

'What about her astro-physics test?'

Huffine put her finger on the screen and clicked through files, coming to a stop with the one labeled Norah Lee. 'There was one candidate with a higher score. But he happens to be a nuclear fusion graduate from MIT.'

Prian nodded awkwardly. 'She has been one of my better students.'

Huffine glanced at him doubtfully. 'So a woman like this just turned up at your little school in Boudreaux and wanted to become an astronaut?'

'Sure, why not?'

Huffine looked over Mas some more, floating on her back amongst twenty other candidates. 'Although her background identity checks out, she doesn't look much like an information technologist to me. I would enjoy running a memory scan on her. That is impossible to fake. We have the facilities here to do it.'

'It's illegal to do without authorisation, and the Space Agency is not about to do that with their astronauts. Space is empty enough of human enterprise without keeping it out of reach of the crazy ones. And I'm sure she's all of that.'

'You assume she's crazy because that's been the trait of every peer you've ever known. Has it ever occurred to you that it might be space that does it to them?'

'Space is a beautiful place. Quiet and clean.'

'That's enough to make most people crazy. Especially on longer missions. You travelled quite far yourself. Chasing comets.'

'Did I snap? Maybe not. But zero gravity can certainly bend you out of shape.'

'A woman with her incredible potential could do anything she sets her mind to,' said Huffine seriously. 'You should talk to her, make sure she's going to space for the right reasons. Maybe she's just being chased by a mad ex-lover, or she could be grieving the loss of someone close to her.'

'Alright, I'll talk to her,' said Prian. 'I'm just glad she's going to pass her evaluations Otherwise, I might have needed to escape into space myself.' He got up from his chair and took one last look down at the pool from the control room's centre window. 'Things have changed since the days I was just starting out.'

'You didn't have the technology back then?'

'Fortunately, no. I've done quite well going through life not knowing how I'm destined to die.'

14 The rats get bigger

The Zopez's paint had been stripped away and all its modern fittings removed. During its time at the Las Gabos wharf, the boat had aged fifty years. The Zopez was gone and the Kudos had returned. Rarely had a boat captain been so proud of so decrepit a vessel.

'Would you like to come aboard?' queried Captain Titov, standing by the gangway that led down to the Zopez.

'That won't be necessary,' replied Jalanti, the Savage Alliance's Minister for Risk and Acquaintance's from beside her. Her arms were arms folded Jalanti and lips pinched as she scrutinised the vessel intently. 'Mas will conduct a more thorough inspection on her return.'

'When will that be?'

'Soon.'

'I understand. But if she does not return on time, I am willing to take on her role in your operation. You will find me capable.'

'If it comes to that, I will give it due consideration. But I have already chosen my people carefully. You can expect to see Mas again.'

'Any word when that might be?'

Jalanti shook her head. 'Not yet. Just keep focused on your preparations. Is there anything more that needs to be done?'

'Refitting the engine to its original condition is the real challenge. Over the years there have been frequent refittings. To a trained eye these might cause suspicion.'

'What parts?'

'Rees, the engineer, can tell you that.' Titov looked further along the wharf to a speedboat that had recently arrived bearing supplies. 'He is currently helping Dr Franco unloading.'

Jalanti looked that way too, seeing heads bobbing just above the wharf. She strode up to the wharf's edge and gazed down at the small boat. Packages wrapped in blue plastic were being unloaded onto the crane's platform by a mix of Zopez crew members and those of the dinghy.

Dr Franco, who was supervising the operation from the platform, noticed her presence. 'You're here. That's good timing. Our colony has progressed to its first stage and you may want to see this for yourself.'

Jalanti noticed the blank eyes of a severed head staring up at her through a gap in the plastic of one of the packages. 'If you want to keep your surprises,' she said, 'you should wrap your presents more carefully.'

Franco realised what she was referring to and rushed to pull the plastic across. 'Apologies. My people have been rushing to fill your order, keeping the product as fresh as possible. Freshness is important. I want our little friends to be fussy eaters.'

The three dinghy crew members continued to work quickly, unloading all the large square packages before jumping back into the boat and speeding away. The crane platform rose onto the wharf where Dr Franco and Rees transferred the packages onto an awaiting motorized trolley. 'Now, Minister,' said Dr Franco, 'if you would kindly follow me.' He steered the trolley off the wharf and across the abandoned industrial complex to the Silo 1 elevator. Jalanti followed wearily, the knowledge of what was contained in the blue plastic filling her with unease.

'We won't have much time,' Dr Franco said in a light mood as the elevator climbed. 'I must emphasise that what we are about to attempt is highly dangerous. If you are at all squeamish or anxious about witnessing this aspect of the operation, we can have cameras connected to your office.'

'No cameras,' said Jalanti adamantly. 'Secrecy is paramount.'

'I understand.' Dr Franco snickered. 'When one is feeding human flesh to rats, discretion certainly is an important consideration.'

Jalanti glanced grimly at the wrapped up flesh on the trolleys. 'I assume these people were already dead before being shipped for this purpose.'

'I can't say. I've heard of people donating their organs to science, but not of anyone giving their bodies for rat food. You are not a scientist, however, and are free to assume whatever you please. I can at least assure you I have been using the same suppliers for a number of years and they have always been able to provide whatever required quickly, efficiently and discreetly.'

'That's good.'

The elevator clanged to a stop and Dr Franco hurriedly pressed the kill switch to keep the doors closed. 'The feeding floors are kept at a temperature too cool for the rats to stay there, but once the food is presented, we will have about forty seconds before they arrive. Beyond that, if you decide to stay, it will take about one minute before only your bones remains. Shall we proceed?'

Jalanti looked nervously at the elevator doors and took in a breath. 'Let's do it.'

Franco let the doors and guided the trolley out onto the narrow gantry. 'Now be sure not to slip,' he affirmed.

Jalanti took a large, excited stride. The rumblings from the distant floor of the silo had already begun. Dr Franco pulled some meat out of the plastic and tossed it over the railing to the distant floor. 'I've kept them hungry for this,' he said, his breath a thick, icy vapour. 'They're going to associate cold with very good eating.'

The rats were charging out of the darkness in a massive stampede up the steel stairs toward the seventh floor feeding platform. Their bodies were huge and they came in their thousands. They had just reached the second floor when Jalanti shakily started back for the elevator. Dr Franco, hurriedly emptying out meat from the bags, grabbed her with one hand. 'Stay here,' he said. 'Feel their hunger.'

Jalanti's eyes widened at the grotesque sight of chopped up body parts covering the floor. She tried to break Franco's hold but it was unremitting. She turned her attention to the shuddering stairs at the end of the platform. The stench of dead bodies and rodents was overwhelming and Jalanti felt herself growing light headed. The horror of fainting was too great to even contemplate. Dr Franco emptied out one more bag and yanked on her arm. 'Let's go.' Jalanti went with him on rubbery legs. They were inside the elevator and the doors were closing. The rats sped onto the feeding platform, lunging ravenously at the first of the human flesh. They were enormous, terrifying creatures, ripping off chunks of meat with long, razor sharp teeth. Jalanti couldn't contain her scream. And at last the doors were closed. Jalanti jumped up hugging Franco and this time screamed with joy. 'Oh my God! That was so exciting. My heart is pounding.'

Dr Franco smiled. 'It was something, wasn't it? Now you can understand why I've been insisting your crew make that boat so strong. It will be holding an army of supreme killers.'

'I'll have them add some steel reinforcement to the doors. When will the rats be ready?'

'The toxoplasma has taken over their minds and human flesh has just become their meal of choice. My girl, they are ready now.'

15 A warning

Friday nights at the Spanish Club meant a few more people staying a little longer and people drinking a little more. Kaptu could see there were a lot of tired faces, people relieved the working week was over without yet being able to let it go. And there were others with hard faces and whispered conversations, very much looking like they were still working. Just as long as his view of the stage was not impeded, Kaptu did not much care who they were. Natalie was seeking him out as she danced and his eyes were rarely straying from her. This was his second week of watching her performance and he found it was becoming the centre of his existence. There were things he did before it and there were things he did after it, the strength training, the weapons practice, the love making, the planning to escape Paris, but it was only when watching Natalie dancing her flamenco did his day feel complete. Although there were dancers in Asylum City, none of them moved quite like this, moved like they were free. But suddenly Natalie's eyes widened uneasily and she lost the fluency in her movements. It was at the same moment that the man sat down at Kaptu's table.

'My name is Mischa of the Special Alpine Force. Do you remember me? I certainly remember you. You caught our attention back in Par. Even from a metre beneath the snow.'

Kaptu Z looked Mischa over carefully and sipped his whisky on the rocks. 'How did you find me here?'

'Intuition. A snitch tells us that a Greek death team has been brought in for a hit in this bar. The target has been given the codename Z. The client is someone out of Asylum City. I thought it was worth dropping in to take a look. And here you are.'

'Are you that keen to find me?'

'Not in the way you may fear. You have been granted immunity from arrest for your actions in Switzerland, including drugging a very good friend of mine. It is Mas I want. She has disappeared into France and your presence is the only thing we know of that might lure her into the open.'

'Mas is an employee. She went to Switzerland to kill a certain dog only because she doesn't want to be linked to whatever job she has been hired to do. It is that job you should be worried about.'

'And what do you know about it?'

'Painfully little. A scientist specialising in bio-weapons is in the picture. But all I've got, by the decree of the World Court, is Mas.'

'Par was evidence enough of her desire to kill you in return. And now a death is coming, compliments of an Asylum City gangster. It seems you are bothering some rather serious people.'

'When are you expecting the death team to arrive?'

'In their messages they say tomorrow. My partner is out on a roof with a sniper rifle, waiting in case they turn up a little earlier. My advice to you to walk out now and never come back.'

'I'll leave, but not quite yet. And I'll never return only on the condition that you stay.'

'Why would I do that? And don't say the Greek hit team. If you're not here for them to hit, there won't be the opportunity to make an arrest.'

'There's a few at these tables who would be quite upset if you didn't consider them worthy of arrest. Heroin 3 smugglers. IT thieves. And one or two Spanish killers pining for a little piece of home.'

'Sounds more like a job for the local police.'

'No, it's the Spanish Club itself that I've got in mind. It's a particular Asylum City gang's European front. Heroin 3 smuggling is just the start of it. Slave trading, organ harvesting and contract killing.'

'Which gang?'

'Meltman's gang.'

'I have heard of him, but I didn't know he had a foothold in Europe.'

'He thrives by keeping his operation underground. And in Asylum City it's literal. He inhabits a vast network of tunnels, basements and caverns, virtually never returning to the city's surface. It makes him almost impossible to catch. But that's what I'm here to do and you can join in.'

'Is this the wisest place to discuss such plots?'

Kaptu shrugged. 'A bar with this kind of clientele wouldn't last long if it took to eavesdropping. But it's fair to assume they know who I really am. After all, there is a death squad on the way.'

'That is why you should leave.'

'No, this is not the end.' Kaptu stood up. 'The common trait of all criminals is greed. Even the really good ones.' He took a parting gulp of his whisky. 'If I'm not back, don't bother leaving a tip.'

He gave Natalie a nod as he strode past the stage. She was still staring with eyes loaded. Kaptu wondered if it was to do with the Greek death team on the way or the Swiss police officer at his table. As beautifully as she was dancing, he just couldn't tell if she was on his side or not.

Past the stage and down a passageway, there was a single door with a bullet hole that had been crudely filled up with chewing gum. It was Hannah's office and Kaptu entered without knocking. Hannah was sitting at her desk and looked up with surprise even though she had been following his movements on her surveillance wall-screens. 'What do you want?' she snapped.

Kaptu glanced at the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on her desk. 'That didn't last long. But I can get more. Maybe even enough to keep up.' He noticed one of the surveillance screens was trained on Mischa, who was idly watching Natalie's performance, interspersed with occasional head turning in the direction Kaptu had gone. 'You know he's a cop. Thanks to him I'm aware of the death squad coming this way. Obviously we need to talk.'

Hannah stared at him in a hard, calculating manner. 'You like to live dangerously, don't you?'

'I am from Asylum City. I'm used to a little danger. Perhaps, that's why I'm less afraid of your boss than you seem to be.'

'Who are you talking about?'

'The Meltman.'

Hana's eyes betrayed her with another flash of surprise. 'Maybe I should just kill you now.'

'That won't get you anywhere. And if this bar is all you've got, you really do need to keep moving. A front for a crazed gangster who has not been above ground in a decade, do you honestly expect to retire old?'

Hannah shrugged. 'The money gets made at this end. He needs me.'

'Are you talking about the Heroin 3? I assume so, considering all the dealers you have stopping in for a chat. They're as dangerous a bunch as Meltman. And they won't all stay happy forever. Especially not as I've taken it upon myself to close your business down.'

Hannah's mood darkened. 'Is that so?'

'Heroin 3 is produced through an interaction of Heroin 2 and cobra venom, and the labs have so far failed to produce a synthetic equivalent. Which means somewhere in the bowels of Asylum City there are vast snake pits in which the cobras are being farmed. My predecessor was thrown into one of these pits, to face an end beyond imagination. That's a score to be settled.'

'You say it's an end beyond imagination but it may become an end you get to experience.'

'Such risks won't stop me. I'm going to destroy Meltman's subterranean lair and everyone in it.' Kaptu sat down on an orange plastic chair with weight absorption technology that made him feel perfectly light. 'But I like you. I've been spending my days looking over the bar, getting a feel for the place, deciding whether or not to make my proposal.'

'What proposal?'

Kaptu gestured to the empty whisky bottle. 'A bar with a steady supply of old whisky will always prosper. I am offering that. And the detective outside will provide protection.'

Hannah extracted a green Cuban cigar from her fluorescent yellow desk and lit it up. She sucked at it and exhaled its greenish and heavily scented smoke. 'And cuts?'

'It's your bar, you'll take fifty percent.'

'It's bound to be less than what I'm now accustomed to with my other enterprises.'

'Probably. But it might be a nice change not being bound to a vicious killer.'

'To a corrupt policeman instead?'

Kaptu smirked. 'By Asylum City standards, I'm quite decent.'

Hannah took another drag on her cigar. 'What about the daily running of the bar? Having gangsters as frequent visitors is one thing, but police officers is another matter altogether.'

'It's a long distance relationship I have in mind.'

'Are you sure? You seem to be getting pretty close with Natalie.'

'I'm going to get busy in Asylum City and I doubt she'll want to come back.'

'You're right about that.'

'Which means you'll be making the trip on your own.'

Hannah coughed on her smoke. 'What?'

Kaptu placed on the desktop a small glass vial. 'This is how we bring down an empire.'

'Poison?'

'Poisons have antidotes. But this is unstoppable. It's a scent marker. And I have the world's best signature dog to track it.'

'Metlman's scent?'

'That's the problem. Hiding away in his subterranean world, we've never been able to get a sample. So, we'll bring the sample to him.'

Hannah picked up the glass vial curiously. 'Whose scent is it then?'

'Another criminal. Of no real consequence. But my signature dog is locked onto her and thanks to an ugly incident in South America we do have her scent bottled. I've been told it's been enhanced a hundred times stronger than normal. Which means, if you can get it on Meltman's skin, all we'll need to know is the starting location. Then we'll go in there and take him. He'll have nowhere to hide.'

'Getting it on him won't be easy. Have you thought about that?'

Kaptu shrugged. 'I've never met him socially. I was hoping you might have an idea.'

'Delivering your head in a box would be one way to get an audience. Would you count that as meeting socially?' Hannah broke into one of her very rare disarming smiles. 'Don't worry, I have other ideas in mind as well.'

'As soon as the scent-concentrate is applied to her skin, you must contact me. I'll stop whatever I'm doing and rush there. The codename is Blast.'

'Very well. I don't see much alternative. That policeman is from the Alpine Special Forces. They like to have something to do and I'd rather it be drug dealers than me.'

'You're right, they do like keeping themselves occupied. Which means it would be a good idea to call off that hit team while you still can.'

'While I still can? Unfortunately my influence over the Meltman's decisions is not as great as you seem to think. And that's why it won't be me going to Asylum City.' Hannah smirked. 'But there is someone who could do what you need. And she will agree to it if you ask her.'

Kaptu frowned. 'Who?'

'Natalie. You see, you're not the only one with a thing for her. At least your particular brand of feelings could be described as natural.'

'This sounds ominous.'

'As ominous as it gets. Natalie is the Meltman's niece. He is completely besotted with her. He banished her from Asylum City before he succumbed to his yearnings. The Spanish Club is the perfect place for her exile because it is easily explained to her mother.'

'Meltman's sister?'

'That's right. She dwells down in his subterranean world, a general in his empire. Shally Nirajo.' Hannah slid the glass vial back across the desk. 'It will be on your head if you send her there. It could go very wrong. Putting her in the Meltman's way on the pretext of unrequited love.' She pulled a face. 'It could go very wrong.'

16 Calls to the fray

The Space Weaver 180F was an awe-inspiring sight upon its launch pad. The proton fusion rockets alone reached the height of a five storey building. The white 8-tech polymer fuselage contained windows of black glass through which a contorting galaxy would soon be viewed. Despite it being a Saturday evening, the preparations at its base were hectic as humans and machines continued the enormous task of loading the Space Weaver with a small city's worth of supplies.

Mas was watching from the main observation deck of what was the Belgium headquarters of the European Space Agency. She was wearing a resplendent black evening dress and was sipping gold champagne. The cosmetics was uncomfortably heavy upon her skin. She stole a glance at her reflection in the observation deck's expansive windows. Her glittering evening dress and impractical high heels epitomised the lengths she had been willing to go to reach this point. When she realised she might soon be on that rocket, hurtling through space her heart beat started to quicken excitedly.

'There you are,' said Pierre Prian, stepping out onto the observation deck through a sliding door, loud party music coming with him until the door quickly closed again. Well-groomed and wearing a suit of resplendent black silk, he looked dashing, and very much at home in this unbearably formal setting. He stopped beside her and sighed. 'Such a shame. We go to such lengths to look our best only for you to go and hide. It is especially a shame for me because I felt quite nice having such a fetching companion to show off. The best astronauts in the world are just as easily impressed by these things as anyone else.'

'I felt like being alone awhile,' Mas replied.

Pierre nodded and glanced out of the Space Weaver. 'Obviously someone contemplating getting on board that ship has an affinity for solitariness. Or is that something you are still asking yourself?'

'Have you been able to get me on board?'

Pierre nodded. 'I didn't even need to call in a favour. There are only so many murderers and rapists of a calibre that courts can banish them to deep space. Having a volunteer at your level of testing is too good to pass up on. Those are the words of the European Space Commissioner herself. She will sign off the boarding pass and waiver the usual psychological assessment - because in this mission it is not particularly relevant. Those too are her words.'

'Thank you.'

Pierre frowned. 'I would call in a favour for you. I want you to know that. The Arsia Mons colony has a ten year waiting list but I can get you on next month's flight.'

Mas shook her head. 'Mars won't do it.'

Pierre gazed at the Space Weaver 180f and sighed. 'In that oversized piece of metal you are doomed never to see Earth again. And there's a real possibility no one on Earth will ever know what happened to you. The chances of the Woerden T80 colony establishing itself are one in a million.'

