Thirteen hours after they docked, the last of Ethenthia’s security officers departed. André gazed around lugubriously at his bridge. The consoles were little more than open grids of processor boards; walls and decking had been stripped down to the bare metal; environmental ducts were making stressed whining sounds, and dirty condensation was building up on every surface.

“We did it.” His clown face exhibited a genuine smile as he looked from Erick, to Madeleine, and finally Desmond. “We’re home free.”

Madeleine and Desmond began to chuckle, sharing the realization. They really had come through.

“I have a few bottles in my cabin,” André said. “If those thieving scum anglo police haven’t stolen them. We must celebrate. Ethenthia is as good a place as any to sit out this war. We can keep busy with some proper maintenance. I’m sure I can get the insurance to pay for some of this wreckage; after all, we’re war heroes now. Who will argue, eh?”

“Tina might,” Erick said.

The flatness in the voice dispelled André’s smile. “Tina who?”

“The girl we killed on the Krystal Moon. Murdered, actually.”

“Oh, Erick. Dear enfant. You are tired. You have done more work than most.”

“Certainly more than you. But what’s new there?”

“Erick,” Desmond said. “Come now, it has been a terrible time for all of us. Perhaps we should get some rest before we decide what to do next.”

“Good suggestion. I admit I haven’t quite made up my mind what to do with you yet.”

“What you are going to do with us?” André asked indignantly. “I think your medical modules are malfunctioning; your brain is being fed the wrong chemicals. Come, we will go to bed, and in the morning none of this will be mentioned again.”

“Shut up, you pompous geek,” Erick said. It was the contemptuous indifference of the voice which shocked André into silence.

“My problem is that I owe Madeleine and Desmond my life,” Erick went on. “But then, if you hadn’t been such an arsehole, Duchamp, none of us would ever have been put in the crazy position we were. That’s the kind of hazard I have to accept when I take on missions like this.”

“Missions?” André didn’t like the cold passion which had suddenly overtaken his crewman.

“Yes, I’m an undercover officer in the CNIS.”

“Oh, fuck,” Madeleine grunted helplessly. “Erick . . . Shit, I liked you.”

“Yeah. That’s my problem, too. I’m in a little bit deeper than I ever expected. We made a good team fighting the possessed.”

“So now what?” she asked numbly. “A penal colony?”

“After everything we went through, I’m prepared to make you an offer. I owe you that, I think.”

“What sort of offer?” André asked.

“An exchange. You see, I’m your case officer, I’m the one who decides if the Service prosecutes, I’m the one who provides the evidence that we attacked the Krystal Moon and killed a fifteen-year-old girl because you’re such an incompetent captain you can’t keep up the payments on a ship that isn’t worth ten fuseodollars.”

“Ah! Of course, money is no problem, my dear enfant. I can mortgage the ship, it will be done for you by tomorrow. What currency do you—”

“Shut up!” Madeleine bellowed. “Just shut the fuck up, Duchamp. What is it, Erick? What’s he got to do? Because whatever it is, he’s going to do it with a big smile on his fat stupid face.”

“I want to know something, Duchamp,” Erick said. “And I think you can tell me. In fact, I’m sure you can. Because it’s information which only the vilest, most deceitful pieces of shit in the galaxy are entrusted with.” He drifted over until he was centimetres from the captain. Duchamp had started to tremble.

“What is the coordinate of the antimatter station, André?” he asked softly. “I know you know.”

André blanched. “I . . . I cannot. Not that.”

“Oh, really? Do you know why the Confederation is so unsuccessful in finding antimatter production stations, Madeleine?” Erick asked. “It’s because we can’t use debrief nanonics on people we suspect of knowing where they are. Nor can we use drugs, or even torture. It’s their neural nanonics, you see. The price of learning a station’s coordinate is a very special set of neural nanonics. The black cartel supplies them absolutely free of charge. Top-of-the-range, whatever marque you like, but always with one small modification. If they detect the owner is being subjected to any form of interrogation, such as debrief nanonics, they kamikaze. The only way the coordinate is passed on is voluntarily. So what is it, Duchamp?”

“They’ll kill me,” André whimpered. He made to reach out and clasp Erick’s shoulder, but his hand fisted just before contact and drew back. “Did you not hear? They’ll kill me!”

“Fucking tell him!” Madeleine shouted.

“Non.”

“It won’t be a penal colony after the trial,” Erick said. “We’ll take you away to a quiet little laboratory deep in Trafalgar, and try and see if this time we can beat the kamikaze mechanism.”

“They’ll know. They always find out. Always!”

“One of the stations is supplying Capone with antimatter. That means the cartel has already lost it to the possessed, so they’re not going to care. And what about you? Do you care, do you want Capone to keep winning? And if he does beat us, what do you think he’ll do with you when he finally catches up with you?”

“But suppose the station I know of isn’t the one?”

“The only good antimatter station is one which has been destroyed. Now what’s it going to be? The CNIS lab? The cartel? Capone? Or do I load a no further action code in your file? Make your mind up.”

“I despise you, anglo. I want your precious Confederation to die right in front of you. I want your entire family possessed and made to fuck animals. I want your soul trapped in the beyond for all time. Only then will I have justice for what you and your kind have done to me and my life.”

“The coordinate, Duchamp,” Erick said impassively.

André datavised the star’s almanac file over.

Lieutenant Commander Emonn Verona, the CNIS’s head of station on Ethenthia, sat behind his desk and stared at Erick in what was almost a state of reverence. “You have the name of the next system Capone intends to invade, and an antimatter station coordinate?”

“Yes, sir. According to Pryor, Capone is going to send his fleet to the Toi-Hoi system.”

“Good God. If we can ambush that fleet, we’ve got the bastard cold. He’ll be finished.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. This bureau’s only goal now is to get your information back to Trafalgar. There aren’t any navy ships stationed here; I’m going to have to signal the Edenist habitats orbiting Golmo and request some voidhawks. That’s fifteen light-hours away.” He eyed the exhausted captain whose skin seemed to be half nanonic packages; the medical ancillary modules fastened to his belt had several orange LEDs winking on them. “We ought to have a voidhawk here within sixteen hours. That’ll give you some time to have a decent rest first.”

“Thanks. All of us got pretty strung out searching the ship for that nuke.”

“I’ll bet. Are you sure you want to drop the charges against Duchamp?”

“Not really. But I gave my word, even though that means nothing to a man like him. Besides, he knows the navy has a file on him now, he knows we’ll be watching him, he’ll never trust another crew member again. He’ll never be able to fly another illegal flight again. And given the state of that ship, and his own abilities, he isn’t going to be able to make enough from legal charters to keep going. The banks will take the Villeneuve’s Revenge off him. For someone like him, that’s worse than a penal colony or the death sentence.”

“I hope I never get you at my court-martial,” Emonn Verona said.

“He deserves it.”