"Physician heal thyself," he murmured, releasing the fabric and stepping back, as he remembered the creature he had killed in Skellor's laboratory — the creature Mika had later studied so intensively.

She glanced round at him, a certain amount of calculation creeping into her woozy expression. "It was soldiers, Theocracy soldiers."

At Cormac's shoulder Gant said, "Survivors from that lander, probably."

"You well enough to walk?" Cormac asked her.

Mika nodded.

"Then we follow them — at least they're heading in the right direction."

"What about Fethan?" asked Gant.

"He'll catch up, I assume."

Later, as it became apparent that Mika no longer needed anyone's help, and while Thorn moved ahead with Gant, Cormac leaned close to her and said, "Doctor, you've been taking some of the Outlinker's medicine?"

"I have," Mika replied.

"And it's good, I think?" he said.

"Better than good," said Mika, tapping her finger against the contents indicator on her oxygen bottle. The indicator had gone from green through orange to deep dark red, which meant that the bottle was completely empty. Cormac wondered if, when she had earlier changed her bottle for a new one, she had done this just to keep up appearances, or if, like Scar, she operated more efficiently when breathing a suitably gaseous oxidant.

Even though Speelan delivered his report with a terseness and rigidity of control that was almost machinelike, Aberil could feel fear coming through the link. Whether that fear was of the hooder still out there, or of the expected wrath at Speelan's loss of a lander and twenty-four men, Aberil could not make up his mind. In fact he felt no wrath, just curiosity at what their two captives — one of them obviously an Outlinker — would have to say for themselves. The Proctor, Molat, who had been brought to him earlier in the day, had provided no information of tactical value and was beginning to bore him. Only the story about the siluroyne had been interesting because Aberil had known the Proctor was lying about something, but sufficient pressure had only revealed Molat's silly guilt over the sacrifice of an underling. Obviously Proctor Molat had reached the limit of his advancement within the Theocracy.

"Where is the rebel army now?" he asked generally.

"The other side of the swamp basin, First Commander," replied his logistics officer.

"So they're retreating towards the mountains, without us having to force them across the basin. It's too easy really."

"I don't think Captain Granch thought so, First Commander." The officer looked pale as he turned towards Aberil. "He has ordered the withdrawal of his remaining fighters."

"Granch, what do you think you are doing?"

The captain of Gabriel was quick to reply.

"My apologies. First Commander, but they must return for refuelling and arming, with the spaceport being now unavailable."

Aberil grinned across the room at Proctor Molat who, like everyone else in the command lander, was listening in.

"The one bomber we have retained is reactor-run so I do not see why it should be recalled. I am in fact adamant that it should not be."

Granch: "First Commander, it cannot get in close enough, with those Polity machines there."

Aberil: "Granch, I know perfectly well that your son is aboard that plane. It will, however, remain in high orbit until required — is that understood?"

Granch did not reply, but the logistics officer spoke up. "The bomber is returning to high orbit, sir."

Aberil turned to Molat. "You see: softness, lack of faith, nepotism. We must be harder and harsher if we are to proudly take our place in the universe before God." Then, before the Proctor could reply, Aberil turned away from him and sent over the ether, "How far away are you now, Speelan?"

"I have the command vehicle in sight, and will be with you within minutes, First Commander," came Speelan's abrupt response.

"Bring your prisoners directly to me here," Aberil instructed. "And without further damage to them."

Before Speelan could reply, another presence intruded:

"Aberil, I do hope you are not allowing your little games to distract you from your main objective."

Aberil was out of his seat in a moment. The sheer force of the Hierarch's communication almost had his head ringing, and he felt that force could not be explained just by the message being transmitted through a high channel, formerly used solely by the Septarchy Friars.

"This is not a distraction, Hierarch. I predict that by tomorrow's sunrise Lellan's forces will be perfectly positioned in the mountains for our nuclear cleansing. But I am very much concerned at why an Outlinker would want to be down here on the surface, let alone how he got here."

On a lower channel now, Loman spoke conversationally. "Don't spend too much time finding out, if you consider it that important, use drugs, not torture."

Aberil did not let himself object to having to forgo the pleasure of causing pain. He in fact became suddenly wary of making any response, for even on the lower channels there was something quite overwhelming about the communication from his brother.

"Your will, Hierarch."

The link closed, and Aberil swallowed and took a deep breath. In the expressions of Molat and the others, he read a hint of fear and bewilderment. They had all registered the contained power in the Hierarch, and all of them understood it not at all.

Not for the first time, Carl reached up and patted at the Polity wound dressing on the side of his face, as he stared across the swamp basin to the flute grasses on the far side. If they just opened up with their pulse-rifles they would be sure to hit some Theocracy soldiers, just as no doubt the reverse applied with the enemy and their rail-guns, but ammunition was not limitless on either side and the thick grasses had a tendency to eat up the momentum of any projectile, be it an iron slug or a pulse of ionized aluminium.

"These bastards have got thermal mesh in their body armour," said Uris, staring at the screen of a small heat detector he had managed to salvage from the tank before the vehicle got pulverized.

"Either that or you were imagining things," said Targon.

In suitable reply, a full clip of rail-gun slugs hammered into the flute grass to the right of them, with a sound like the revving of a worn diesel engine. They went face-down, flak blankets pulled over them, as the high stalks collapsed in pulpy dark green fragments. A short way off, someone started screaming, then something suddenly curtailed their noise. Another fighter broke cover and tried to dash across a channel inhabited by low plantain to seek better cover on the other side. A second rail-gun opened up, and the man just flew apart.

"Where the fuck is that coming from?" asked Carl.

Hunched up with his flak blanket over his back, Uris studied his heat detector, then abruptly gestured with his open hand. "Ten metres back from the far edge — just left of the plantain channel over there!"

"Beckle!" Carl shouted.

Beckle did not need specific instructions. He quickly set up the small mortar he had been given — as an inadequate replacement of his pulse-cannon on the tank — and fired off three rounds. Two explosions blew loam and roots into the air, but in the detritus thrown up by the third explosion Carl, as he stood up, was sure he spotted a human arm. He and Targon raised their weapons over their heads so as to clear the flute grass, and opened fire on the same area where the explosions had occurred. But then grenades started detonating to their left and the rail-gun fire became so intense that the air filled with a sleet of blasted-up mud and scraps of vegetation. Carl did not need to give any orders — his men were running again, forcing their way through thick growths of grass, stomping across already trampled spreads of moist purple leaves, staggering through muddy channels so wet that only black plantain could root there. Off to their right, others were running… falling… dying. In their own little group it was Targon who went down first. Turning to fire back behind, he looked down for his weapon and, in numb surprise, only saw his two arms ending at the elbow. He began to yell, but collapsed into the ground like a statue made of red ash, a burst of fire just eating him away.