'Not bad odds considering there's a hundred billion planets out there. And it's true it will take at least a century before it is known if the colony has been successful. But don't you understand what is the prize? If humans can successfully start up a self-sufficient colony on another life sustaining planet, it will mean that humans as a species will never die. It will be the ultimate achievement in human history.'

Pierre looked down at the flight preparation on the steel launch site so far below the penthouse floor of the forty level tower. 'You can see they believe in it. Clinging to existence with their well-ordered little routines. A colony of ants with big dreams.' Pierre sensed he was starting to rant and took in a breath to slow his voice. 'The cocktail party it seems is similarly impressed with the idea. The Commissioner let it be known to all of your wish to join the voyage and there was a burst of applause around the room. I think you have just become the guest of honour.'

Mas stared at him. 'Well, I'm kind of busy. There are things I need to do, people I should say goodbye to.'

'I'm sure there are. But these are important people to your ambition. And they're polite enough not to openly wonder who you really are. Share a few drinks with them. Among them are some truly great astronauts. They haven't ventured as far as you are intending but it would be arrogant to think they've got nothing to offer.'

Mas ran her fingers down her dress self-consciously. 'Alright then.'

Pierre took her arm and led her down a long glass-floored race, back into the crowded sumptuously decorated gala room. The revellers turned to Mas as one and broke into spontaneous applause. Sparkling in the dazzling light of the chandeliers were the champagne flutes saluting her, the jewelry adorning the clapping hands and the perfectly denticed teeth of the beaming smiles. She battled to keep herself upright and strong in the face of it, but it was akin to standing up to a tornado.

'Please forgive us if we have embarrassed you,' said a silver haired man with a kindly smile, pushing up to take her hand with his voice loud for all to hear. 'It is just that we are so very glad to hear from our good friend Pierre the terrific news.'

Mas realised it was the European Space Commissioner, Geth Barzius. She had seen her enough in the media to be certain of it. The first commander of the Jupiter 1 Space Station. Not nearly as far as Mas was intending to go, but she found herself warming to him sure enough.

'I'm looking forward to it,' she murmured.

Barzius turned to address the crowd. 'Here we were fretting that all we had to entrust with the boldest voyage in human history was a band of cut-throats and scumbags when miraculously a free volunteer puts herself forward from amongst us. Her testing was off the charts and yet the simple options were not for her. A small blimp in deep space is destined to become her new world and the reverberations this will have on ours will be beyond imagination.'

The applause came again, louder even than before. Mas nodded back with the best smile she could muster. All the while she felt the distinctive vibration of her wrist scrambler. It was yet another message from Jalanti. Ship has left port. Come at once.

*

Like so many computer hackers, Rojas Hose did not keep normal hours. And Renaissance did not want him to. She was happy for him to sleep away his days and to keep such a low profile that even after two weeks most of his colleagues on the Tower Hotel's twentieth floor were not even aware of his existence. She believed that geniuses needed to be appreciated and not controlled and so she pretty much allowed Rojas to run unchecked. Even if it meant answering her door at three in the morning.

'Who the hell is that?' came a grumble from the other side of the bed.

'Go back to sleep, Devita,' Renaissance said. She put on her bathrobe and slippers and glanced one more time at Rojas in the bedside monitor screen. He had long hair and was wearing a Peace Keeper survival jacket with the sleeves cut off. He was looking down at the ground like he always did when he was concentrating. Renaissance went to the door and he immediately looked up. Renaissance had never before realised his eyes were blue.

'Were you sleeping?' Rojas said awkwardly.

'Trying to. How about you?'

'No, I wasn't trying.'

'What is it?'

Rojas started down the corridor. 'There's something.'

They walked to the other end of the floor to a closet-sized numberless door. Rojas opened it and stood aside for Renaissance. It was a dark, tiny room with its sole furnishings a table and chair. The defau holograms of nature scenes rising from the computer mat on the table was the room's main source of light.

'This is where you've been working?' queried Renaissance incredulously.

'Windows are for daydreamers,' Rojas barked.

'No wonder I could never find you. I thought this was simply a closet.' Renaissance squeezed into the space between the table and the far wall. 'So what's on your mind?'

Rojas joined her in the room and closed the door.

'I cannot tell you what they are saying and I cannot tell you who is saying it. Those things are buried within Unsociable Encryption. I would need five years in a room like this to have a chance of breaking it. What I am getting a better idea of is where they are transmitting from. Of course there is masking technology to conceal its origins, but this is a weak link.'

'So you know of a message having been sent by Mas?'

'That is the who. Like I said, I have no idea.'

'If you don't know the who, how can you possibly know the where?'

'By following the arms. Someone believed to be in Europe with a past history in Africa and murky dealings with a boat travelling out of Costa Rica. Those are very long arms.'

Rojas reached into the hologram with an outstretched hand. The light seized upon it, wrapping around it in a dull red glow that quickly turned green. If his hand had failed the security check, it would have transformed into a bolt of electricity sufficient to render him senseless. Having been recognised, however, the light descended back to table level, forming an image of Earth with a triangle of red lines marked into it.

'Don't ask me to explain my conclusions because some of the steps I've used to reach them could be worth patenting. And some of them are illegal even for us.'

Renaissance took her communicator to mouth. 'Spiros, there's been a breakthrough. Come to the east corridor storage room - you'll find it.'

She turned back to Rojas and snapped, 'What are the points on the triangle?'

'You might have asked that before you made the call out. It's a strange triangle.'

'Tell me.'

'A space centre in Belgium, a private zoo in the Congo and an abandoned industrial site in Mexico.'

Renaissance mulled over the hologram a moment. 'Interesting.'

Pardos appeared in the doorway, busily trying to get an arm into his jacket sleeve. 'What is it?'

'We're going to Belgium.'

'When?'

'As soon as you can get that jacket on.'

Pardos pulled a dour face and finished dressing. He gestured to the hologram. 'Something to do with Mas?'

'Maybe.'

'Shall I tell Kaptu Z to meet us there?'

'No, there's a zoo in the Congo I want him to pay a visit to. After two weeks zipped up in a bag, it's time to take Blast for walkies.'

Pardos looked around the converted closet and shook his head. 'Three in the morning in a room like this, no wonder you're starting to get strange ideas. Mas is not an astronaut.'

'Are you sure about that?' replied Renaissance. 'If you stop to think about it, there is sense in it. If she is embroiled in something big, the space colonies would be an ideal escape route. There are no extradition treaties enforceable outside Earth's orbit. So there is no time to waste. We'll take personal responsibility for scrutinising every passenger and crew member on every mission leaving Earth. Kaptu can help flush her to us. By going after her loved ones, it will make it clear her future on this planet is fast drying up.'

'Very well. I will ready our flight.'

Once he had left, Rojas said, 'I think you're right. Mas is looking to escape and she has been saying goodbye to her family in Africa. But that means the location in Mexico must be directly related to the criminal enterprise that has her packing her bags. A final winner takes all job.'

Renaissance frowned. 'You might be right, but if we foil that plot prematurely, there may be no need for Mas to flee Earth. She is our target, remember.'

'Even if people have to die first?'

Renaissance smirked coolly. 'You are obviously more than just an analyst. Even though I fear you may be too much more, you will be in charge of investigating the Mexican connection. No actions, however, will be taken without my go ahead. Especially if it's inside the US. The insurance agents have made it quite clear we can't afford it.'

'Is there a technician available in case I need someone on the ground?'

'Roy Hill is the Hurt World One technician for North America. He is working on a case involving hate-dog breeders in New York. A tough bunch who will have sharpened his teeth. We may well call on him, for I sense we are close enough to take Mas on once again. And this time I won't let casualties get in the way. Even if it is me. You should read the case files on the last time Hurt World went after her. In order to keep their Cobra X species secure, the Spanish kept the males and females in separate locations. When Mas got her hands on a male, it was obvious where she was going next. And it was just as obvious what would happen if she got a female too. Heroin 3 was being produced from regular cobras and just starting to gain traction in the underground bar scene. The announcement that a new more potent version of King Cobra had been developed excited drug dealers even more than it did scientists. A ten million New Dollar bounty was placed on the acquisition of a breeding pair of Cobra X snakes. The United Nations Secretary General tasked Hurt World with preventing the transaction from ever taking place. We had skilled, well-trained people, but Mas was pure carnage. We lost our Hurt World One technician and most of her backup. Not to mention what happened to the Spanish military facility. Suffice to say Mas had her breeding pair.

'And that was the last we heard of her until now. Or her snakes for that matter. It was the snakes for which we didn't stop looking, couldn't afford to. We didn't know who Mas sold them too, all that we knew was that Heroin 3 went mainstream and came with a real pop. Overdoses went through the roof. Rumour had it Asylum City was the source but there was no direct proof. So we assigned Kaptu Z to look for some. And that more or less is what he has been doing for the past two years.'

'Has he found any proof?' murmured Rojas, somewhat surprised that he was being taken into Renaissance's confidence to such an extent.

Renaissance lingered a moment. 'He says he knows where to look.'

*

Natalie was staring out the rain sullied window of her rundown Parisian apartment. The buildings huddled together in the depths of night did not readily betray the bouts of insomnia within, just a crack of light in a window here or there. That was all the windows except Natalie's. Her curtains were fully drawn. She stood staring out at the night, cosy in her bathrobe. She looked back at Kaptu Z in her bed. He was fast asleep like men always seemed to be after they had made love. At least he was sleeping handsome, his square jaw and dark complexion set like a piece of art on the soft white pillow.

A hushed yelp drew Natalie's attention to the floor. Katpu was not the only one at rest in her room. She stared a while at the black Labrador twitching with a dream on the bedroom's threadbare fawn carpet. Blast looked healthy and quite strong considering it had spent the past two weeks in a Cocoon 41. Its coat was shining, its body lean and muscled. According to Kaptu at that moment in time it was probably the most valuable dog in the world. She had worked out for herself that it was also no doubt one of the most dangerous dogs in the world to be around. Taking it for a walk in the park could easily end in a sniper's bullet or even a missile if the poacher, Mas, was feeling less delicate. But if it was true Kaptu could use it to get a fix on the Meltman then a missile would almost seem like sensitivity. At the Spanish Club she had performed in front of the feared gangsters of the Pestasio Brotherhood with a concoction of old alcohol, lust and violence swimming through their heads and she had not registered a semblance of the dread she was feeling now. She knelt down beside Blast and stroked her head. It was soft and warm. Blast peered up at her a moment before her heavy eyelids fell closed again. There were other eyes, however, still open. Kaptu was staring.

'She's a good dog,' murmured Natalie. 'You ordered her to sleep and she sleeps. And when you play fetch with her, I'm going to be the stick. Is she good at that game? I ask because if you throw me at the Meltman, I may be joining him in never again seeing the light of day.'

'Blast will find you and I'll be right behind. It's risky, but there's no one else who can mark Meltman with scent.'

'Where did you leave it?'

'The scent? On the table.'

Natalie went to the glass vial and lightly ran her fingers from top to bottom. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed the sweet burned sweet. 'I thought the Devil's fragrance would be a tad bitterer,' she murmured and replaced the cap.

'Meltman will find it bitter enough.'

Natalie left the vial and walked to the bed. She ran her fingers through Kaptu's hair, very much like she had been doing with Blast. 'And you think you are good enough to kill him? You and whose army?'

His defense is his labyrinth of tunnels. He has gone deeper and deeper into the darkness until he has felt safe. He will be flustered when he realises he has not gone deep enough.'

Natalie chuckled. 'I wonder if my mother has sent you. You certainly talk like her. I miss her terribly. For a long time I have been thinking of throwing acid on my face so that the Meltman would not desire me anymore. I even have the acid, in my own little glass vial. Until you showed up, I was sure there was no other way I could see my mother again. The only thing that has prevented me from doing it is the fear that my mother might reject me too.'

'There would at least be a family resemblance to the Meltman.'

'You're right about that. Why don't you just give me a poison? I'll see that he gets it.'

'The people I work for don't countenance assassination.'

Natalie's voice darkened. 'Delusions of niceness won't get you far against the Meltman.' She let herself calm down a moment. 'At least that helps narrow it down. You have either been sent by the law or by my mother. No one else would care if I killed someone. Being tied to either of those two, I won't have to worry what happens to you. It will simply be a case of you getting your just desserts.'

'I get the feeling you're becoming interested.'

Natalie released her bathrobe to the floor and joined Kaptu between the sheets, her naked body pressing up against him. She kissed his lips hard and passionately. 'I am. And you'll be as close as this when I tag the Meltman?'

'I wouldn't be much good for fighting if I were as close as this.'

Natalie nibbled his ear. 'Only good for one thing. You're right, not as close as this.'

*

There were no numbers on the rusted old iron weightlifting plates but it was clear they were heavy. The bar they were piled onto was ever so slightly bending under the strain. And John Leroy Scope's heavily veined muscles were bulging as they pressed them above his chest. His confidence had to be admired, for potential spotters were scarce on the ground in this remote part of the Florida Everglades, and if the bar had collapsed onto his chest there would have been little hope of wriggling out from under it. Despite that, Scope went for one more rep, even though his arms were twitching and the bar wasn't going down as straight as it had on rep one.

McRaven couldn't help but edge a little closer as a precaution. He refrained, however, from announcing his presence in case the sudden emergence of an intruder on his property distracted him from his set – his was not the voice Scope wanted to hear with 200 kilograms perched above his head. McRaven contented himself with quietly looking on and soaking up a little more of the peaceful view across the bayou. It was the kind of view that even if there was not another soul within screaming distance, it was impossible to feel alone.

Scope snorted wildly as he got the weights up one last time and let them crash down onto the bench-press holders.

McRaven clapped as he stepped forward. 'Like your work big guy. You might have held something back if you knew you had me to contend with.'

Scope sprung upright on the weights bench. He was a mid-thirties man with a hard, strong body and a world weary look in his pale grey eyes. His beard was new and it suited him. The air of danger was well familiar.

'Don't worry,' he said. 'I've got plenty left in the tank for the likes you.'

McRaven shrugged. 'I like your place. Is this what you were fighting for all those years?'

'Before you get all misty eyed, I'm only renting.'

'I haven't been keeping track of your financial position, only your location, in case I needed you for a job.'

'Well, that's a waist of time considering I've quit.'

'Quit to become a crocodile hunter. It's not as though you turned to religion.'

'What's the job?'

'It's still the same business, extraction.'

Scope grabbed the towel on the pier at his feet and wiped the sweat off his forehead. 'I've moved on. Now I extract crocodiles, not people.'

'And from what I hear, business is good. Not that I've been hearing it from you.'

'The distance I've been keeping is only because I've been hoping to delay this moment for as long as possible.'

'What's wrong with you?' snapped McRaven. 'You're out here wrestling crocodiles, so don't tell me you've lost your nerve.'

'Don't confuse getting low down and dirty with reptiles in mangroves as being in any way war-ready.'

'I haven't come all this way to nag. Some mercenaries quit for good and some merely take a break. Here's your chance to tell me which kind you are.'

Scope threw down his towel onto the ground, which looked to McRaven very much like an act of surrender.

'Must be a special job to have you come all this way not to beg,' said Scope.

'Asylum City. The target is classified.'

'You'd better unclassify it if you want me involved.'

'The Meltman. We're going to have a bead on him.'

'I didn't think he ever came above ground.'

McRaven smirked. 'He doesn't.'

'So that's why you're here.'

'One of our biggest targets ever and we could certainly use you. But the rest of the details really are classified. If you want in, we're going into Standby One mode above Asylum City. We're taking the Mach 99 Ultra Speed Jet.'

'How did you come here? I didn't hear a thing.'

'Magno-chopper. I landed out of earshot in case you had some ducks I might scare.'

'You mean because I might have shot you down.'

'Is it going to be like that?'

Scope stood up to be head and shoulders over McRaven. 'No, it isn't going to be like that. The gators in these parts live up to a hundred years old, so they can wait while I go clean the Asylum City swamp of the greatest reptile of them all. If he's the target, then I'm in.'

McRaven nodded. 'I shouldn't have waited before you agreed to admit we haven't had done to do our usual preparation for a job as big as this. We're not even being paid all that much by the source.'

'Is it the CIA again?' queried Scope warily.

'No, the United Nations. More specifically, the Hurt World Agency.'

Scope shrugged. 'Okay, I don't think I mind them.'

'The job comes from Renaissance herself. She seems to think it's the biggest thing they've done in years.'

'Which level is it?'

One.'

'The animal section? The Meltman has killed a lot of people in his time but I didn't think he even owned a pet.'

'Renaissance didn't take the time to explain it to me. Before this job, she had a team working on a poacher and a signature dog. But that didn't come to anything and I can't see any connection there.'

'If the poacher is bad news, there might be a connection. Speaking of poachers, are there any international laws against turning gators into boots? I wouldn't want to add myself to the arrest sheet for lack of asking.'

McRaven laughed. 'Fair question. The perk of working for the Hurt World is that we get diplomatic immunity, even if we are not being particularly diplomatic in our methods.'

'In that case – ' Scope pulled from under the weights bench a pair of boots, the gator skin glistening in the mid-afternoon sunshine. 'It's what's left of the first gator I ever had a moment with.'

'Lucky boots?

'Not to mention comfortable as damned heck.'

'That's the reason I've got to have you along. Mad as a rabid fruit bat.'

'Fine. Now shut up while I put my boots on.'

It didn't take long – the runners were off and the boots were on. 'Alright,' said Scope. 'I'm ready.'

'Isn't there someone you want to say goodbye to first?' queried McRaven grimly. 'I ain't pretending this is just another day on the job.'

'You mean I mightn't come back?' snapped Scope sardonically. 'Then you're right, there are some folks I should say goodbye to.' He strode to the edge of the pier and screamed out across the bayou, 'So long, you damned gators! Thanks for the boots!' He turned back to McRaven. 'I don't think they're going to miss me.'

17 Wildlife preserve

Electro-copters had been relegated to museum pieces in most of the world, but in the Congo at least they were still being flown for real. Kaptu gazed out the cockpit window at the vast tracts of dull brown savannah. Coming from Asylum City with its strictly enforced no-fly zones, any kind of flying was still a novelty. But this was certainly the first time Kaptu had experienced a contest between machine and gravity in which the outcome seemed no better than fifty-fifty. His hands were gripping the seat tightly.

The pilot was Lieutenant Sandra Clorvine of the Congolese National Rangers. She was thirty years old and attractive with silky brown skin and long hair streaked with yellow and red. Her uniform was dull green brightened by gold badges and insignias. Her inherent calmness gave Kaptu the impression he was in good hands as the electro-copter bucked and kicked through the hot grey cloud.

'There is a lot of clear sky out there if you care to look for it,' Kaptu murmured as he bounced in his seat.

'We're entering La Pack's swath of Africa now and I'd rather she didn't know about it,' replied Clorvine in her broad Swahili twang.

'Is she that dangerous?'

'She's rich, successful and legitimate, which in the Congo means she's the type that will kill you in a heartbeat.'

Kaptu gazed through Xray-real binoculars at the grasslands that were like nothing he had ever seen before - Europe had been big but Africa was vast. The Africans he knew in Asylum City were without fail quick to act and fast when they did, so he knew there must be something about this land to be reckoned with. The first evidence of a human presence for many miles was a tall, barbed wire fence and beyond that were steel cages of varying sizes. Some of the cages were empty but most contained animals. The giraffes were easiest to see as they were peering over the top of theirs. In other cages there were monkeys, gazelles, lions and cheetahs.'

