"Ah, Theocracy justice," said Fethan at one point, making a detour around something lying in the stand of grass.

Eldene saw a skeleton pegged out on the sodden ground — grass stalks growing up through its ribcage. With a grimace, she remembered that this was one of the many punishments handed out by the proctors for serious infringements of Theocracy law. Precisely at this time of year the proctors pegged out such criminals, and as the grass grew, its sharp points penetrated flesh and the stalks then just grew straight through. Something like this, she knew, would be her own punishment if they caught her.

The paralysis was easing a bit now, though Thorn was not sure if he could manage to stand. The cold ceramal floor had sucked the heat out of him, and worked its own paralysing effect. His pelvis still ached, but at present the major pain was coming from his shattered teeth and broken nose.

As was his nature, and the nature of his training as Sparkind, he dismissed from his mind the deaths of friends and comrades, and instead concentrated his attention upon his present situation. That Brom intended to use some sort of mind-ream on him, he had no doubt, though he did doubt the man would find anything useful to him by that means, since it was ECS policy to change all relevant codes once an agent disappeared. When they came to inflict that on him, he had to be ready to act — for he either would die during the reaming, or be killed shortly after.

Using a huge effort of will, Thorn rolled over and managed to drag himself to his hands and knees. Just this effort left him dizzy and nauseous, but he pushed himself even further and managed to rock back onto the support of his knees only. His neck felt like it was without bones, his head swollen and aching, and the rest of his body as responsive as a sack of potatoes. Not allowing himself any pause, he flung himself to his feet, nearly went over on his face, staggered to the table, and clung while he vomited over the autodoc.

"Careless," he grated, once he got his nausea under control. He was about to turn the doc over in search of something sharp inside it to use as a weapon when the door opened behind him.

"Oh, up and about already? We'll soon change that."

Thorn glanced over his shoulder as Lutz pulled a baton from his belt and slapped it into the palm of his hand. Behind Lutz, John Stanton drew the door closed. Momentarily Thorn felt despair: he might be able to take on Lutz, but John Stanton? Well, maybe, if he was at the peak of condition.

"John here tells me that Sparkind are trained to resist direct-mind interrogation, but I was delighted when he told me how we should go about softening you up," said Lutz.

Thorn turned fully. Maybe if he threw the autodoc at Stanton he would then have a chance to get to Lutz and take a weapon from the man. While thinking this, it took a moment for it to impinge upon him what Lutz had just said — it was nonsense. Sparkind had no more ability to resist reaming than anyone else did. Something like that could not be trained in; it required substantial alteration of the structure of the brain. He watched as Stanton moved up beside Lutz and looked with bored contempt at the man.

"Yeah," said Stanton, "and because you're so completely stupid, you believed every word."

Lutz had time only to whip his head round. Stanton's straight-fingered strike went into his throat like an axe. Lutz stood there choking for a moment, then went down on his knees, where he tried to retrieve something from his jacket. Stanton stooped down and, with a complete lack of haste, took hold of the man's head and turned it right around.

Thorn winced at the sound of crunching vertebrae and stared as Lutz thudded down on his front and shivered and gargled into death. Then he transferred his gaze to Stanton as the mercenary stood.

"Bloody amateurs," said Stanton at last, rubbing his hands before removing an injector from the pocket of his long coat. He walked over to Thorn and inspected him. "How the hell did they manage to catch you?"

"I got careless," Thorn managed.

Stanton acknowledged this with a snort, then reached out and pressed the injector against Thorn's neck. Immediately something cool suffused Thorn's body and he felt his limbs freeing up.

"It'll take a minute or two. That paralytic of Brom's is a curare derivative. You may find you've received some nerve damage."

"Does this mean you're on my side?" Thorn asked. "I thought you were here selling arms."

Stanton grinned nastily. "That's what they think, too."

Suddenly Thorn found he no longer needed the support of the table. "Some other contract?" he asked.

"You've met Dorth?" Stanton asked, and now there was a hardness in his expression that had not been there even while he had tried to twist Lutz's head off.

"The Deacon? Yes, briefly."

Stanton turned and gazed somewhere distant. "Well he comes from my home world and I have been tracking him for the last year. When I knew him way back, he was just one of the Theocracy's proctors. He was my mother's lover and he had her accuse my father of heresy, supposedly to expedite a divorce. Once she signed the papers, the bastard took my father outside and shot him through the face."

"Your mother?" asked Thorn, studying the man.

"Died under questioning."

"Personal, then," said Thorn, now flexing his torso and wondering if the numbness in the ends of his fingers might ever go away.

With a flat expression, Stanton turned back to him. "I would guess you're here to retire our friend Brom. So, let's be about it. Brom is in his cabin and the Deacon is there as well." He turned and stepped towards the door, drawing a large pulse-gun.

Now more confident in his body, Thorn moved away from the table and stooped down by Lutz, pushing the dead man over onto his back, which incidentally put him onto his face. A quick search yielded a gas-system pulse-gun — not quite as effective as the weapon Stanton carried, firing as it did ionized gas rather than aluminium dust and consequently not having the range, but good enough for close work.

"You don't really need me," Thorn observed, standing. "Why did you risk this?"

Stanton glanced round. "Let's just say that after Viridian I have the greatest respect for Ian Cormac, and that my perspective has changed somewhat."

"Doesn't really answer my question."

"It's all the answer you'll get," Stanton replied, opening the door.

Once they were outside, Stanton removed a small cylinder from under his jacket, twisted the timer on its end, and tossed it back into the cell. Moving on, he led them up the stairs and through a hatch, out onto the deck. It was night, and Thorn realized he must have been out of it for longer than he had thought. Now they moved into the moon-shadows of a tower supporting some odd oblate device.

Stanton pointed at this and whispered, " 'ware generator," and placed another cylinder next to the wall of the low building below it.

"What timings?" Thorn whispered.

"Ten minutes. Can't get a low-power signal out while that thing's up, and I'll need to. There's two or three hundred of Brom's people aboard and I can't take them all."

They moved on until Brom's cabin came into sight. Between them and it, all the structures on the deck were well lit. One of these was a long cabin with light glaring through its wide windows. Stanton pointed beyond it. "I've got a nice planar load in their middle hold. That'll go in" — he glanced at his wristcom — "six minutes. The one I have on their pile should go… shortly." He squatted down and Thorn squatted beside him.

"What's your route out?" Thorn asked.

"Same way as I came in," Stanton replied, gesturing to the right of Brom's cabin, where Thorn had earlier seen him supervising the unloading of the catamaran.