'Nobody's ever tamed a fastfox, Toran said. Melzar flashed him an annoyed glance.

'The bandits did, Genril said. 'I saw the collars on them.

'They'd already learned to obey, Edeard explained. 'My orders were stronger, that's all.

'All right, Melzar said. 'Call the fastfox in. If you can control it, we'll use it to guard the caravan. If not, well… He patted his rifle. 'But I'll warn you now, lad, the village elders won't allow you to keep it.

In Aaron's opinion, Riasi had benefited from being stripped of its capital city status. It retained the grand structures intrinsic to any capital, as well as the expansive public parks, a well-financed transport grid, and excellent leisure facilities, yet with the ministries and their bureaucrats decamped across the ocean to Mak-kathran2 the stress and hassle had been purged from everyday life. So too had exorbitant housing costs. What was left was a rich city with every possible amenity; consequently, its population were kicking back and enjoying themselves.

It made things a lot easier for Aaron. The taxi flight from Makkathran2 had taken nine hours; they'd landed at the spaceport, one of hundreds of identical arrivals. Mercifully, Corrie-Lyn had spent most of the journey asleep. When she did wake she placidly did whatever he told her. So they moved through the vast passenger terminus on the ped walks, visiting just about every lounge there was. Only then did he go back out to the taxi rank and take a trip to the old Parliament building at the centre of the city. It was late morning by then, with a lot of activity in the surrounding district. They swapped taxis again. Then again. Three taxis later they finally touched down in a residential zone on the east bank of the Camoa River.

During the flight from Makkathran2, Aaron had rented a ground-floor apartment in a fifteen-storey tower. It was anonymous enough, a safe house he called it. To Corrie-Lyn it probably seemed secure. Aaron knew his multiple taxi journeys and untraceable coin payment for the apartment were strictly amateur stuff. Any half-decent police officer could track them down within a day.

For two days he did nothing. It took Corrie-Lyn the entire first day just to sober up. He allowed her to order anything she wanted by way of clothes and food, but forbade any alcohol or aerosols. For the second day she just sulked, a state exacerbated by a monster hangover. He knew there was plenty of trauma involved too as she reconciled what had happened with Captain Manby's squad. That night he heard her crying in her room.

Aaron decided to go all out with breakfast the next morning to try and reach through her mood. He combined the culinary unit's most sophisticated synthesis with items delivered fresh from a local delicatessen. The meal started with Olberon bluef-ruit, followed by French toast with caramelized banana; their main course was buckwheat crepes with fried duck eggs, grilled Uban mushroom, and smoked Ayrshire bacon, topped by a delicate omelette aux caviar. The tea was genuine Assam, which was all he could ever drink in the morning — it wasn't his best time of day.

'Wowie, Corrie-Lyn said in admiration. She'd wandered in from her bedroom all bleary eyed, dressed in a fluffy blue towelling robe. When she saw what was being laid out she perked up immediately.

'There's sugar for the bluefruit, he told her. 'It's refined from Dranscome tubers, best in the galaxy.

Corrie-Lyn sprinkled some of the silvery powder over the bluefruit, and tried a segment. 'Umm, that is good. She spooned out some more.

Aaron sat opposite her and took his first sip of tea. Their table was next to a window wall, giving them a view out across the river. Several big ocean-going barges were already coasting along just above the rippling water; smaller river traffic curved round them. He didn't see them, his eyes were on the loose front of her robe which revealed the slope of her breasts. Firm and excellently shaped, he admired cheerfully; she certainly had a great body, his gaze tracking down to her legs to confirm. There were no mental directives either way on having sex with her. So he suspected the hormonal admiration was all his own. It made him grin. Normal after all.

'You're not a starship-leasing agent, Corrie-Lyn said abruptly, her face pulled up in a peeved expression.

He realized he was allowing some of his feelings to ooze out into the gaiafield. 'No.

'So what are you?

'Some kind of secret agent, I guess.

'You guess?

'Yeah.

'Don't you know?

'Not really.

'What do you mean?

'Simple enough. If I don't know anything I can't reveal anything. I just have things I know I have to do.

'You mean you haven't got any memories of who you are?

'Not really, no.

'Do you know who you're working for?

'No.

'So how do you know you should be working for them?

'Excuse me?

'How do you know you're not working for the Ocisen Empire, that you're helping bring down the Greater Commonwealth? Or what if you're a left-over Starflyer agent? They say Paula Myo never did catch all of them.

'Unlikely, but admittedly I don't know.

'Then how can you live with yourself?

'I think it's improbable that I'm doing something like that. If you asked me to do it now, I wouldn't. So I wouldn't have agreed to do it before my full memory was removed.

'Your full memory. Corrie-Lyn tasted the idea with the same care as she'd sampled the bluefruit. 'Anyone who agrees to have their memory taken out just to get an illegal contract has got to be pretty extreme. And you kill people, too. You're good at it.

'My combat software was superior to theirs. And they'll be re-lifed. Your friend Captain Manby is probably already walking around looking for us. Think how much improved his motivation is now, thanks to me.

'Without your memories you can't know what your true personality is.

Aaron reached for his French toast. 'And your point is?

'For Ozzie's sake, doesn't that trouble you?

'No.

She shook her head in amazement. 'That's got to be an artificial feeling.

'Again, so what? It makes me efficient at what I do. Personality trait realignment is a useful procedure at re-life. If you want to be a management type, then have your neural structure altered to give yourself confidence and aggression.

'Choose a vocation and mould yourself to fit. Great, that's so human.

'Now then what's your definition of human these days? Higher? Advancer? Originals? How about the Hive? Huxley's Haven has kept a regulated society functioning for close to one and a half thousand years; every one of them proscribed by genetic determination, and they're still going strong, with a population that's healthy and happy. Now you go and tell me plain and clear: which of us won the human race?

'I'm not arguing evolution with you. Besides it's just a distraction to what you are.

'I thought we'd gone and agreed that neither of us knows what I am. Is that what fascinates you about me?

'In your pervert dreams!

Aaron grinned and crunched down on some toast.

'So what's your mission? Corrie-Lyn asked. 'What do you have to do, kidnap Living Dream Councillors?

'Ex-Councillors. But no, that's not the way of it'

'So what do you want with me?

'I need to find Inigo. I believe you can help.

Corrie-Lyn dropped her spoon and stared at him in disbelief. 'You've got to be kidding.

'No.

'You expect me to help you? After what you've just said?

'Yes. Why not?

'But… she spluttered.

'Living Dream is trying to kill you. Understand this: they're not going to stop. If anything, the other night will only make them more determined. The only person left in the galaxy who can put the brakes on your dear new Cleric Conservator is Inigo himself.