'It looks like a zoo?' murmured Kaptu. 'Perhaps we can just buy a ticket.'

'Its official title is the La Pack Private Wildlife Preserve. It supplies zoos around the world. That is the legitimate face of it. Unfortunately people have paid with their lives trying to gain entry, so I don't think buying a ticket is going to be an option.' Clorvine worked the joystick, gaining height and hovered just outside its airspace. 'This is as far as we go.'

'Okay, fair enough for now. But I eventually need to go all the way in.'

'Then you better know how they died.'

'I was just about to ask.'

'Mauling and snake bites. Never any witnesses, just bodies in the jungle.'

'Any direct connections with La Pack?'

'No. She is too clever for that. And besides, in these parts a natural death is easy to accommodate. Still, such occurrences are relatively infrequent. It helps that the surviving inspectors no longer question her quota requests or demand access to her facilities. It has become a very harmonious arrangement, for they are well paid not to do those things.' There was a change in her voice. 'I suspect some of that harmony is about to end.'

Kaptu realised she was glaring at him. He wondered if he could really trust her. He was too far removed from Hurt World HQ to know how closely they screened their liaison people. He glanced at his wrist communicator to see the face was still glowing red. When it turned green that would be Natalie's signal she had marked the Meltman and he would have to leave Africa without delay. So, he would have to take his chances.

'Snake bites, you say?' he queried. 'Does she have a breeding licence?'

'Sure. Zoos love snakes. And if they're not big, they better be poisonous. I bet there's a whole pit teeming with them somewhere down there.'

'So who gets her animals for her? Professional hunters?'

'There would be a list on file somewhere.'

'With one of those very cooperative inspectors?'

'Is there someone in particular you are interested in?'

'A poacher named Mas.

'I knew it,' barked Clorvine. 'Your people were here a couple of years ago looking for her - a Hurt World One technician just like you. Said he was in charge of Africa. It seemed a big statement.'

'Did he look at the La Pack ranch in particular?'

'He looked everywhere and nowhere. If you ask me, it was mostly nowhere. Still, he wasn't the only one looking for her back then. The reward money was still fresh and people hadn't yet realised the occupation was just another way to die young in Africa. Perhaps you should talk to him yourself. I hear he is living in Zimbabwe, though no longer as a Hurt World technician. Lost a leg in a bombing and that's against company rules.'

Kaptu returned to his binoculars, carefully surveying the wildlife preserve's layout, starting with the security towers and tracing a path through the cages to the main building, which was a grey fibrocarbon-panelled dome on stilts.

'Alright,' he said, 'let's go back.'

'Back to base or have you gotten smart enough to be referring to the airport?'

'Base. And I'll be going in tonight. If you've got any ideas on how to breach security, I'll be happy to hear them.'

Clorvine maneuvered the electro-copter into a fast turn back towards the mountain range from which they had just come. 'My main piece of advice is don't ask anyone else in this country that question. It is very hard to know who is actively saving for an early retirement. The fact that I have not been approached with bribes only indicates that enough people who matter already have.'

'Perhaps Renaissance knows something of what you're talking about. She has only told you about my purpose here.'

'And she's not above a little bribery of her own. She's offering me a bonus if you're still alive at the end of the operation.'

'That's nice of her.'

'Unfortunately for you, I can't be bought.'

Kaptu slid open the side window and tossed out a small metallic tracking device. 'I'll make my entry from here. I'll go in at midnight and be back at dawn.'

'Go in to do what? That hasn't been explained to me yet.'

'My dog is to have a sniff around. And I may not return alone. It depends on what kinds of scents get sniffed.'

'Who might you bring back?'

'La Pack.'

Clorvine clutched both hands onto the joystick and stared at him. 'That bonus is suddenly looking a lot less likely. But Renaissance gave me the impression you would be staying on a few days at least. So there is no need to rush into this. With tonight's full moon, it really isn't a wise time to go.'

'Why not? We all feel a little crazy with a full moon.'

'Crazy is the word. It will be too light. They'll see you.'

'Your concern is touching, especially as you say it's not related to the money on the line. But there simply isn't the time Renaissance may think there is. La Pack is relatively harmless compared to what else is out there in the big bad world.'

Clorvine smile derisively. 'Are you underestimating the dark forces of Africa? I've just explained to you that everyone who has crossed La Pack has ended up eaten by lions or riddled in snake bites. What kind of person could be worse than that?'

Kaptu pulled out his laser-blade thousand round pistol and set about adjusting the settings to the high intensity levels. 'I agree it takes a special someone. But they exist.'

18 Homecoming

Shally Nirajo knew sunlamps were dangerous, but she refused to look like she spent her whole life underground. She, however, had over-compensated to the extent that she more resembled a castaway on a desert island. It had aged her a good ten years, but she didn't care. She enjoyed the contrast between herself and her pasty skinned bodyguards and it helped her feel removed from the dark places that she found herself in. As excited as she was to know her daughters was on her way, this room was certainly one of the darker to be had in the bowels of Asylum City. And the fact that her daughter was about to emerge from a sewage pipe did not bring any comfort either.

Mario, her senior lieutenant, was standing closest to the pipe, listening intently to the security updates coming in through his earpiece.

'She is about three minutes away,' he passed on to Nirajo.

'Any Breaches?' Nirajo fired back.

'No, ma'am. Escape routes all clear.'

'I'm talking about from the sewage works as well. I don't want my daughter drowning in an avalanche of shit.'

'The sewage workers know that will be their fate exactly if anything goes wrong.'

The pipe began to vibrate. Mario felt it and nodded. 'That's her now.'

'Good.' Nirajo understood the details of it intimately, like she did so many aspects of the Meltman operation. The small one-seater capsule would be travelling at one hundred kilometres per hour and it would be a fifty eight minutes and thirty seconds journey from the no man's land staging post out in the Arizona wastelands. By the time of arrival in the converted pumping station, the outer skin's lubricant would be heated to five hundred degrees Celsius and the capsule occupant would more often than not be lubricated in their own mess - in the case of her hard living daughter, that would not be a completely unusual sight.

The capsule's approach was becoming a roar. Nirajo stepped to the hatch from which her daughter would soon be emerging. Her heart was pounding and that was something she couldn't quite so easily quantify. Her daughter had made it to Europe, one of the very select few to escape Asylum City, and yet completely out of the blue she was returning. Nirajo recalled the complete joy and relief in her face on the day of her departure and shuddered at the thought of what would have prompted her to return. But what consumed her most was the similar look on the Meltman's face when he was informed of her return.

With a small eruption within the pipe running into the dark room of concrete, the capsule arrived. The hatch on top of the pipe hummed as it opened automatically. Natalie stepped out, looking only as disheveled as if she had been dancing a wild night of Flamenco.

'Hi mum,' she said, eyes beaming, rushing forward to embrace Nirajo.

The embrace was tight but it was Nirajo who released first. 'Why have you come back?'

Natalie smirked. 'Because I missed you so much. And Uncle Meltman too.'

Nirajo slapped her hard across the face. Natalie took it and grinned. She looked at the nervously shuffling bodyguards who accompanied Nirajo wherever she went, though not necessarily in as great a number as this. Would one of you boys kindly fetch my luggage? Be careful with it, its fragile.' She looked back to her mother who, as a result of an extensive program of fetus sculpting, bore no physical resemblance. 'Uncle Meltman didn't come to meet me?'

'He's busy. He says he will meet you at dinner.'

'What time will that be?'

'You really have been away a long time. Have you forgotten that time does not exist in the bowels of Asylum City?'

19 Death on the crew list

Space Weaver 180f was printed on the giant rocket in bold black letters, a different language for each side. Perhaps it was out of diplomacy that the air shuttle pilot chose the English side to pass on now. Her two passengers, Renaissance and Spiros Pardos, were gaping at the craft surely enough, but not for the same reasons as most visitors to the Belgium headquarters of the European Space Union. Rather than seeing some grand adventure in interstellar travel about to begin from its launch site, to them it was the likely escape route of a criminal they dearly wanted to apprehend. Such an impressive ship, but it was almost as mysterious as its destination trillions of kilometres away.

'Is it on schedule?' Renaissance queried.

'Sure is,' replied the pilot. 'Europe's best scientists and computers have been working ten years on the project. And it is led by the European Space Commissioner herself. We are going to her own personal docking bay. I trust you will not be offended when I say I have been instructed to leave the engine running. This is a very important time for her.'

'The engines of our jet have been left running too,' snapped Renaissance. 'I understand there are many world leaders interested in shaking the Commissioner's hand at the moment, but I assure you this is not a social visit.'

The remainder of the short flight that had begun from the United Nation's Geneva HQ transpired in silence. The docking bay was located at a centre point in the launch site's administrative tower and with its thick layers of heavy steel more resembled a bunker. The shuttle's main door opened to a brightly lit walkway and a pretty, smiling attendant dressed in the Space Union's cherry red formal wear.

Renaissance and Pardos tucked their briefcases underarm and descended the steps to the docking bay floor. The attendant smiled with glossy red lips. 'The Commissioner has postponed a meeting in order to fit you in. She would not normally do that. She is a stickler for maintaining schedules. Did you know that after ten years the Space Weaver 180f mission is precisely on schedule?'

Pardos chuckled sardonically. 'No, but we do know what a schedule is.'

The attendant's smile didn't slip. 'This way, please.' She led them from the docking bay into an elevator that had been held open for them. When the doors closed, the roar of the shuttle's jet engines was replaced by a luxurious, sweet smelling quiet. The attendant pressed the top number on the elevator's console, fifty seven. 'If you would like any refreshments in the meeting, I can order ahead,' she said.

Both Renaissance and Pardos declined the offer. The elevator reached its floor and the attendant led with her hips on the journey down a corridor of large glass-walled laboratories to a door at the end marked Final Approvals. Geth Barzius was inside, peering down a microscope on a shiny metal table. She did not look up as the attendant announced Renaissance and Pardos's arrival.

'Excuse me a moment,' she said, her head remaining perfectly still. 'This is one of those tasks that is literally tiny, but that could make or break a future colony.' She returned to a deep concentration before finally straightening her rounded back and looking over Renaissance and Pardos. 'You see, bacteria and viruses keep our immune systems from turning against our bodies. So we must include some on the voyage. Our specialists have manufactured pathogens that will engage the immune system without any toxic effects. Although we are confident in the technology, the great danger lies in mutation. A harmless bug today can so easily turn into a killer bug tomorrow. That has always been the way of nature. It happens to people too and that's where the psychologists earn their salaries.'

'And that's why we're here,' said Renaissance, sternly folding her arms. 'We believe there may be a passenger on the flight list that is in fact an extremely dangerous criminal.'

'Criminality is screened for during the application stage and there was nothing remarkable flagged. Unpaid debts was as bad as it got. That, of course, is not including the crimes we were not already aware of. And I have to admit some of those were quite significant.'

'Her real identity is not on your files. And she has not yet had her day in court. That is why we are here.'

Barzius studied Renaissance very much in the manner she had been doing down her microscope. 'Very well, a name then.'

'Mas. She is a poacher.'

'A poacher? I can recall five hundred names of both successful and unsuccessful candidates and I am confident the name Mas was not amongst them.'

'No doubt your identity validation systems are state-of-the-art, but Mas could surely beat them. She is a counter-tech expert.'

'Do you have a photo at least?'

Renaissance shook her head. 'She is not on the System. We are trying, but at this stage we know very little about her.'

'Then why are you so sure she will be on the Space Weaver?'

'We've been tracking communications.'

'Of someone you don't even know what she looks like?'

'That's right. We've tracked the communication to and away from her.'

Barzius walked to the window and gazed out at the Space Weaver. 'When I stood in this spot two years ago, all I had was a dream. Look at the view now.' She took in a deep breath as though she were trying to inhale the view as well see it. She gave Renaissance a half-glance. 'I agreed to meet you without hesitation. Belgium is the home of the United Nations, is it not? And the Hurt World is an important part of that. On this occasion, however, I am puzzled as to actually how I can be of assistance.'

'We would like access to the Space Weaver personnel list. We are quite certain Mas will be on it. Our analysis team may be able to sniff her out.'

'I'm afraid I cannot allow that. Not without a court order and only the Supreme Judge of the World Court can grant you that.'

Renaissance stiffened. 'Surely you don't want a killer on your expedition?'

'Is she a killer? You have just said she has yet to have her day in court. That means we must consider her innocent. Obviously she has been up to no good or else you wouldn't have taken the time to come all this way. I have no doubt about that. But she may be just the type of person we need in this mission. Hard, nasty people can be the most resilient. And on top of that she must also be extremely resourceful to have confounded such thoroughly committed pursuers as yourselves.'

'We are not confounded,' snapped Pardos.

'Views depend on where you are standing.' Barzius glanced at her wrist computer. 'Unfortunately I must get back to worrying about mutations. I appreciate your concerns over mission security and I will have the team in charge review the personnel list one more time. They have certainly had their hands full. You wouldn't believe how many extremist groups perceive deep space colonisation as an affront to their religious beliefs. They would love nothing more than to blow the Space Weaver and all inside it to smithereens. Now, if we could establish a new colony that leaves such a mindset as that far behind on Earth, to me that would be a worthy achievement.'

'I'm afraid building the rocket is probably the easier part of the dream,' said Renaissance, moving for the door. 'I appreciate your time.'

The attendant was waiting outside the laboratory to escort the two visitors back to the shuttle. Pardos knew it was better not to talk while she was in earshot but he simply didn't have the patience to wait.

'Should we get that court order?' he snapped. 'I think she underestimates what the Chief of Lawyers is capable of.'

Renaissance thought twice about replying only to decide an uncomfortable silence would be a worse situation. 'The space program is allowed certain latitude that may well see our application delayed or even rejected out of hand. That would be embarrassing to say the least. Who knows where this case may end but we do not want to go to court with the Supreme Court Judge having already made a ruling against us.'

Pardos frowned. 'I see.'

'Of course, if Mas does start killing a few people, it will result in a more sympathetic hearing for our application. Our priority, however, is to try and stop her before that occurs. Wouldn't you agree?'

'I would. How do you rate our chances?'

This time Renaissance did opt for an uncomfortable silence.

20 Fatal view

The speedboat was skimming over the rolling waves off the coast of Las Gabos. A paraglider named Sergeant Rick was being towed behind, high above the turquoise waters of the Pacific Ocean, the lightweight canopy khaki and his uniform the black of the United Nation's Peace Keeper Corps. Rick was using his wrist computer to take reconnaissance images and readings of the industrial complex that was coming on fast. Although his thermal readings were telling him there were no people in the vicinity, the scanners were picking up the presence of rats scattered about the complex, the biggest rats he had ever seen.

'Are you catching this?' he said into his mike. 'Those rodents are so big they could wear a saddle.'

Rojas Hose was in the cockpit of the speedboat and glanced up at him with his binoculars. The paraglider's helmet and goggles were concealing the revulsion upon his face that was clearly detectable in his voice. 'Are you sure they're the only lifeforms you're detecting?' he queried into his headset mike. 'Where there are rats, there are usually humans. It's one of humankind's most enduring relationships.'

'I'll repeat the scans.'

'Please do.' Rojas gave him a wave of encouragement and returned his attention out the cockpit windscreen ahead. He was sitting beside the speedboat driver, Corporal Sodan. He had decided to take Renaissance's advice and get out of the office, and in this case it made perfect operational sense. It was clear they were running one step behind Mas and whatever scheme she was embroiled in and it would take a giant leap to get out ahead. Perhaps this abandoned industrial site held some sign or clue. It was one of the points of the triangle. It had been put to use in some way or another. Rojas suspected the purpose had been completed, the site scrubbed clean and abandoned. But all it took was one scrap of evidence left behind, one small thing overlooked. It mightn't be easy to find but if Rojas really was one of the best analysts in the business, this was where he needed to show it.

'Looks like we are safe to make landfall,' he shouted to Sodan over the headset. 'Take us to the pier.'

'Roger that,' Sodan replied. 'ETA four minutes.'

'Second scan complete,' came the paraglider over the airwaves. 'It's confirmed, rats is all there is.'

'Understood.' Rojas stood up and leaned over the windscreen, revelling in the wind hitting his face. He took out his camera and began snapping pitches of the grain silos. For some reason they interested him. He didn't know why. Perhaps it was because his instincts were telling him that whatever had taken place at this site, the silos were at the heart of it.

'Explosives readings for the site have just come in,' returned the paraglider in a suddenly tense voice.

'And?'

'We need to turn round.'

Rojas and the speedboat driver looked at each other.

'Hold on,' cried Sodan He went hard at the steering wheel, executing a gut wrenching turn that flung Rojas back into his seat. The explosion within the industrial park came barely an instant later and was massive. Only the protective glass around the cockpit saved the two men in the speedboat from the horizontal spray of shrapnel. The paraglider, however, was completely exposed. He screamed in agony as tiny shards of metal ripped through him like bullets. The blood resembled red streamers fluttering behind as the speedboat reached top speed in its retreat.

'We should stop,' said Rojas, looking up

'Not yet,' the driver replied. 'There could be a secondary explosion.'

'We've got to save him.'

Sergeant Sodan glanced up from the steering wheel to see that the paraglider had gone limp, his bloodied head dangling by his shoulders.

'You ain't saving anyone up there,' he muttered darkly.

Rojas sunk his head into his hands, overcome by shock. Sodan put a consoling hand on his shoulder. 'It is not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it is Rick himself. The protocol is to scan for explosives first - for this very reason.' The driver spat out a string of profanities and took a look back at the burning, obliterated silos and the hills around them. 'My guess is the bomber was in a lookout position, waiting to act if the site became compromised.'

The theory stirred Rojas from his stupor. He scoured the scene left behind, the sunbaked hills leading up to the wildly ablaze industrial site. Again it was the silos that corralled his attention. They were now just jagged, flaming chimneys. The blasts had been centred there. Rojas was raising his camera that way when there came another blinding flash. The shockwave flung him violently onto his back. Above him, the dead paraglider was swallowed by flame as the entire sky turned to fire.

21 Approach

A lion's roar briefly carried over the rhythmic calls of the cicadas. It was in the distance without being too far. Kaptu Z wondered if lions were like guard dogs. He wondered if his presence had been detected.

There was rustling down in the tall grass he was moving through. Fearing a snake, he put on his night glasses to scan the area. After a fruitless moment, however, he decided he had better just accept he was not the only creature this grass was hiding.

He had spent a sweaty twenty minutes working on the wiring of the perimetre fence and now he was done. He could cut his way through it without triggering the sensor alarms. He had enjoyed doing it, the electrics of Africa being at least one thing he could claim a familiarity with. As he withdrew the laser-cutters from his backpack he gave Blast a probing pat. She was lying patiently on her belly beside him; although relaxed, her ears were constantly pricked to her surroundings. Kaptu felt an affection for her, though it worried him how badly he needed her alive. An entire criminal empire might stand or fall on it. Kaptu put the thought out of mind and cut open the fence with clean, even strokes. Blast sprung eagerly to her feet, unburdened by the stakes at play. She intently watched Kaptu crawl through the fence and came running with his command. Kaptu marked the time at 4:15 am. Still an hour before dawn. He led Blast deeper into La Pack's private zoo.

Even with his night vision goggles on, the animals in captivity were little more than silhouettes in their cages. Some were pacing but most were still. As long as they remained in their cages, Kaptu did not much mind. He held his rifle at the ready and began to crisscross the zoo grounds. He kept one eye on Blast all the while: a simple bark and a rising of her tail would be enough to connect Mas to this locale, to empower Kaptu to start making arrests. He wondered if it had ever sounded a good idea. But as he started towards the domed central building, he noted the communication tower soaring high from the roof, the intercepted communications with Mas must have been transmitted through that. And it made sense. A remote outpost with few police and almost no honest ones. The perfect place for the likes of Mas. And perhaps not so good for those cops who did happen to be honest.

Kaptu was nearing the giraffe cage when there was a vicious sting on his arm. Not wanting to scent his skin with insect repellent, this was not the first, but the pain was like nothing else. He reflexively grabbed the spot and realised he had been struck by a small dart. The toxin was fast acting, his head instantly becoming heavy and dizzy. He crashed onto his back, looking up at the giraffes. They slept standing up. With a feeling of dread, he now understood he had been doing that too.

*

'It was a bad way to die,' said McRaven. 'Ripped apart by pieces of hot metal. The reports coming in are still only preliminary but that seems to be a fair assessment of what's happened. He winced with his own words, gazing out at the New York skyline as an outlet for bitter thoughts. 'Fifty Peace Corps soldiers dead this year, there have already been enough reports.'

'Yes, it's a shame,' said Renaissance, bitter about having to make this detour back to New York. Still, if Hurt World operations were getting Peace Corp soldiers killed then bridges needed to be mended. McRaven's office was on the thirtieth floor of the United Nation's New York Headquarters and as impressive as the view was, Renaissance found herself suddenly longing to put her feet on real earth. In planes, in penthouse suites, or in the important floors of tall buildings, it seemed this was not a job for ground level. Renaissance sipped her Artic-water lemon ice tea and muttered, 'There is much still to be done before the final report on this is written.'

'That much is clear, though how we have got to this point is peculiar enough. You're saying we cannot break codes, only the locations of where messages of a particular code are sent?'

'That's right.'

'That's not much.'

'I agree but there are patterns to be found. It is especially effective when the target operates in isolated and unusual locations. That means a lot of people on the run from the law.'

'Including your friend, Mas?'

'What transpired in Las Gabos indicates we are on the right track.'

'The problem is going in blind can be very dangerous.'

'Yes, and it scares me that there were things criminals were so desperate to conceal they were willing to use explosives on such a scale.'

McRaven leaned back against the window and folded his arms. He looked around the scenes on the operations wall: marked with red dots on a world map that tattooed the entire wall were all troubles the Peace Corps was embroiled in. Although every dot was the same size, the scale of the troubles varied significantly. McRaven made a point of exactly knowing to what extent and he did not like that in this case he still had no idea. 'So you have triangulated possible locations for Mas?'

'Yes.'

'The European Space Union base in Belgium, a wildlife park in the Congo and a recently obliterated industrial site in Las Gabos?'

'That's right. Pardos and I have just paid a visit to the Belgium base. Unfortunately, the Space Commissioner was not being very cooperative. It seems someone of Mas's disposition would be a very welcome addition to their passenger list.'

'Good luck forcing Geth Barzius to do something against her wishes. She occupies one of the most powerful positions in Europe.'

Renaissance pulled a face.

'The Las Gabos angle may reveal one or two helpful clues if we take the time to sift through the debris,' continued McRaven, 'though with the pieces as small as they are and half of them in the sea, it may be a jigsaw too complicated for one lifetime.'

'That is not a meaningful measure,' said Renaissance. 'Lifetimes are getting shorter and shorter. Anyway, the Congo segment is still active. Kaptu Z and the signature dog Blast are currently there investigating.'

'Have you received any progress reports?'

'Only from their contact, a Congolese park ranger named Clorvine. She says they're on site. But they are yet to report back.'

'Let's hope it goes well. As you say, lifetimes seem to be getting shorter.'

22 Welcome home dinner

Natalie couldn't believe the room she had been given. It was enormous and breathtakingly decorated. The queen-sized bed was succulent pink with gold posts and an ivory bed-head. The room furnishings, including a dressing table and drawers were also silver and gold. Upon the auburn walls there was a mirror framed in diamond-studded silver and there were colourful impressionist paintings of both male and female nudes. Everything about the room spoke of a hotel of the highest class, everything except the views from the gold framed windows. That was pure hell. An enormous brightly lit chamber teeming with thousands of the deadliest snakes in the world: the Cobra X. Natalie had been assured the glass was impenetrable, but she had barely slept, the nightmarish images of snakes crawling through cracks a constant torment.

Natalie checked herself again in the dressing table mirror. Cosmetics to hide the tiredness. The dresses left for her in the wardrobe were spectacular. She had chosen a white silk strapless polymer blue jacket. Even as a dancer, she had never looked so glamorous. Her accessories consisted of a pearl necklace and gold string earrings. They looked good and yet she hesitated, for there was a whole alabaster box of jewels to choose from and she really was getting lost in the moment, to the point where she had almost forgotten the grim purpose that had brought her there.

A knock on the door shattered that feeling in an instant. This was not a ball she was dressing for, it was dinner with the Meltman. It was time to go.

Natalie self-consciously ran her fingers through her hair as she went to the door. She needed to look good in order to dissuade the Meltman of any suspicions. It repulsed her to contemplate his sordid desires but his inability to resist them was her only chance. As she opened the door, she felt a shot of dread run the course of her body. She had forgotten the extent of his raw physical power. She was face to face with the Meltman again.

'Did I surprise you?' the Meltman said with a snicker. His sharp green eyes poured over her and he licked his colourless lips moistened with lubricant. He was seemingly taking the evening's event seriously too, his wavy black hair more attended to than usual and he was wearing a handsome tuxedo. It made him look a good ten years younger. Not that she had ever known how old he actually was. To make a personal enquiry of the Meltman was without fail a death sentence. Her mother, Shally Nirajo, probably knew it, but she had always been too busy teaching her not to ask questions to ever worry about the answers. She could only assume he was about fifty.

'A little,' she said, trying to breathe. 'This place is what has really shaken me up. I've never been somewhere so beautiful.'

The Meltman was pleased. 'Not even in Europe?'

'No, never. This is a place for royalty.'

'That is why I made it mine,' replied Meltman in all seriousness. 'It was a new luxury hotel in the Egyptian district. A sheik with money to spend was behind it. It was to be the finest hotel in Asylum City. It still is. But now it is me who chooses the guests. And it is me who chooses the view. I trust you enjoy seeing so many thousands of deadly pets slithering outside your room just a stone's throw away.'

Natalie shivered as she realised her foolishness in thinking anyone could get the better of this man. Kaptu Z had clearly manipulated her with brave words and promises. She wondered if he would even bother coming. He could just as easily come to his own conclusions regarding the scheme's futility and opt to stay home. Still, it was too late for Natalie to do anything now except let the plan play out, to fulfil her part. That way at least if there were any torturous reprisals, the Meltman would have Kaptu to focus on. The thought helped Natalie find her customary carefree tone of voice.

'You stole the hotel?'

'I do not steal, I claim things as mine.' He extended out his arms. 'And I claimed this, like a giant sinkhole; I opened up from underneath and swallowed it whole.'

Natalie chuckled. 'That's impossible.'

'Clearly it isn't. But it would be a pity if dinner had to get cold while I explained myself. Your mother thought someone should just be sent to collect you. On your first night back in Asylum City that idea did not sit well with me.'

'I'm glad,' said Natalie, sensing her chance. 'Actually, it is a stroke of luck as I have got you a gift and I would have been too embarrassed to give it to you in public.'

The Meltman paused, his dead-still eyes slowly breathing Natalie in. 'It's I who am in luck. Do not keep me in suspense then.'

Natalie smiled teasingly and went back into her room. The gift-wrapped box was on the table in the living area: light blue rice paper bound with red tassel. Natalie took it in both hands to the Meltman.

'Wow, look at that,' said the Meltman in a quiet voice. 'Should I open it later? I fear dinner will be getting cold.'

'Then it will be me dying of suspense.'

The Meltman smiled charmingly. 'Very well.' His soft, manicured fingers worked open the wrapping and packaging to a bottle of Le Tudou male perfume.

'It would be wrong to tell you how much,' said Natalie, 'but it is France's most expensive male scent.'

'It is touching, but I do not generally wear scent. Down in the catacombs of Asylum City anything that does not smell like a sewer is conspicuous.'

'Things change. My return is proof of that.' Natalie gently took the bottle out of his fingers. 'Let me apply a little to your wrist. It is not enough to smell the perfume out of the bottle, for it is how the scent complements the skin that really counts.' She unbuttoned his shirt sleeve and rolled it back to bare his wrist. She could feel him thrill to the touch. She gave him a double squirt.

'That was more than a sample,' he said.

She drew closer and sniffed the scent. 'Just the right amount to smell so good.' She stroked his arm and handed back the bottle. 'I think it was the smells of Asylum City that pushed me away last time.'

'Then I better learn my lesson.' The Meltman worked the fragrance into his skin. 'Now, shall we have dinner? Your mother is not the most patient type.'

'Oh, that reminds me, I have a gift for her as well.' Natalie hurried back to her bedroom dressing table. Her own bottle of perfume contained the signal transmitter Kaptu had given her. Using dark matter, the signal could pass unhindered through kilometres of rock. A quick twist was all it needed to activate. Now, let's see if he came.

Natalie went from there to the jewel box, pulling out the first piece that came to hand. It was a gold necklace. That would do. Meltman recongising it as one of his was just one risk in a thousand. Natalie dropped it into a jacket pocket and returned to the doorway. Meltman was still sniffing his wrists.

'It grows on you,' he said. 'I suppose you could describe the scent as mysterious.'

'Mysterious and attractive. It suits you just like I hoped.'

The Meltman straightened and looked her up and down with adoring eyes. 'You've changed.'

'Oh, really? How is that?'

'More worldly. More beautiful.'

Natalie hooked her arms with his. 'You're just being kind. It was such an intense journey I'm sure I look a nightmare.'

They walked toward the elevators over polished black and white checkered tiles.

'You look far better than I will if I ever have to take that ride. It is my own private escape pod. It is good to see it work today without a hitch.'

'You will never need it. You own the ground under Asylum City. Like with this hotel, there are no limits.'

'No limits, but this was more work than most things,' said the Meltman. 'We filled the building with gas, knocking everyone out for the night. And then we went to work, floor by floor, stripping the entire building an army of ants stripping a carcass of its flesh and disappearing back into its nest.'

'Won't they come after you?'

'They do not think they can reach me and they are too afraid of what I might do if they try. Their fear is justified. They have let me grow too big. They did not take seriously the man living under their boots and now it is too late.'

They stepped into the golden elevator and the Meltman pressed down.

'You have the whole floor to yourself. There is room service. Anything you require.' The Meltman smirked. 'I have put you on a different floor to your mother for that very reason.'

The elevator was descending slowly from its eighth floor starting point. Natalie took the Meltman's arm, not because it was what she wanted to do but because it was what repulsed her the most. 'You have been very kind to me.'

'Seeing you again is all the gratitude I need.'

The elevator stopped and Natalie sprung back. The doors opened to a banquet room in which a table of real mahogany wood was set out with eight places and a white attired servant for each. Six of the places were already occupied. Shally Nirajo, Mario and a bunch of Meltman generals. With them were glasses of champagne, platters of fruit and cheese and menus of tan leather and gold trim. The menus had the Nile Grande written upon them, for the Meltman had even stolen these. The party turned towards the Meltman and Natalie with very different looks on their faces. Some were scared, some were reverent, and in the case of Nirajo, there was the kind of revulsion Natalie had been battling to conceal.

'Sorry to keep you waiting,' said the Meltman, not looking at anyone in particular. 'We were catching up on old times. Anyway, there is no need to rush. We have something fine to celebrate, the return of family. Let's enjoy ourselves with a real feast. But rearrange your chairs so that Natalie is sitting next to me.'

It was Nirajo that had to move, having strategically placed herself at the table between the two remaining empty chairs. She did not resist, for it would entail making accusations she could not bear to voice. She picked herself up shakily from the table, knocking over her champagne glass as she went.

'Oh, sister,' chuckled the Meltman ebulliently. 'Pace yourself. I want this to be a very long night.'

23 Death for breakfast

Kaptu Z regained consciousness with his wrist detector showing green. He forced himself not to react to it. He was being dragged across dirt, his arms tightly gripped by powerful hands. If his assailants realised he was back with the living, they were liable to make it a very short stay. He kept his body limp, let them do the work. Or maybe he had no choice about it. In a wildlife preservation park, it would make sense if their darts contained paralysing agents. That would have explained why he had not roused with any jerky movements, the way people usually did from violent rest.

While Kaptu feigned unconsciousness, all other eyes were open in idle stares of cold-blooded indifference. There were three men pulling Kaptu along, another a step behind, and Mas. The men were Congolese and dressed in park ranger uniforms. They had pistols at their hips. Mas had slung the tranquilizer gun over her shoulder and was carrying a pulse debilitater. They were moving towards the lions cage, a vivid sunrise lighting the way. While the lions were sedate in one corner of their cage, the cages on the way were more boisterous: the monkeys and gorillas were in particular running a riot.

'What's going on?' cried an old woman, marching out along the dirt track leading from the central domed building.

The men reacted reticently, as afraid of her as they were Mas. It was La Pack and she ran her private zoo with a ruthless detachment. Still, it was usually only with Mas in residence that people got fed to the lions.

'A Hurt World technician,' replied Mas. 'We've dealt with them before. This time they're a little more organised. They've brought a signature dog.'

'Whose scent has been marked?'

'Mine.'

'How did they know you were here?'

'I've been waiting around to ask him. I injected him with a reviving agent to help speed the process along. But I'm afraid I may have given him a dose of tranquiliser more befitting an elephant.'

'That doesn't surprise me.'

'I've run out of time. The Kudos has left port and Jalanti is in quite a state.'

'If you kill him, we'll always be having to look over our shoulders. He may even know that I'm your mother.'

'Well, that's something even I would struggle to find the evidence to support.'

They reached the lion's cage; the men dragging Kaptu along stopped and looked to Mas for instructions. The lions were on the far side of the cage, though the odd lifting of head from amongst the pride suggested their presence had not gone unnoticed.

'Maybe they can,' replied Mas, her attention remaining with La Pack. 'But you don't need this wretched place anymore. With the money I'm sending you, you can go back to South Africa. Start a real zoo. You've always talked about it.'

'Sure,' said La Pack unconvincingly.

'Could you at least pretend? Pretend what?'

'That I've made a difference.'

'I'd love to, honey. Now what about the dog? Shall we shoot it?'

'If you wait a few days you can sell it back to the United Nations. I'd imagine after their man turns up eaten, they'll be prepared to pay quite a bit. Be discreet, of course.'

'Won't they still be able to track you with it?'

'It won't matter.'

'Our relationship may be troubled but I'm not about to sell to the police the dog that can track you.'

'That's touching. Then you'd better shoot it.' Mas leaned into La Pack, wrapping her arms around her in an awkward embrace.

La Pack returned it somewhat aloofly. 'I'm glad you told me about your plot. We've never really shared before. You go shepherd your zombie rats. I'll stick with my lions. I'd like to buy more, but not South African ones. They're more likely to lick someone than bight them. Not like the Congolese variety. Their table manners are particularly appalling. In a good way.' She turned to the guards holding Kaptu. 'Throw him in with the breakfast.'

Mas walked away with a flapping of hand. 'I'll see you later,' she said dismissively.

'Don't be like that,' replied La Pack, following her. 'Come on, let's go shoot that damned dog on the way to your chopper. It can be a mother daughter thing.'

*

Kaptu could feel the adrenalin flooding into his muscles, but he had to keep calm and let himself be dragged into the cage. There was no other choice. He had no chance with so many guards around him and with Mas still in the vicinity. On the other hand, he did not know if the odds against lions would be any better. As he lay sprawled out on the dusty floor, he peeked out across at the lions. They were stirred onto their feet, their eyes fixed on him and the strips of meat being thrown in around him. They were enormously powerful creatures and they would dine as they pleased. Kaptu noticed gaps in the roof bars that might just have been wide enough to squeeze through. He exploded to life, grabbing some of the strips of meat and rubbing his body in their fat and sprang up onto the cage wall, just climbing out of reach of a charging lion. With the added greasiness the fat had given him, he was able to squeeze through bars without losing too much skin. He quickly slid along the top of the cage and dived down onto the guards who were preoccupied with pulling more meat from the food chest. Taken by complete surprise, they had barely reacted by the time Kaptu had relieved one of his pistols and turned it on them. He did not leave any of them alive. It was not hard when they had just tried to feed him to a pride of lions.

A dog was barking in the distance. Kaptu knew it was Blast and started running. If the barking had drowned out the gunfire for those on the way to shoot it, he might have the advantage of surprise. But he wouldn't be able to choose his moment. He feared the next shot he heard would be the death knell not only for Blast but also for Natalie. His legs were not moving as fast as they should have been, weighed down by the remnants of tranquiliser. He pumped his arms, desperate to propel himself around the rusted old shed from which the barking was originating.

And there she was, pulling at the lead staked to the ground, her tail standing bolt upright. Kaptu aimed in the direction she was looking and fired. His bullets ripped into the shed, eliciting a scream from beyond it. Kaptu put another shot that way before the scream had a chance to settle and he spun round and shot the lead off Blast; it came running, low and fast, and it was clear it had been very well trained. Kaptu advanced at the shed, keeping low and he dived through the door into the darkness. Suddenly there was a barrage of gunfire ripping through the far wall above him. He returned fire in its direction, not stopping until all three of his guns were empty. The firing had stopped on the other side of the wall as well.

As Kaptu hurriedly reloaded, Blast came up to him and licked his face. 'Yeah, I know,' murmured Kaptu. 'I taste like dead meat.'

He left the shed and watchfully edged his way around the outside. He took the final corner gun first, cracking off a burst of fire that cleared the three bodies crumpled across the ground. He paused over them. They were wearing the khaki uniforms of the wildlife preservation park and they were badly mangled by bullets. There was a trail of blood leading away towards the domed building. Kaptu clicked his fingers at Blast and pointed at it. 'Sniff, girl.'

Blast obediently brought its nose up to the blood trail, but did not show any reaction. So, the blood did not belong to Mas. If it was her mother's, however, the trail might still be worth following. But Kaptu baulked at the idea. Such a task would best be done by a well-armed unit. Although he had one on standby, they were waiting to do something else.

Kaptu had noticed a motorbike in the shed when he first dived into it and he hurried back that way. Being in a fortified compound with armed patrols, it was not surprising that he found it unlocked. It started crisply and he sped out towards the perimetre fence. Clorvine followed his progress through the scope of her long gun, which was protruding into the wildlife preservation through the hole he had cut in the wire. She quickly set about making the hole wider with a laser-blade and was just in time to peel back the wire before Kaptu raced through. The motorbike roared back to her and Kaptu leaned over the handlebars. 'Good morning.'

'Are you alright?' Clorvine asked. 'You were gone a long time. And then there was the barking and gunfire. You found Mas, didn't you?'

Kaptu swung off the motorbike and peered back into the wildlife preserve. Blast was running for them, her ears pinned back and her tongue flapping. Kaptu knelt down to meet her.

'We've got to get to the air force base,' he murmured Clorvine's way.

'But I've called in reinforcements. Congolese Special Forces. If Mas is not dead, they will want Blast to sniff her out.'

'They'll have to do their own sniffing.' Kaptu stood up. 'And I'm afraid all they'll get is the smell of death.' He smiled into her deep brown eyes. 'Come with me and I'll show you where the real action is. We have the fastest intercontinental passenger rocket in the world at our disposal. We will be in Texas before you even have time to think.'

'Texas?'

Kaptu noticed her hesitation and said, 'Oh, you're thinking now.' He sighed. 'Don't worry about this place. What we have here is a world-class snake breeder poisoning the world with the monster of all venoms: Heroin 3. But this is just the tail of the operation. We're going to cut off the head.'

'Let's go then. The hovercraft is behind the trees over there.' They ran to it and were immediately speeding away. The arid grassland raced by in an eerie silence. Kaptu didn't like it, he preferred his engines loud. Clorvine fumbled clumsily with the harness in the driver seat. Her eyes had become transfixed on a point in the distance. Her face scrunched up with concern.

'What is it?' Kaptu murmured.

'The cloud five miles straight ahead doesn't look right.'

Kaptu looked that way. He immediately realised which cloud she was referring to. While all the others were wispy and carried the soft orange glow of the sunrise, this one was black and dense and menacing. 'You think it might rain?' he muttered.

Clorvine laughed tensely. 'Yes, maybe. And it is the kind of rain that will vaporise you. It is not a native Congolese cloud. I would say it is fifty year old German.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Let me show you.' She took a hard left turn, the hovercraft whipping up a cloud of dust of its own.

The heavy black cloud came alive in a fury, spitting streaks of lightning towards them in a fearsome storm of fire and noise

'How do you like that for rain?' cried Clorvine.

'What the hell is it?'

'Weaponised plasma cloud. It is considered antiquated in Western countries, too slow moving for anything other than scorched earth warfare. For certain African dictators, however, that is just the kind of warfare that appeals.'

'Plasma cloud?' muttered Kaptu incredulously. 'How do we shoot it down?'

'We don't. And if we had been caught directly under the cloud, it would have spelt certain death. At this distance, its missiles aren't as accurate, but you can bet it's only a matter of time before it scores a direct hit.'

'There isn't a village for a hundred miles.'

'That wouldn't change things anyway. These people would annihilate an entire village without a second thought just to get their target.'

'Well, you seem to be heading somewhere.'

'Nowhere good, I'm afraid. You'd better keep your gun handy.'

The fireballs around them were far brighter than the fledgling sun, illuminating rooftops and a tall, expansive fern hedge stretching across the brown basin they were speeding through.

'It is the country estate of the former War Minister Leon Barbi,' Clorvine said. 'No place for indiscriminate bombing, even by a current president. It will be heavily guarded. Almost suicidally so if Barbi is in residence.'

'What a place for a holiday. The middle of nowhere.'

'If your pastime is torture and murder, the location is just about ideal.'

Kaptu looked back at the cloud. It was fast gaining ground, its explosions pelting the hovercraft with debris. Clorvine held her line for the Barbi estate knowing that any attempts to dodge and weave would only slow them fatally.

'We won't have time to knock on the front door,' she said and gestured to a leather bag on the backseat. 'Get that, will you?'

Kaptu wrestled the bag off the seat and peered inside. It reminded him of McRaven's travel bag but was even more packed with weapons. There were guns and grenades and knives. 'Not bad for a park ranger,' Kaptu murmured.

'It belongs to my boyfriend. He leaves weapons lying around the house all over the place and this morning I tidied them up.'

Amongst the weapons was a pair of binoculars. Kaptu turned them on the Barbi estate. Beyond the hedges there was a towering marble citadel, resplendent with hanging plants that dripped colour from roof to floor. On either side of the citadel there were elaborate fountains shooting garishly coloured water high into the air. Further back in the estate, there was a majestic chateau with tall windows set in grand arches of grey stone and each with an iron balcony adorned with wild flowers.

'Nice place,' Kaptu murmured.

'It is said Barbi modelled his garden on the Hanging Garden of Babylon. I have never been this close myself. And if we were doing it in anything heavier than a hovercraft, we would already be dead. We are travelling over one of the most extensive minefields in the Congo.'

'That helps to explain why the whole world seems to have turned into a fireball.'

There was an abrupt silence as the rocket fire ceased. Clorvine smirked as she realised why. 'We're close enough to the estate that the plasma cloud can no longer risk firing at us. We're safe.'

'You must be putting a lot of faith in the hovercraft's armour plating to be considering us safe.'

'That's a fair point. Barbi employs ex-soldiers as gardeners and cleaners. You can surmise from the size of his residence how many gardeners and cleaners are going to be shooting at us.'

The plasma cloud had only just become dormant when it was the hedges turn to erupt into gunfire. The ordinance may have been smaller, but there was a lot more of it. The hovercraft was becoming completely inundated, the glass windscreens cracking and side panels falling off. By the time it reached the hedges, Kaptu was wondering if it would have strength enough left to smash its way through. When the moment came, however, it managed it convincingly, sending a few of the War Minister's soldiers flying as it did. The gardens meanwhile reveled themselves to be every bit as beautiful as they had appeared in the distance. A true Hanging Garden of Babylon. The gunfire, nevertheless, was unrelenting. A rear window in the hovercraft finally gave, showering Kaptu and Clorvine in glass splinters and increasing the volume of the gunfire to a deafening pitch. Kaptu seized the opportunity to return gunfire, unleashing out the window a firestorm of bullets from the guns of Clorvine's boyfriend, scattering the soldiers-cum-gardeners that had been converging from every direction. Those who were too defiant or slow to move were cut down by the searing onslaught. Clorvine caught others with the hovercraft bumper bar. Manicured plants were fairing little better as she ploughed across the garden in the direction of a large double-door garage.

'Get ready,' said Clorvine. 'Beyond those doors are some of the fastest rockets in Africa. If you want to travel safely in these parts, that's the kind of transport that's required. The former Minister for War is known to have a collection the equal of the Congolese Air Force itself. I trust you can fly a rocket pod.'

A man in a straw gardening hat jumped in front of the hovercraft with a mobile missile launcher in hand, taking aim at the front windscreen. He was a step too late, however, and merely became a part of the hovercraft's impact with the garage doors. Kaptu turned away from the grisly sight. He noticed immediately the rank of shiny dark blue rocket pods, positioned on launch ramps at a forty five degree angle. The possession of such machines in Asylum City was illegal punishable by death but simulators were commonplace, allowing long suffering residents to at least roleplay the act of escape.

'Yes, I can,' he finally replied.

'Then prep one. Its systems require one minute to fully activate. I'll keep our friends away in the meantime.'

Kaptu handed her the bag of weapons. 'A useful boyfriend to have.'

'Before you get too carried away with gratitude, you might want to know he is a commanding officer in the Weaponised Cloud Squadron. She dropped down from the hovercraft's side hatch and ripped into the first soldiers appearing through the decimated doors. 'Texas in twenty minutes is too long for my liking,' she yelled and edged closer to the doors with her guns on rapid fire. 'These can do it in ten.'

Kaptu ascended the ramp of the nearest rocket pod and swung inside the narrow doorway. The controls were familiar enough that he did not need to pay much heed to the French instructions. He inputted the coordinates for Texas and as the engine began to stir and the launch ramp rise into position, he took the opportunity to make radio contact with Renaissance.

'This is Kaptu Z,' he said. 'Search for the sea vessel Kudos. Suspected location somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Top priority.'

The launch hatch was opening to a colourful sunrise and the dark edge of the emerging sun and Kaptu was glad Texas was that way. The plasma cloud, however, was hovering in between, far lower than all the other clouds and as menacingly dense as ever.

There was a series of explosions from the garage's main entrance, the whole structure shuddering. Clorvine came diving into the rocket pod. 'I just emptied the gun bag,' she said. 'Let's get out of here.'

'You'd better buckle up,' said Kaptu. 'Your boyfriend is still loitering out there in his cloud. And I get the feeling some hot rain is in the forecast.'

The rocket pod's door slid closed just in time to deflect a burst of angry gunfire from the soldiers of the former War Minister.

'Well, no one said breakups are easy,' said Clorvine as the harness-restraints pressed her back against her seat.

With a massive jolt that had their chins pressing against their necks, the rocket pod shot into the sky. The plasma cloud instantly came to life, spitting out a string of missiles in a spectacular display of blue flame that belied its deadly purpose. The rocket pod evasively accelerated through the fast closing trap leaving a massive explosion in its wake as the warheads detonated en masse. Like a mosquito eluding a swatting hand, the rocket pod was away. And seconds later it was within the stratosphere. Pinned to his seat by the powerful G-forces, Kaptu's eyes drifted down to Renaissance's reply message flashing on the control screen. Search for the Kudos initiated. But understand that the Pacific Ocean is a very big place.

24 Assault on the Meltman

The surgeon stood with his arms tightly folded in his white hospital garb. He was old, obviously highly experienced and was nervous despite himself - far more used to the fading gaze of a patient receding into death than the raw, wildly alive gaze of someone he suspected was extremely dangerous, possibly even a killer, and a real killer at that, not one of those pitiful drug addicts lost within a raging paranoia and a kaleidoscope of hallucinations. This woman confronting him in the Emergency Admissions waiting area was lucid and sharp. The doctor was relieved he had good news to impart. His eyes shied away from her intimidating stare and he smiled meekly. 'Your mother is going to make a full recovery.'

Mas did not even blink. 'She'll be happy to hear that.'

The surgeon glanced at those around them in the waiting area, wanting to be comforted by the normal: a mixture of industrial, farming and household injuries. That was a typical day at the Anchorage Central Hospital. La Pack had been an exception, her shoulder ripped open by gunshot. Seriousness enough for her to be moved to the front of the queue without Mas having to make it so.

'She will, however, need to rest her shoulder a couple of weeks. We've had to replant her circulatory system in that region.'

'I see.'

The surgeon frowned. 'I've waited until her condition stabilised before raising the subject but the wounds are consistent with gunfire and so it is mandatory that the authorities are notified.'

'Her condition may have stabilised but the situation certainly hasn't,' replied Mas with a scowl. 'By getting involved in that matter, you may only be creating more work for yourself.'

The surgeon stiffened and there was a nervous twitch in his cheek. Mas did not view harshly those so easily threatened. She couldn't see a world running particularly well if everyone was like her. She patted the doctor on the shoulder. 'My advice, Dr Francotti, is to send her on her way as quickly as you can and dismiss anything she says or does as the bitterness of old age.'

The surgeon swallowed a lump. 'I will keep that in mind. I can allow you three minutes to see her, if you'd like.'

'That won't be necessary. I've seen her enough.'

Mas left the hospital quickly, already late for the appointment that really mattered.

*

The Anchorage Port was a hive of activity with its docking facilities being shared by fishing boats, ferries, cruise ships and container vessels. The Fish Market was a gathering point for many of the passengers and crew, attracted to its bustling stalls and irresistible products of the sea. Titov, the Kudos captain, was waiting for Mas by a counter piled with Blue Fin Tuna. She was starkly pale, suffering the toxic combination of being on land and in fear of arrest or, with Mas, anything was possible.

'The rest of the crew are hiding in the market and will try to kill you if I'm damaged,' she said bluntly.

'I should be offended, but I get it. After all, you were there when I killed your previous captain.'

'Have you already forgotten his name?'

'I'm not sure I ever knew it.'

'You know full well it was Dragon Tay.'

'That's right, and the bird that shot him was only an eagle.'

Titov held out an alumodic memory stick. 'There's a boat moored at Pier 9 Bay 16. The coordinates enclosed here will take it to the Zopez. That's assuming payment is made by the ten mile limit. Otherwise, you will be left to drift in quite a few little pieces.'

Mas plucked the stick out of her hand. 'Fair enough.'

'And I hope your time aboard the Zopez is going to be short. The passengers in the hold will not be contained for long.'

'How are they?'

'Fat, hungry and mean. The nastiest rodents I've ever seen.'

'That's good to hear. I can guarantee you will get paid but I can't guarantee your safety. You know a half-secret. And even that is enough to get you killed. Take your cut and start a new life. Don't look back.'

'Look back at what?'

Mas nodded. 'Exactly. Look back at what?'

*

The Texas Air Force Base was in lockdown, the skies and tarmac cleared for the Mach 99 Ultra Speed Jet. Parked on Launch Pad One the engines were still glowing red hot. For ten minutes it had been circling the deserts of Wyoming. Marco McRaven and John Leroy Scope were on the tarmac, waiting with cigarettes in their mouths.

'You know, I hadn't smoked for two years before you showed up,' murmured Scope.

'Why not? You've got lifetime cover against cancer and cardio.'

'You call that a perk of the job? You take away one possible cause of death and add a hundred more. Very few of them long term.'

'Only a hundred? I think you are underestimating this mission. I daresay there are more than that.'

Scope took a long draft on his cigarette and blew it into McRaven's face.

McRaven smiled through it. 'My only guarantee is that I won't be leaving you down there no matter what. So, if you die, I die too. That's a true partnership.'

Scope noticed the rocket pod streaking through the sky like a fast moving satellite. He shot a hard look at McRaven. 'What you just said is stupid. If you die, I'll make sure as many of the enemy die the same way as I can. Then I'll return to my ranch and forget all about it. That's my promise.'

McRaven nodded with a hard smirk. 'That's why you're going first into the Meltman's tunnels.'

The rocket pod's Hydro Glide Sales deployed directly above them and the vessel entered a silent, measured descent that culminated in it touching down in the dead centre of Launch Pad One. Blast was the first to leave, running out to sniff the feet of McRaven and Scope. Kaptu and Clorvine came next, casually carrying their guns that were now recharged and reloaded.

McRaven looked them over intently. 'We weren't expecting two people,' he said.

'Clorvine is an officer in the Congolese National Rangers,' said Kaptu. 'She will be coming along.'

McRaven's eyes settled on Blast. He motioned to pat it but was dissuaded by a snarling display of teeth. 'You've brought your attack dog.' He gestured to Scope. 'And I've brought mine. How long since your fix on the Meltman?'

'Two or three hours.'

'We've tracked the location to one hundred metres below the surface in the Afghan District. The heart of the Meltman's kingdom. This is your final chance to change your mind if you don't think it's going to work.'

'People one hundred metres beneath the earth do not go for country drives. He will still be close. Still, there's no time to waste.'

McRaven nodded. 'Well, you've chosen the right team. We're the best extractors in the business. And this will be our Super Bowl.' He bounded up the Mach 99s entry ramp. The other members of the party followed a step behind. Already waiting inside in seats lining the walls were ten battle-hardened soldiers decked out in the black Peace Keeper uniforms. Some were chewing on their tobacco, others were smoking it. Only their mouths were visible, with the visors drawn down from their black helmets.

McRaven pointed Kaptu and Clorvine to two empty seats at the rear of the craft. 'You have ten seconds to strap yourself in before the G-forces splatter you like runny omelets across the wall.' He left for the pilot's seat. The doors closed and the engines loudly stirred as the mercurised-nitro fuel was released.

Kaptu helped Clorvine into her seat first before strapping himself in beside her. He wrapped his arms around Blast, who was panting wildly with excitement. The Mach 99 aircraft launched vertically with a staggering force. Blast, however, managed to again be licking Kaptu on the face with her sticky, wet tongue. Katpu grimaced helplessly.

*

The waiter clearing the dirty dishes from the Meltman's table was jittery such that a champagne flute tumbled off his silver tray and smashed on the floor. 'Sorry,' he gasped in horror, kneeling down to pick up the shards.

The vibrant conversation had stopped dead, all eyes upon him. The waiter cowered like an abused dog fearing another kick. His fingers were getting badly cut in his haste to clean up the glass. He hurried back to the kitchen, leaving behind a trail of blood upon the carpet. There was a chuckle amongst the diners.

'Is that how they wash the dishes around here?' the Meltman quipped. 'By using their blood for dishwater?'

'He thought you were going to kill him,' said Natalie, playing with her dessert spoon beside him.

'I don't kill the people that are afraid of me. It is the people who aren't scared that I prefer to send to their graves. The sad part about that is sometimes fearlessness is a characteristic of real talent. Such as the good generals here. And your mother of course. It can be worth the risk keeping them alive. The chef is another case in point. The duck l'orange was superb, was it not? And the chocolate soufflé we are about to experience is the best in the world without question. He has such control over the fusion of his ingredients that he could make cyanide mouth watering. I pay him well and see to it that he wants for nothing simply because I cannot resist what he serves. It the same rationale that has seen these men at the table promoted to generals. They are hardened brutal killers one and all and, like chocolate soufflé, are a guilty pleasure.' He toasted them and smashed the glass on the floor with a spearing throw. 'When the waiter returns, I will have him pick that up too.'

There was drunken laughter from amongst the generals. One of them drained his wine glass and smashed it on the floor, too. They might have all gotten into the act if not for the ping of an arriving elevator catching their attention. Tagger, the Head of Security, squeezed out from the opening doors with an intense look upon his face. He hurried to the Meltman and said in a tremulous voice, 'Security has been breached. We believe it to be a subterranean raiding party.'

The Meltman frowned. 'You believe?'

Tagger dry swallowed. 'Communication above the thirty metre depth has been lost.'

The Meltman suddenly pulsated with anger. 'Broken down?'

'They are not responding.'

'The only people entitled to ignore me underground are the buried. There is an army between me and the surface. Talk to someone.'

'Yes, sir.' Tagger hurried back to the elevator.

The Meltman turned to Natalie and tried to smile away the anger lines upon his face. 'Shall we dance before dessert, my lovely?'

Natalie smile right through him. Her eyes were searing. 'A dance is a wonderful idea.' She leaned closer. 'Especially while you smell so good.'

There was a muffled barking of dog, seemingly emanating from behind the steel wall. Mario jumped that way, unslinging his snubbed-nosed laser-acid shooter. 'What the hell is that?'

The Meltman's face went blank. 'Through that wall are one thousand Cobra Xs. It's a Heroin 3 snake pit.'

'Do your snakes bark?' exclaimed Shally, pulling out a pistol from her thigh holster.

The barking was incessant and coming closer. Just on the other side of the wall. Shally fired a probing shot that way. For a moment there was silence, and then the wall exploded. The steel tore open into a gaping hole, the accompanying shockwave throwing them off their feet. Stun bombs followed. Kaptu and John Leroy Scope ran into the dining room first, guns at the ready. 'Don't move!' Scope screamed.

In the next instant, however, he was thrown backwards by a bullet thumping into his chest. Tagger came running out of the elevator, turning his gun on Kaptu in a wild spray. Kaptu dived below a table and did not appear again until he sprung out from the side putting a pistol round between two generals and into the chest of Tagger. Although knocked backwards, Tagger's life was saved by his body armour. Kaptu ran at him, just managing to get hold of his arm before he could get his gun back up. He lifted a sharp knee into his stomach and slung him through the hole in the wall into the snake pit. A hideous screen came a moment later.

McRaven entered the dining room with two Peace Keepers at this side. He went to the keeled over Scope and patted him on the back. 'You can take your time getting up. The guy that shot you is already dead.' He turned to the Meltman, savouring the sight of him being handcuffed. He wouldn't have been surprised if his wrists shattered, for judging by the force the Meltman's general had gone flying into the cobra pit, Kaptu Z's blood was well and truly up. The Meltman, however, was too consumed by the fury of being caught to acknowledge any physical pain.

'You are all dead men,' the Meltman spat.

More Peace Keepers stormed the room both through the wall and out from the elevators. Blast came with the elevator party. Her head was up and her tongue was out. She looked happy. McRaven had never owned a pet or felt any real affection for an animal, but he couldn't help but smile now. This gamely little dog had just helped crush one of the world's most insidious criminal organisations. And there was perhaps more to come. McRaven walked over to Kaptu and patted him on the shoulder. 'Nice work. The Hurt World isn't so shabby, after all.'

Katpu pulled the Meltman to his feet. 'Let's not get too excited. It's still a long way back to the surface.'

'That's true.' McRaven turned to address his team. 'We're going back via the elevators. Secure the prisoners. If we are ambushed, we shoot them. Especially the Meltman. A hundred metres beneath Asylum City, this is his turf and we play by his rules.' He pulled the Meltman out of Kaptu's hands. 'Kaptu, you go back through the snake pit. The vessel you wanted tracked, the Kudos, has just been spotted by Rojas Hose. The man can find anything from his bathtub.'

'Where is it?' queried Kaptu.

'The Artic. There is a rocket pod at the Turkish Embassy that has been made available to you. Clorvine is already there doing the leg work to get it released to the United Nations.'

Kaptu nodded and took a parting glance at the Meltman – Asylum City's most notorious gangster still looked stunned, as though the bomb's shockwaves. Kaptu wanted to introduce him to Blast, but he was distracted by the sight of Natalie being handcuffed. He fought back the urge to intervene. The lawyers could free her without having her involvement in the Meltman's arrest revealed. He turned back for a final taunt of the Meltman, but he was already away, being driven by McRaven to the elevators.

Blast jumped up onto him, wagging her tail. Kaptu gave her a pat. 'You can afford to wag your tail now, your mission is done and I hope they give you a very big bone as a reward - perhaps one of the bones of the people that have been hunting you. That's where I come in.' He looked to the soldier holding Blast's leash. 'Hold on tight. Don't let her run loose in this place.' He ran out through the wall's impact hole onto the snake pit's gantry. Three metres above a sea of slithering deadly snakes. He headed for the catacombs of the Turkish Embassy.

25 The rats

'Are you sure it was the Kudos you heard?' murmured Rojas to Kaptu Z, peering out the magno-chopper window at the distant vessel cutting through the icy grey waters below. 'There is a town in Mexico called Ludoz where drug smuggling is said to occur. And there is a hotel in Argentina called the Cutos. Maybe Mas is taking a vacation there.'

'I doubt it,' replied Kaptu.

'But you can't be sure. After all, you were drugged and being dragged by the hair towards a cage of lions when you overheard the name.'

'I was being dragged by the arms,' Kaptu corrected, sitting casually with a sniper rifle on his lap in the back seat of the magno-chopper.

'Well, we're nowhere near the Mexican badlands or Argentinean hotels,' said Clorvine from the pilot's seat. 'So, let's just work with what we've got.'

Katpu, Rojas and Clorvine were the only occupants in the magno-chopper and they were flying high above the massive desolate expanse of the Arctic Ocean. Even with the sunshine of a clear afternoon, the Earth's crown was revealing itself to be an icy grey ocean whose jewels were a sprinkling of barren islands. And judging by the amount of blood that had been spilled over it during the Artic Wars, the crown was priceless. Directly beneath the magno-chopper, the restored Kudos was punching through the rolling waves in a relentless battle against wind and currents. Rojas was using high powered binoculars to gaze over the rusty hulk that was so stubbornly refusing to betray any signs of life or reasons for being. An ancient cargo ship sitting low enough in the water that it seemed its rows of containers were still full with whatever contents it had been charged with delivering so many decades earlier. An unlikely scenario in Rojas's mind. Surely a boat adrift for so long would have long since been stripped bare by the salvagers and pirates that infested the globe. Rojas tried once again to make radio contact only to be met with the same unwieldy silence. 'I'm not sure why we haven't already turned back for Alaska,' he murmured disconsolately. 'I'm afraid to admit this rust bucket is all that I've dragged you out here for.'

'But we haven't turned back,' said Clorvine. 'There is something that has got you thinking, isn't there?'

Rojas nodded despite himself. 'These waters don't look like much but they were heavily fought over during the Great Artic War. Many thousands of lives were lost and a very shaky truce was the only thing to show for it. So, maybe it is the kind of place to find the likes of Mas, after all.'

'Well, we've come all the way to the Artic,' murmured Kaptu. 'I might as well go down there and take a look.'

'No, I'll go,' voiced Rojas, picking up his jetpack from the floor of the magno-chopper and slipping into its shoulder straps. 'Keep your sniper rifle at the ready.'

'You're an analyst,' said Kaptu incredulously. 'If Mas is down there it's not something you'll be able to survive by analysing.'

'This is the only option. The insurance agents have banned you from entering the United States.' As Rojas finished tightening up the jetpack, he pointed towards a small barren island sitting alone on the horizon. 'That is Alabama Island, a United States protectorate. Less than twenty miles and closing. We are in US territorial waters and that is as good as Washington DC in the eyes of international law. The Great Artic War Treaty allows one military installation per island and the major players have done the best they can with what is permitted. That will include state-of-the-art surveillance. You can bet the government will be watching us. So, you stay here, and wish me luck. Boarding a fifty year old abandoned wreck in the Arctic Ocean in search of a poacher from Africa might be difficult to explain if the poacher is not there.'

'And you may be dead if she is.'

'That is another reason why it should be me that goes. I have already sent one soldier to his death in the hunt for Mas. It is time for me to do some of the dirty work.' He put on his helmet and gave a thumps up. 'Let's see what's down there.' He slid open the magno-chopper's side door and rolled backwards into freefall.

Kaptu leaned out after him, training his sniper rifle in that direction.

'Brave,' said Clorvine.

'I hear he hadn't left his office since his man got blown up in Las Gabos. Maybe this will get it out of his system.'

'I'll bring us closer,' said Clorvine, manipulating the joystick, 'just in case he runs into some trouble.' She picked up the hand grenade belt lying on the seat where Rojas had been sitting. 'For someone so interested in insurance, he should have taken this.'

Rojas was descending fast despite the windy conditions. It was gnawing at him being dismissed as merely an analyst by Kaptu. He had been a field agent in the Brazilian Military Intelligence. He had the training, experience and mettle to handle the situation and he would show those who cared to watch. He landed on the deck, barely acknowledging the bucking of the waves as he threw off his jetpack. He walked the deck with his pistol drawn and his senses attuned. 'Hello,' he shouted. 'Is there anyone here?' He was not expecting a reply. The deck underfoot was spongy with rot, the paint on the cabins and containers worn through to rust. Rojas considered it quite possible no one had been on the boat for a good fifty years after all. A plutonium cell would power the engines a hundred years and even a rudimentary hazard-evasion system could keep it roaming the ocean without ever touching dry land. Rojas, however, had known all these things from the safety of the magno-chopper. It was below deck that he had come to see. He pointed his life detection unit at the cabin door and looked for readings. The sensors, however, were not penetrating the thickened steel. Rojas needed to get beyond the threshold at least. He fired a series of shots into the door lock. He tried the door handle to see if it was giving. Yes, the door was ready to open. 'I am going inside now,' he said into his collar mike.

'Alabama Island is five miles dead north,' replied Clorvine into his earpiece. 'Shall I contact the Americans? They will be wondering who we are.'

Rojas glanced past the ship's cabins to the distant shoreline gradually taking shape. It seemed closer than five miles, the crisp Artic air so crisp and pure. 'Hold off a moment,' he said. 'It won't take long to find out if it is merely an abandoned boat from another time or a poacher's up to date hideout.' He pulled the cabin door fully open and peered into the dark narrow passageway. There was a pungent gamey smell that immediately had him spinning away. 'Woah. Even locking myself away in a closet for weeks at a time didn't prepare me for a stink like that.' He clipped a flashlight attachment onto his pistol and stepped back into the doorway. The small, intense beam of light cut deep into the darkness of the passageway, revealing closed doors on both sides and a stairwell at the end. A rustle of movement caught his attention and he flicked the torchlight down in its direction. Hundreds of sharp angry eyes were staring up at him. He recoiled back in horror, his hand fumbling for the door. It was too late. The rats pounced as one, furiously tearing into his flesh, too strong and heavy to be ripped off, too hungry to stop.

Kaptu and Clorvine watched on stunned. Kaptu aimed his long rifle out the door, seeing Rojas disappear underneath a mound of feasting rats.

'Oh my God,' cried Clorvine. 'What can we do?'

Kaptu looked for any movement beneath the sickening mound of gorging rats and when there was none he opened fire into it. His bullets had virtually no impact.

'You don't have enough ammunition to shoot all of them,' said Clorvine murmured.

Kaptu finally pulled the gun away. 'It wasn't the rats I was shooting at.'

'Attention, Mango-chopper TO18,' came a voice over the radio. 'This is United States Marine Base, Alabama Island. You have entered the five kilometre no fly zone as proclaimed in the Artic War Two Peace Treaty. Identity yourself at once.'

Clorvine went straight to the mike. 'This is TO18. We are Hurt World officers investigating the cargo ship Kudos for criminal activity. The vessel is infested with rats and is on a direct path for the south coast of Alabama Island.'

A warning alarm lit up on the cockpit console. Clorvine reflexively yanked on the joystick, screaming, 'That's the weapons system detector. We're under attack.' Her vein-bursting turn squeezed the magno-chopper past the main concentration of fire streaming out of the twin rapid-fire guns that had emerged on swivel bases from the top of a centrally positioned container. The guns followed the magno-chopper as it dived and spun in a wild series of evasive manouvres until it was out of range.

'It's an old anti-piracy weapon system,' said Kaptu, peering at it through his sniper scope. It has probably been sitting dormant for fifty years and it didn't take five minutes for you to set it off. Nice flying to get away from it though.'

The magno-chopper shuddered before he had even finished saying it. More alarms sounded and then there came the pungent fumes of acrid smoke.

'You might have spoken too soon,' said Clorvine, fighting with the joystick to retain some semblance of control. 'The tail-rotor just got shot off.'

'How much time do we have?'

'Emergency thrusters have been activated. Enough time for a crash landing on Alabama Island.'

'That's good, but we're not going to Alabama just yet.'

'What?'

'Take a wide sweep of the island. Let's see if there is anything out there.'

Clorvine wrenched her gaze away from the chaotic controls to look at him hard. 'You mean Mas?'

'Could be. Rojas mentioned in his report on the Las Gabos operation that there had only been rats on the industrial site. Very big rats.'

Clorvine pondered this a moment before cajoling an already screaming engine into gaining more altitude. The thick black smoke trailed behind.

'Attention Mango Chopper T018,' came a new, harder voice over the speaker. 'This is Major Mark Emsly. Your identity has been verified. Emergency landing on Alabama Island is granted.'

'Granted?' returned Kaptu. 'Your island is not as safe as you think. The Kudos is on a direct course with a bio-weapon on board.'

There was a pause. 'What kind of bio-weapon?'

'Thousands of human-eating rats.'

There was an even longer pause. 'How can you be so sure?'

'Because our colleague just stepped aboard the Kudos and got ripped to the bone. These are no ordinary rats. I fear they have been bred with the sole purpose of consuming every living thing upon your island.'

'Can you sink it?'

'We're a United Nations peace keeping magno-chopper with our tail shot off,' snapped Clorvine. 'No, we're not going to sink it.'

'In fact,' added Kaptu, 'it seems we're going to take up your offer and crash into that island of yours.'

Clorvine flicked off radio contact and looked at him anxiously. 'Do you really think that is what's happening? An army of rats?

'Why not? Soldiers mean governments and declarations of war, whereas rats are just rats. Nasty and dirty but as a tool very clean.' Kaptu could see on the horizon to the south east the specs of a fleet of boats. 'I'd like to sink those boats too.'

'Do you think they're involved?'

'Let's put it this way, from a legal point of view, an island is considered uninhabited if everyone on it is dead. So, I don't those boats are drifting as aimlessly around the Artic like the Kudos is supposedly doing.'

The engines sputtered and the magno-chopper began to lose altitude.

'The thrusters are spent,' said Clorvine. 'We can ditch in the sea.'

'We won't float. There are too many holes. In such icy water it will be certain death. The island is at least a chance. The American base may even have bunkers. It's a protectorate after all.'

'Let's ask.' Clorvine went back to the radio but was stopped by a large explosion emanating from the island. It was the military base, flames spitting high into the air.

Kaptu shook his head. 'A bomb and an army of rats. Mas is definitely here.'

Clorvine pointed the magno-chopper that way. 'Alright, to hell with it.'

*

Alabama Island had been well chosen for the attack. Its small size and pureness of air meant the scent of its human inhabitants was rich in the air. And its isolation meant no help would be coming soon. The Kudos ran aground on the island's rocky southern shore and the rats came pouring out from the hold. Thousands of them in an immense, hungry wave. They locked onto the most proximate scent and charged that way at a furious speed. Within minutes they were upon the three Marines sent to sink the Kudos before it made landfall. The Marines were travelling in a light armoured jeep with mounted cannons and missile turrets. The weight of the weaponry and the inaccessible rocky terrain made for slow progress. But also there was an overriding skepticism that burly Marines, battle hardened veterans of the Artic War, could ever be troubled by a few rats scurrying about. The rats that swarmed the jeep, however, were full of intent and immediately sniffed out the access points in the gaps in the gun turrets and up through the undercarriage. They lunged upon the Marines in a mass of vicious teeth, flaying them into strips.

The Marines' hideous screams were relayed back to the busy Action Centre of the Alabama Island Marine Base where the base commander, Major Emsly, and his second in command, Lieutenant Beamy Carlitto listened on ashen-faced.

'What shall we do, sir?' queried Carlitto, her voice wavering.

The screams lasted a while longer and when finally they ended they were replaced by the grotesque sounds of rodents feasting. Emsly strode angrily to the communication controls, pushing away the communications officer and cutting off the line. He puckered, sucking his lips into his well-trimmed goatee. 'We can have jets scrambled from Alaska in ten minutes. But they will have no weapons against this onslaught. Nothing short of firebombing the whole island.'

'The reconnaissance drone has arrived on the scene,' said the communications officer, returning to the controls unfazed at being manhandled. He put on the large central screen the live feed of the massive army of black rats surging across the island.

'The Polar Bear Conservation Centre will be next in their path,' said Carlitto. 'Then us.'

Emsly nodded and turned grimly to the communications officer. 'Put us through to the Conservation Centre on the emergency channel.'

'Yes, sir.'

The door to the action centre opened to the 198cm tall Sergeant Hex Carter fully utilising his gaping stride. 'The source of the explosion has been confirmed, sir. It was the Fork 20 Missile itself. It must have misfired just as it was being fired at the Kudos.'

Emsly took in the news bitterly. 'Casualties?'

'Four dead. Twelve wounded, five seriously.'

'Damage?'

'Extensive, sir. A Fork 20 will always mean business.'

The next question was vital, so Emsly said it very clearly: 'Can the central building still be sealed?'

'Large sections of the roof and wall have been lost. So the answer is no, sir.'

Emsly nodded stiffly. 'Do what you can on scene. Prioritise preparing the wounded for evac.'

'Yes, sir,' said Carter and stomped his way out of the action centre.

'Evacuation with what?' murmured Carlitto. 'We only have the one attack chopper on base and it will not carry all of us.'

'All of us, unfortunately, is a dwindling number.'

'It must be sabotage. Fork Missiles do not misfire.'

'We do not have the luxury of being able to draw conclusions. We are under siege and we have decisions to make. Do we use the chopper to evacuate what wounded we can or do we use it for offensive purposes, and that means assuming that we are indeed under attack?'

'Hundreds of Marines were lost in the securing of this island. If we evacuate, the United States would be technically foregoing its protectorate status. Other nations will file claims and it will take years to run through the courts. That might be what this whole incident is about.'

'I get that. But death in battle has never been less honourable than by being consumed by rodents.'

'We do not have the luxury of drawing conclusions,' Carlitto fired back.

'Touché.' Emsly smirked and activated the base intercom system. 'All personnel are to assemble on the parade ground,' he gnarled into the mike. 'That includes the sick and wounded. And empty out the armory. We are under attack and by the flagpole is where we'll fight.

Carlitto waited until he was off coms before murmuring, 'Outdoors we will be completely exposed. Indoors, such as in this room, we will only have doors to defend.'

'Doors and air vents. And I would not like the sort of death that would be had if they caved in under the weight of rats. Trapped in a room to be eaten alive would certainly lack honour. What our enemy has is numbers and plenty of them and so what we'll need is resupplies and reinforcements. That means sky drops.'

'Sir, the Conservation Centre is not responding,' said the communications officer, hunched over his transmitter.

'They may have their hands full,' said Emsly grimly. 'Forget it. Contact the Artic Command Centre in Alaska. Inform them of our circumstances. Tell them we have a code red.'

*

The Peace Keeper magno-chopper was skimming in fast towards the military base. A young Marine acting as lookout on the parade ground nervously took aim with his Led Tex Rifle. Major Emsly rushed forward and snatched the rifle out of his hands. 'That's not our enemy, son,' he said. 'In fact, if not for the people on board that craft, we wouldn't have the early warning that might just give us half a chance.' He handed back the rifle. 'Fetch them when they land and bring them here.'

'Yes, sir,' replied the soldier emphatically.

'Your name is John, isn't it?'

'No, sir. James Murley.' The young soldier stiffened into a salute and started to run in the direction of the magno-chopper. Emsly, however, grabbed him quickly with a restraining hand. 'Hold on a moment. Let's see where it finishes up, Murley. It's liable to bounce around awhile before it's done.'

The magno-chopper was now well over the island. Only a few miles away from the Marine base. Black smoke continued to pour from its catastrophically damaged tail. Its altitude continued in steady decline, dropping below the distant hills. A plume of smoke and dust marked its impact with the ground a moment later.

Emsly turned back to the young private. 'Pretty good fIying. I would rate that crash as survivable. Take my Poison 130 Fast Tank and go get them. And if all you get is a dying breath, make sure that breath is spent on the subject of rats. I want to know if our missile misfire was sabotage. I want to know if someone intended for us to be trapped within our building with thousands of human eating rodents pouring in.'

Private Murley nodded and ran hard towards the motor-pool.

Emsly watched the smoke rising above the hills a moment longer, mulling over the extraordinary circumstances that were fast unfolding; he was reminded of what his first instructor told his class on their first day at Quantico: 'War never gets old.' He turned back to the defensive position being hastily assembled at the flagpole.

*

'Davey!' screamed the bald headed scientist. 'Davey!'

His beloved eight year old Siberian husky had run off into the ruins of the old quarantine building not far from the Polar Bear Conversation. The building had crumbled into piles of rubble with only the corners still standing. The scientist slowed down as he entered the ruins, treating the fragments of brick littering the ground with the caution afforded a minefield, for a twisted ankle now would take his chances of survival to virtually zero. Nonetheless, he loved his dog enough that he could not shake the instinct to pursue him.

'Davey,' he said, trying to moderate his voice – no easy task considering his heart was thumping his ribs, adrenaline flooding his system. The rat storm through the camp had been a horror beyond compare. Years of patient, dedicated research had been lost in a moment as the rodents feasted with manic ferocity on the polar bears and their handlers. Even the dominant male polar bears had been defenceless against them, bucking and fighting until the weight of numbers finally became too much to bear. The scientist's name was Len Carlisle and he had been lucky to be on the far side of the camp when the attack came. He could have made Dr Flist's all-terrain tractor, only Davey had been spooked and ran off. And when Davey ran, it sometimes took the end of the island to stop him. Anyway, once he had the lead on, that's where they'd go. He needed time to think, to take in what had happened. He was an Associate Professor of Zoology at Chicago University, he had the deductive skills to understand a rat plague, to survive it. There would be precedents and theories. And opportunities: tragedies had led to some of the very best science.

He stepped into the centre of the ruins and looked around him. 'Davey?' There came the noise of scurrying from amidst knee-high rocks at what appeared to be a lost doorway. To his disappointment it wasn't his Siberian husky that came running but rather a giant rat. It ran up to his feet and started sniffing inquisitively. It might have looked cute if not for the blood on its teeth and the tip of its nose. It was quickly joined by another and then another and they were also both sporting blood. Dr Carlisle turned and started to run but tripped over and cut his hands on the brick shards and when he looked up all he saw was rats, hundreds of them. He screamed and tried to fend them off as they leapt up onto his face and neck. But then they were biting his hands as well. And all he saw was rats.

*

Clorvine fell out of the twisted wreckage of the magno-chopper, landing flat on her stomach. The ground was rocky and cold and she lay there a protracted moment before murmuring, 'I can feel vibrations on my face. I think they're coming. Bring the guns and you'd better hurry, it sounds like a lot them.'

The tank driven by Private Murley pulled up alongside her. Murley emerged from the top hatch and dropped nimbly down to the ground. Clorvine could see her reflection in his shiny black boots.

'Are you hurt?' he asked.

'I don't know,' Clorvine replied. 'How does it look from up there?'

Murley looked over her a moment. 'You'll know more on your feet.' He patiently helped her up.

Her weapons bag was meanwhile tossed through the shattered windscreen of the magno-chopper and Kaptu emerged after it with a knife between his teeth.

'Are you a Marine?' he muttered.

'I'm a private but the tank belongs to the base commander. He has invited you back there.'

'Are you sure there is still a base? We saw the explosion.'

'It's damaged, but plenty worth defending. Marines do not get eaten by rats.'

'Then we've come to the right place, but why would the camp commander spare his tank to come rescue us?'

'Because the Major thinks you know who sent the rats against us.'

Kaptu picked up the weapons bag and headed for the tank. He looked over the cannons, missile launches and saturation guns. It was a Poison 130 Fast Tank, probably a leftover of the Artic Wars. Dated but it would do. 'While we've got the use of the Major's wheels,' Kaptu said, 'we can investigate the more pressing question: why?'

'I could not even begin to contemplate that. The Marine Corps consider this deployment as nothing less than the world's highest butt-hole. The nearest things to action in these parts are the marches and boot shining.'

'Do you have any classified installations?' queried Clorvine, finally getting her breath back.

'I'm only a private,' replied Murley.

'A private on a very small island. You must know something.'

'There's the army base, the polar bear camp and a weather monitoring station. And that's it. Didn't you see? You were above the island long enough before you crashed into it.'

'What do you know about the weather station?' asked Kaptu.

'I have never been there. It's off-limits. Apparently, it has sensitive equipment on site.'

'Perhaps more sensitive than you can imagine.' Kaptu gazed hard at Clorvine. 'The Artic War Peace Treaty required all combatant nations to remove their weapons of mass destruction from within their protectorates. It seems most nations, however, settled merely for removing them from sight. You cannot blame them, I suppose. There is never a lot of trust after wars.'

The weather station's satellite and antennae towers were just visible in the distance.

Kaptu murmured, 'When the missile in the base misfired, you lost a roof. If the missile under the weather station misfires, the damage could be cataclysmic.'

'I don't much know what you're talking about,' snapped Murley. He jumped up onto the tank and swung his legs into the hatch. 'But it is my job to find out.'

Kaptu motioned to follow him, only for Clorvine to grab his arm. 'Are you sure you aren't simply trying to take my mind off the rats?' she queried dubiously.

'This is bigger than rats,' Kaptu replied.

*

Dr Flist screamed as a rat sank its teeth into his neck. He ripped it away and flung it out of the tractor. It landed amongst a thousand other rats all trying to get on board. They were running at phenomenal speeds and the rocky ground was preventing him from picking up the speed necessary to shake them. He had already pushed the tractor through a number of bumps that had sent his heart into his mouth. This was no place to break down.

There was crying behind him. Flist would have ignored it if only it hadn't been accompanied by the smell of shit. He glanced over his shoulder at the eclectic mix of kids in the backseat. There were the offspring of scientists, scouts, and soldiers. And the one grown up amidst them was an environmentalist, Jackie Kaur. 'Everything is going to be alright,' he said in as reassuring a voice as he could manage - which was not very reassuring with his neck having been ripped open by a rat. It certainly didn't stop the crying. He took the hunting knife from the vacant front passenger seat and handed it to the young girl directly behind him. 'Use this if you like.' She took it, but it was almost bigger than she was. Jackie Kaur promptly snatched it away with a disparaging glance Flist's way. Flist mostly just noticed the empty seat. It was even more so with the hunting knife gone. Carlisle should have been sitting there. Why couldn't he have just left that stupid dog alone? Flist wondered if he should have gone after him in his tractor, but dismissed that thought in an instant: there was only one place to be with a marauding army of rodents in pursuit, and that was amongst the greatest concentration of weapons available.

At last the tall wire fence of the Marine base was coming into view. Flist gathered all his attention upon it, hitting hard the embankment leading in. 'Get ready,' he called out to his passengers. 'I'll park alongside the fence and we'll climb into the base from there.'

'Are you crazy?' cried Kaur. 'The kids will never make it.'

Flist glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were wide open and bloodshot. Flist recalled first being introduced to her – he had been busy collecting ice samples at the time and had barely even looked up. Now he could see how dangerous she was: an ardent conservationist who would place principles above her own skin - not a good idea when the rats had such a taste for it.

'They're not about to open the gates for us,' he yelled pleadingly, 'not with the uninvited guests we're bringing along. And if I smash down the gate that will defeat the purpose of having come here in the first place.'

'Don't you see it won't matter what we do,' Kaur cried back at him. 'Nothing is going to stop those little buggers. Including that fence. It isn't even electrified.' She pointed to where the fence was wilting precariously as the rats piled on top of each other all the way to the top. 'They can climb. And you can bet that they dig.' She strained to see beyond the rats to the military base beyond the fence. 'It is presumptuous anyway to think anyone would be alive in that base unless they are in a nuclear bomb proof bunker. And if they've got one of them, I doubt we will be invited. The only thing that's certain is that on this side of the fence we get eaten sooner.'

Flist frowned. 'Alright, damn it. Let's just hope the Marines don't mistake us for one big rat.' He veered the tractor sharply into the fence, crushing a whole section under its wheels. The manicured lawns of the base, genetically modified Tennessee blue grass, were instantly inundated by the rats, swarming in and out of the tractor wheels and veering away as an even stronger scent of human propelled them in a different direction.

Major Emsly was watching the breech from his position by the flagpole. He sucked in a calming breath through gritted teeth. As the rats poured into the base, he turned his attention to the defensive perimeter of soldiers, realising now against what standard it had to be measured. Thirty soldiers heavily armed in a tight circle to take on thousands of rats. He had no idea if it could be done. This was not the kind of battle he had analysed at Quantico. But perhaps one day it would be, and his name would be at the forefront. 'Do you want me to smoke that damned tractor too, sir?'' cried on of his soldiers, aiming his rifle.

'Refrain,' replied Emsly forcefully. 'They are survivors from the polar bear sanctuary. American citizens under attack. We are Marines. We will defend our wounded, our flag and any citizen that needs our help.' He fired a flare to guide the tractor and turned to Robbie Dean, the garrison's sniper. 'Keep the rats off that vehicle, sniper. And try not to shoot anyone inside.'

'Yes, sir,' replied the Dean raising his rifle. 'But it will be hard concentrating on the target if there are rats running up my trousers.'

'Noted, soldier.'

Dean started picking rats off the tractor's windshield and doors. Even from a hundred metres away his aim was unfailing.

Dr Flist's reaction from behind the wheel was one of panic. 'They're shooting at us!' he screamed as rat blood spattered the windscreen. He lowered the driver's side window and frantically waved his white handkerchief. A rat promptly ran along his arm and sank its teeth into his hand. Flist screamed in pain and furiously tried to shake it off, but it took a sniper's bullet to end its feasting, the shot only leaving its head behind, protruding from his arm.

'They're not shooting at us,' Kaur declared. 'They're protecting us.' She looked down from the flare at the smoke billowing from the base and the circle of Marines surrounding the flag out on the parade ground. 'Can you see them?'

'Yes.' With both hands on the steering wheel, Flist made the turn. The environmentalist reached forward and extracted the rat's head still dangling from Flist's arm.

'Take it easy,' she said. 'If you run down a Marine, they really might start aiming at us. Not that we could easily tell the difference at this rate.'

Flist took in a deep breath and nodded. 'Their base has been blown up and it wasn't by rats.'

'My God, is this another war?'

They watched through the bloodied glass the Marines firing en masse upon the converging rats. It was a deafening, blindingly bright, awe-inspiring display of firepower. The rats were being pulverised into mounds of steaming meat and still they kept coming. Some were getting through the cordon of gunfire, leaping with demented fury at the necks of the Marines. The razor sharp teeth were able to tear out throats with ease and Marines began to fall in writhing agony. Once on the ground their fates were sealed, for bullets were no longer a defence against the weight of numbers, unless to put soldiers out of their misery. As the realisation dawned upon those soldiers still on their feet, their fighting grew every bit as manic as the rats, turning the military base into a seething cauldron of laser-acid fire.

Major Emsly remained steadfast at the fore, decimating wave after wave of airborne rats as they leaped off the fast growing mounds of dead in desperate throat-high lunges.

By the time the first drones arrive from Anchorage, only half the thirty Marines remained standing and had been pushed back against the wall, having left behind anyone immobile to their truly nightmarish death. The Marines cheered as one as the drones strafed the parade ground with laser-acid fire before incinerating the mounds of dead rats with napalm.

It gave Emsly the chance for his first breather since the onslaught began. 'Hope you're hungry, Marines,' he cried and gestured to the burning mounds. 'Dinner is served.'

'It's just what we're used to,' came a reply and there was wired laughter from amongst the group.

Emsly's roving eye came upon Jackie Kaur and the petrified children she had taken under her care. 'Welcome to Camp Alabama. Was your sanctuary hit hard?'

'As hard as this,' replied Kaur, 'and without the means to defend ourselves, I have no reason to believe there are any survivors apart from ourselves.'

'We will send a search party the first chance we get.'

'Thank you,' murmured Kaur halfheartedly.

'Major,' said Dr Flist, 'we were wondering if this is the start of another Arctic War.'

Major Emsly looked at him probingly. 'I imagine the President and the Pentagon are asking that very same question as we speak.' He noticed a rat feeding on a dead Marine at his feet. He flicked it into the air with his foot and shot it to pieces. 'The people I sent for to answer those questions are not yet here.' He looked to the towering Marine beside him. 'Sergeant Hex Carter, where is my tank?'

26 Storm at the weather station

The weather station was a simple concrete block-shaped building housing a satellite tower and was fenced in by tall razor wire. It was located on a barren windswept bluff on the east coast of the island, far enough away from the Marine base that the raging gun-play was just a distant crackle. Private Murley was wrestling with pangs of frustration as he sat with Kaptu and Clorvine in the fast speed tank idling at the front gate and he murmured, 'No sign of battle here. Not so much as a solitary mouse.'

'Is it usually this quiet?' replied Kaptu suspiciously. 'There are guard towers but no sentries in them.'

'Like I said, I've never been here before. The people in charge pass through the base from time to time, but they never stay or have much to say about what they get up to here.'

'Are they tough looking sorts? They might be special forces.'

'In the Marines, even the cooks look tough.'

A green light began to flash on the communications panel.

'That'll be base wondering where we are,' said Murley, flicking the line open.

'Private Murley reporting.'

'Where the hell is my tank?' came Major Emsly's voice blaring over the speaker.

'I've picked up the Hurt World personnel, sir,' said Murley, stiffening. 'They insisted we come to the base weather station. We are out the front right now.'

There was a long pause, which Murley fully expected to end with thunderous demands for him return to base. The voice that came, however, was disquietingly subdued. 'Are there sentries at post?'

'No, sir. There is no one.'

'You'd better check it out. Keep me informed. And be careful of the rats. There are a lot of them.'

The call finished and Murley looked to Kaptu. 'Alright then.'

Kaptu stared. 'Before we go, what is the biggest gun in this tank?'

'The London Cannon. It can knock down an entire building. It won't be much good against an army of rats, though.'

'That's not what I have in mind.' He looked to Clorvine. 'If anything is launched from the weather station, I want you to blast it. Give it everything.'

'Even if it has an American flag on the side?'

Kaptu nodded. 'Any flag should be considered a bullseye.'

Murley tapped out a quick code on the tank's control panel and a periscope lowered from the ceiling. 'It is a thought activation firing system.'

Clorvine peeked into it at the weather station and murmured self-consciously, 'This is three generations newer than what I'd get back in the Congo, but I'll manage.'

Kaptu picked up his rifle. 'Come on, Private Murley. Let's go get the latest forecast.'

The Hurt World technician and the US Marine left the tank with their guns poised at the hip and their eyes aflutter.

'I'll go ahead,' said Murley. 'The uniform might stop them shooting first and asking questions later.' He pushed on the front gate and it opened without resistance.

'That's strange,' said Kaptu.

'Well, it's only a weather station.'

'Do you really still believe that?' Kaptu looked over the multitude of locks evenly spaced from top to bottom, seeing no sign of them being forced. But there was no reason for them to be open either, especially when it was more than clear the island was under siege. He studied intently the four level concrete block of a building along the gravel path beyond the gate. The entrance door was slightly ajar, the darkness beyond carried all the way to the scattering of windows and gave no hint as to what may have transpired there. But Kaptu knew it was something. It was a twenty metre long path to the building's entrance, flat and with no cover. As Murley started down it, Kaptu said, 'Keep your eyes open. This is a kill zone.'

Rats came rushing from the front door, heading straight for Murley. They were enormous and their faces were dripping in blood – it was a gruesome spectacle that had Murley going to his scatter gun in the grip of panic. Bullets ripped up the gravel path and its surrounds, but somehow the rats were making it through. Kaptu stepped in to assist, picking off rat after rat with his rifle on single fire mode. An instinct, however, suddenly yanked his eyes to the window, just in time to see a sniper rifle taking aim upon him. He dived aside as bullets cracked through the air, but with rats converging he had no option other than to concentrate his immediate fire on them, shooting the closest almost right off his neck.

'That's not one of ours,' cried Murley, stepping into space, grateful to have a bigger target than rats; he gave the weather station a ferocious burst of gunfire. Windows were decimated and chunks of the walls were blown away. Return fire still came all the same, and with expert precision. Murley screamed in agony as both his legs were hit. He collapsed into a fast expanding pool of blood. His eyes widened with horror as he watched the oncoming wave of rats. He lifted his gun at them only for his arms to be shot as well. He was rendered helpless. The rats sprung upon him, running up his chest for his throat.

Kaptu drew his side pistol to have a gun in each hand and sprung up onto one knee in a perfectly balanced firing position. All in the same moment, he shot rats off Murley, those converging upon him and the anonymous sniper taking cover in the weather station. Clorvine's London Cannon joined in with the assault upon the weather station, hammering relentlessly until whole sections of walls began to crumble. Kaptu hurried to Murley, who had toppled onto his back.

'Are you alright?' Kaptu asked, brushing dead rats off him.

'That was some shooting,' muttered Murley through teeth gritted with pain.

'Are you talking about me or the sniper who shot your arms and legs?' Kaptu pulled the wound sealing spray from the Marine's utility belt and gave the can a shake. Suddenly he realised the ground was shaking too. In the centre of the weather station grounds a giant surface hatch was opening revealing a deep, dark vent below. Kaptu applied the spray haphazardly onto Private Murley's wounds and hurriedly scooped him up onto his shoulders. The tank smashed through the gates as Clorvine rushed to pick them up. She flicked the switch to open the rear door and hit the blazing building with another burst of artillery. 'Get in!' she screamed.

Kaptu sprinted with Murley up the ramp of the rear entrance. There came a tremendous roar and shuddering that sent his knees buckling and Murley flying off his shoulders into a wall of the tank. Amidst a fireball that flushed the tank's outer skin with flame, a missile was launched from the underground silo. Kaptu clambered his way to the side of Clorvine and put on the noise-cancelling communications headset to block out the excruciatingly loud roar of the rocket.

'Shoot it down,' he cried.

Clorvine was gazing up at the monitor screen filled with the rocket flame. 'We'll have to wait,' she replied. 'The shells will explode inside the London Cannon at these temperatures.'

'The missile will be out of range before the flames have dissipated. You'll just have to risk it.'

'Well, where will I aim? I can't see anything.'

'Just shoot at the flames.'

Clorvine braced herself and opened fire. The discharge of the London Cannon barely registered amidst the immense forces of the missile's rocket exhausts. The tank was being pushed sidewards, rivets popping from its joints with the velocity of bullets.

After what seemed an eternity, the flames subsided and the bone-cracking shuddering began to ease. Kaptu took Clorvine by the arm. 'You can stop firing now. It will be out of range. You've either hit it or you haven't.'

Clorvine looked at him with perspiration dripping down her forehead. 'And what if I haven't? A war is a hard thing to carry on your shoulders.' She was shaking with the adrenaline.

Kaptu patched through onto the tank's main screen the live feed from the Hurt World's North American satellite directly above. The missile was black and red striped and was as large as a three storey building. Apart from the flame and smoke gushing from the tail rockets, there were secondary smoke trails emanating from a side rupture.

'Looks like a hit,' he said. 'But let's see how close it makes it to Russia before we get too excited. Any closer than a hundred kilometres and we are going to have some problems, and I mean by that the next Arctic War. It's a Toppaz nuclear missile. Accurate, big and nasty. The Arctic War treaties explicitly prohibit their deployment anywhere within the Arctic Circle, so it will be no good apologising and crying sabotage.'

'Which means if I have missed, thousands and maybe millions of people will likely die.'

'You came closer to stopping it than anyone else.' He watched the screen carefully. 'It's losing altitude.'

Clorvine's spirits rose. 'Are you sure?'

Kaptu hurried to the driver's seat. 'We need to get to higher ground. It's dropping alright and we're not even close to a hundred kilometres away.'

*

Three rats were coming at Major Emsly. He blasted the first two back onto the mound of carcasses from which they had emerged but with the last rat upon him, he found that his ammunition was spent. He resorted to clubbing the third rat to a pulp with the metal stock of his rifle. He continued to hold the rifle like a club as he looked out across the expansive mound of the dead for any others still alive. There were none. The seething torrents of rodents that had threatened to overrun the Marine base had been checked; not a single rat was left moving. Emsly turned to Lieutenant Beamy Carlitto who was gazing through binoculars at the Toppaz missile's faint image in the sky.

'How's it doing?' he asked.

'Its engine core is ruptured. It is not going to remain airborne very much longer.'

'Thank God. That missile was in cold storage thirty metres underground and it wasn't the US Government that put it into the sky. Whoever shot it down is going to get the biggest medal I can find. I daresay the action may even have prevented a war.'

'I would like to think it was the Special Forces guarding the base. Anything less would mean this has been the worst security breach in a hundred years. Our records will be in tatters.'

Emsly picked up the massive rat he had bludgeoned and looked over its fearsome form. 'All I feel right now is pride. We have fought like Marines to win this day.' He tossed rat onto the heap and picked up one of the wounded soldiers and glanced around at the other survivors around the flagpole. Exhausted, dishevelled and blood soaked, they were almost unrecognisable. Only six of them left. Plus the civilians from the polar bear sanctuary. Almost complete wipeout. Emsly felt an anger boiling up from within.

'I could almost believe those rats were a freak of nature,' he decried at the top of his voice, and gestured at the distant white streak that was the Toppaz missile, but when United States missiles suddenly start launching themselves at the same time, I find myself getting suspicious. So, we're going to take a tour of the island by gunship and if we find anyone stumbling about who resembles those rats in intent, they're going to suffer the same fate. Gather up the wounded and let's move out.'

The party hurried to the flight pad where the dark green gunship was waiting on permanent standby, with its side turrets fully loaded with missiles and the electronics of its core systems in the dull glow of Active Sleep mode.

The tremendous explosion of the Toppaz missile cracking into the ocean came just as Emsly put his eye to the security scanner. The identity check returned a negative result. He rubbed his eye and tried again only for access to again be denied.

'What's wrong with it?' asked Hex Carter itching to pull open the door.

'My pupils are dilated,' said Emsly. 'The scanner is very precise.'

Carter glanced anxiously out across the sky to the vast grey mushroom cloud ominously expanding out across the horizon and pressed a finger to his communications earpiece. 'Is there anyone else with the security clearance to start this thing?'

'The pilots, of course. But they've just been eaten by rats. The commanding officer has security clearance as a last resort. Anyway, give me a moment and I'll come good.'

'A moment may be too late. Our drones are reporting a thirty metre tsunami wave generated by the Toppaz missile, clocking speeds of eight hundred kilometres per hour.'

Emsly frowned. 'If you're trying to relax me, you're doing a lousy job.' He took a deep breath and put his eye back to the scanner. This time he was accepted: the gunship doors opened and the electronics came alive. Emsly sprung into the pilot's seat and activated the rotors. 'Everyone get the hell on board!' he screamed at no one in particular.

He looked over his shoulder to see Carter already busy at work herding people on board. Being an ex-drill sergeant, Carter was in his element and the loading was completed just as the rotor blades had reached sufficient speeds for elevation.

The tsunami meanwhile crashed over the coastal cliffs and surged in across the base, sweeping away the mounds of dead Marines and rats in a thick black icy cold soup. The gunship was just in time to rise above it. The occupants gazed down solemnly at the surreal scene beneath them.

'A missile that explodes into a sea and a battlefield that gets completely washed away,' muttered Beamy Carlitto from the front passenger seat. 'There will be nothing left to prove what transpired here. No evidence to substantiate the wild stories we have to tell.'

'I suspect Washington will not be particularly unhappy with that arrangement,' replied Emsly. 'I doubt they will even acknowledge the incident having occurred. But they'll be very curious to know who has been trying to drag them into a war.' As the gunship continued to rise, Emsly spotted his Poison 130 Fast Tank climbing Mount Old, the highest peak on Alabama Island. 'There's my tank,' he murmured, steering the gunship that way. 'Why don't they just get out and run? Tanks aren't designed for mountaineering.'

The tank was indeed starting to struggle as the gradient grew ever steeper. The huge mass of water was moving in fast from behind. Emsly only wished there was a missile in his arsenal that could be used against a tsunami. He put on the pilot's headset and sent out an emergency call. 'Private Murley, is that you driving my tank? Come in, Murley.'

There was no reply, but Emsly could see why they would be preoccupied. The approaching wave was above the height of the tank with only moments remaining between them. The tank was speeding a direct line up the mountain, loose shoal spewing out from beneath its tracks in steady streams. Emsly had taken his tank for many a drive around the island but going to the peak of Mount Old he had left to the torturous foot marches Hex Carter put his Marines through.

'Can your tank swim?' murmured Carlitto dourly.

'What do you think?'

The wave hit the mountain and rode up its southern face, reaching the tank in a mass of black water. Despite the weight of the water, however, the tank continued to climb, breaking free of its grip before it could fully close. The tank continued upward until the wave's crest had passed and dry land was secured. It stopped then and the main hatch flew open.

'Your man has been hit,' Kaptu replied over the radio. 'We require immediate extraction.'

'Rat bites?' Emsly enquired.

'Four gunshot wounds.'

'Identify yourself.'

'Kaptu of the Hurt World.'

'Kaptu, is that your codename?'

'No. We're bringing your man out for extraction.' Kaptu climbed out and with Clorvine's assistance underneath pulled the wounded Marine onto the open hatch.

The gunship came above them and a harness was lowered. Kaptu attached it to Murley's chest. The Life System Monitor strapped to Murley's forehead was counting down in bright red numerals from ten minutes fifteen seconds. That was Murley's life expectancy and it looked likely enough in his pale cheeks and glazed eyes.

'Hold on,' Kaptu yelled and gave the gunship thumbs up. 'Don't stop to pick us up,' he said into his collar mike. 'You've got ten minutes to get him onto an operating table.'

'Very well,' replied Emsly. 'We'll be back to get you.'

The gunship turned back for base with Murley trailing behind.

Clorvine joined Kaptu on top of the tank. 'What happens when they find you doctored the Life System Monitor? Murley isn't going to be dead in minutes.'

'You noticed that? It's better that we don't get stuck here. There are going to be investigations and enquiries and we don't want to get involved in that. Especially when it comes out that the insurance agents have forbidden my presence upon US territory.'

'They won't be denied so easily. They'll come looking for you.'

'There is no extradition treaty between the US and Asylum City. That is probably why Renaissance chose me for the case. And it is probably the only reason she has ever bothered having a Hurt World technician in Asylum City.'

'I think you should give them a chance. You've just saved them from a war or at least some world class groveling to whichever country was attacked. You might even have earned yourself some downtime with the President.'

'Trust me, gratitude never makes it past the lawyers. Who knows what kind of case they could make against us? We shot up their weather station for starters. They may even claim were negligent in the clarity of our warning and sue for damages for the whole damned island.'

'They wouldn't do that.'

'Lawyers are capable of anything. Keeping out of range of their indictments is as important as avoiding bullets. Renaissance will be of the same mindset. Just see how quickly she moves to get us off the island. A lot quicker than how we got onto it.'

'You sure it won't be by missile? That would be the fastest things she's got.'

Kaptu looked up to the sky. 'Good point. But I don't think that's her style.'

'If the plan is to take me back to the Congo, it might as well be a missile. They do not take kindly to traitors. I'd rather take my chances here with the Marines.'

'Don't fret about that. I'll put in a good word for you. You're a straight shooter in words and in a tank. With those attributes, someone in the UN will have use for you.'

Clorvine looked at him watchfully. 'And you?'

'Me?'

'The way you fight, the way you carry yourself, it is plain you don't have anyone serious in your life, anyone to live for.'

'I'm sure that's what keeps me alive.'

A roar of jet pierced the sky, noticeably more powerful than the drones that had been coming and going from the Marine base.

'That sounds like our ride,' said Kaptu. 'We'll be in Geneva in an hour. I rent a nice little villa on the lake there. I've never lived in it but it's worth the money. The Secretary General lives just down the road. You could ask him for a job yourself.' He looked out across the ocean for a long moment. 'Perhaps we'll get the call to come looking for Mas again, once the Sixth Fleet has given up scouring the ocean for submarines.'

'I think they should pick through the ruins of the weather station before they bother searching the ocean. Your shooting was straight too. You picked off your fair share of rats, and maybe you got Mas as well.'

Kaptu shook his head doubtfully. 'She moves faster.'

The Cyclone Super Jet arrived amidst a scream of rocket, touching down in an easy vertical landing upon the mountain ridge. The cockpit hatch lifted up and the pilot slid down the exit ladder. He was holding a plastic bag and rushed to fill it with dead rats that had washed up onto the mountain. By the time Kaptu and Clorvine reached him, he was squeezing his forth rat into his bag. He sealed it and gestured for Kaptu and Clorvine to follow as he hurried up the cockpit ladder. Being a two-seater jet, there was no alternative but for Kaptu and Clorvine to share one, Clorvine sitting on Kaptu's lap. The pilot threw the bag of rats in with them. He promptly sent the plane two kilometres into the air in a body jarring launch. Kaptu and Clorvine watched Alabama Island become a mere spec on the ocean before disappearing altogether. The jet headed south at twice the speed of sound.

Clorvine wriggled to get comfortable and smirked at Kaptu. 'My kind of seat,' she said. 'But tell me one thing. Where you live on the lake, are there any rats?'

27 To disappear

Haddad Caixa strode into the Savage Alliance Conference Room One in the Uncle Grey building reminding himself of the two things never to do when delivering bad news. The first thing was not to try and sell it as good news. People hated that more than the news itself. If it was bad, let them know how bad. Let them know it reeked. It was the only way. People caught selling bad news became bad news themselves. And there was no fix for that. The second thing was never flinch. Tell it but don't own it. No matter how bad. The people who looked like solutions were always the generals.

Caixa stopped at the foot of the long table and looked up and down its lengths, taking in the probing, speculative gazes of the board members. There were no friends, no one he could truly trust, but that was what made Savage Alliance so successful: it truly was savage. Caixa glanced past them to the conference room's superb view of Lake Zurich and the Alps - that was where he found his calm.

'I have called this meeting to report on an unfortunate setback in our quest to break into the Big Ten Trade Index. Operation Advance has been deactivated until further notice. The details of the programs will remain classified to all bar the Minister for Risk and Acquisition and myself.'

'Where is she?' queried the Minister for Communications.

Caixa smirked icily. 'She is on extended unpaid leave.'

An uncomfortable silence enveloped the long conference table, for it was known amongst all what extended unpaid leave could really entail. Her body vaporised by laser or dumped in some remote forest. It was highly likely Jalanti would never be heard of again. And to ask questions would be unwise in the extreme. That was the message in Caixa's smirk. He only ever smiled as a warning.

'We placed considerable funds into Operation Advance,' said the Minister for Finance in his usual monotone voice. 'Will there be an opportunity for a retrieval of funds?'

'The operation was well advanced when it was cancelled,' said Caixa. 'Most of the money has already been spent. The loss is considerable.'

The board members looked around each other with sighs and frowns. Caixa allowed them their moment of disappointment, though did not let their attention drift for long.

'Moving forward,' he said sharply, 'we will review our investment portfolios and share holdings and endeavour to offset our losses where possible. We will need to be quite ruthless in order to balance our books.'

The Minister for Finance nervously put up her hand. 'I would recommend any review particularly focus on holdings in weapons technology and military surgical supplies and our arms wing. We have secured no financial gain from these investments, nor is there any prospect of this changing in the foreseeable future. We are living in a politically stable environment with no prospect of a major customer for any of those products. It is the biggest drag on our bottom line and I can tell you that even before the review begins.'

There was a long pause before Caixa responded. 'It is courageous of you to point that out considering I instigated many of those investments. By all means include them in your review. I must say, however, that I am not as optimistic as you that peace will prevail. Conflict is part of human nature and is always just around the corner whether you are expecting it or not. Savage Alliance has taken up the business model of expecting it and I am proud that we are the market leader in weapons and putting the wounded back together again and if we hold our never long enough, customers will come, as President of the company, I guarantee it.'

He took in a deep, calming breath. 'Finally, I would like to say that although unsuccessful, Operation Advance reflected many of the core values of Savage Alliance: bold, ambitious, intelligent and extremely well planned. It was only in the execution that the operation was found wanting and we may never know exactly why. But we will pick ourselves up and try again, and if we remain true to our core values, success will inevitably be had. That is what the Savage Alliance brand stands for. Let me reiterate my gratitude to Jalanti for her time as the Minister for Risk and Acquisition. Without going into specifics, I can say she came very close to living up to those core values and in so doing bringing us into the Big Ten Trade Index. Agonisingly close.'

Caixa departed from the boardroom with his trademark forthright stride. It was a full minute before anyone else started to move. As chairs slid back on the immaculate white marble tiled floor the Minister for Communication leaned to the ear of the Minister for Infrastructure and whispered, 'Do you think he killed her?'

The Minister for Infrastructure was pale even before the question was asked. 'The title of the position is exactly what it entails,' she whispered. 'So buyer beware.' She got up and joined the orderly exodus from the room.

*

It was incredible to think that for all those people walking along the gangway, it was destined to be their last day on Earth, their last day anywhere for a few trillion miles. All the passengers were tall, young and very fit looking. The sleek white uniforms looked good. The sleeves carried the gold insignias of the European Space Union and the Thousand Year Skin brand name on the other. To Renaissance's mind the uniforms were little more than glorified space pyjamas. After all, they would be spending the next thirty years in hibernation, undergoing daily bathing in protein soups to prevent them from liquefying, which had been the fate of many in the first incarnations of the deep space hibernation regimes. And according to the research Renaissance had been reading up on, it was still yet to be perfected. The brains were the most vulnerable areas, the proteins not always being absorbed deeply enough to prevent madness or cerebral slop. Renaissance wondered if these risks were in the thoughts of the passengers calmly marching in single file towards the Space Weaver 180f launch pad. But mostly she was wondering if one of those passengers was Mas.

Renaisance was sitting in a luxurious leather reclining chair alongside her right hand man, Spiros Pardos, in the office suite of the European Space Commissioner, Geth Barzius. The suite was situated within the central tower of the Belgium base and afforded an exceptional view of the launch site and the awe inspiring Space Weaver upon it. Renaissance stood up and leaned forward on the window, her attention fixed on the flow of passengers on the gangway less than twenty metres below. It occurred to her that despite all the damage Mas had inflicted upon the world, there was still no verified images of her apart from grainy images taken from long distances - nothing to make her attempted identification any easier now.

'Damn it,' Renaissance said, thumping the glass with a fist. 'We're the prisoners in this damned suite while the criminal is allowed to walk free. What kind of world is this?'

'It's a hurt world,' muttered Pardos. 'Why else would people fly thirty years across nothingness for a planet that has never been anything more than a blimp on a telescope? Or, more to the point, why would the European Space Agency fund such a project? It's long since been a dream of humankind to colonise other planets. But now it seems we're getting desperate.'

'Well, the Hurt World Agency's priority is to save this one,' said Renaissance determinedly. 'That is why I would hate for Mas to leave it without telling us her secrets. For example, who did just try to start the Second Arctic War?'

The last of the passengers were passing by now, which meant if Mas were one, Renaissance would have seen her, would have been less than twenty metres away from her. Blast had not stirred from her spot curled up on the floor at their feet. If only she could have smelt through thickened glass. Not that much could have been done even if Mas was identified. As luxurious as the office suite was, its security systems really were impregnable. The doors were triple-bolted and the windows were made of the same Silicone Z glass that shielded the White House from nuclear attack.

Renaissance pressed her cheek against the glass to follow the train of passengers moving along the gangway and across the retractable loading bridge to the enormous spacecraft. The base rockets were smoking as its fuel core was brought to the very brink of atomic splittage. A manned spacecraft had never gone as far as would this, and if its navigation systems miscalculated even a fraction, it would be forever lost.

The door to the office suite opened abruptly and Geth Barzius strode in, wearing the same white uniform as the Space Weaver passengers.

'Thank you for your patience, Renaissance,' she said, 'and congratulations on your promotion.'

'I haven't been promoted,' replied Renaissance.

'That is not what I have been advised. I was intending to place you under arrest under Section 4.31 of the Space Exploration Act, but my friends in the US Government have warned me that you are moving up in the world. Apparently it has become necessary to treat you as hospitably as possible. If that's not a promotion, what is?' Barzius stopped in the centre of the office and looked over her three guests with a cool, calculating thoroughness. 'Apparently you have recently thwarted an attempt to instigate a major international conflict.'

'And you have been thwarting us from identifying the chief suspect in the plot,' said Renaissance. 'Doesn't it bother you that someone as dangerous as Mas is likely among your would be colonists?'

Barzius shrugged. 'We are sending our hardiest plants and animals on the mission. The same standard needs to apply to the people as well. A poacher who has spent her whole life in the wild, hunting and living off her wits - could there be a candidate more ideally suited for what we have in mind? Besides, from what the Americans are telling me, there is not enough evidence to connect her with any crime of significance. Suspicion is not enough, certainly it is not enough to mar such a momentous occasion as this. But I will allow your signature dog to sniff the gangway for her scent. At least then the Americans will know whether or not they can end the dragnet they have placed around Alabama Island. And if your subject has managed to slip through the net to us, it is merely further indication of the kind of ingenuity we would most certainly love to have on the voyage to come.'

'And it does not faze you that she just may be a killer as well?'

'Again, I would require more evidence than your dog wagging its tail. Speaking of which, we should hurry. We only have minutes before launch.'

Renaissance stood her ground. 'So you will allow us to identify Mas so long as we agree to give her up?'

'That's right. Give her up to limitless possibilities of space.' Barzius smirked. 'Perhaps you'll even consider it a favour, for I am doing what your technicians have been unable to do and what your lawyers won't be able to do: expunge your poacher from the world forever. And possibly even put her to good use in the process.'

Pardos walked up beside Renaissance, murmuring, 'I don't think we've got any choice. If we can tie up this loose end, the mission will go down in the annals as a complete and overwhelming success. The destruction of the Meltman's Heroin 3 empire, the prevention of a high tech missile hijacking and the neutralisation of its main suspect. And in so doing, satisfying the primary charter of Hurt World One: protecting the world's animals from her greatest enemies, humans.'

'Even if those creatures happen to be genetically modified snakes and zombie rats?' Renaissance muttered. 'Very well, then.' She clicked her fingers at Blast. 'Come on, girl.'

The black Jack Russell terrier sprung excitedly to her feet.

'I'm glad you've agreed,' said Barzius, heading to the door. 'To be honest, I'm quite curious to know myself.' She led the way to the glass elevator and they rode it down to the narrow steel gangway. Blast squeezed between their legs to be the first out the elevator. She was near hysterical upon the gangway, barking wildly with her nose to the floor and her tail shooting straight up into the air. Renaissance and Pardos turned sharply to the Space Weaver just in time to see its doors close for the last time on Earth.

