‘Oh you wee beauty.’ He can feel the grin spreading.

The stairwells are too dangerous-blocked with piles of furniture, lit by flickering torches-but the lift shaft is another matter. He double checks Fat Boy Alexander is securely strapped in place, then inches forwards until the floor comes to a sudden, terminal stop.

Holding on to the open elevator door with one hand, he reaches out into the void, searching along the lift shaft’s rough foamcrete walls for the maintenance ladder he knows is in there.

Climb down to the ground floor, break out through the front doors, and run like hell for freedom. Easy. No problem at all. Leave this dark, scary shitehole behind and go back to the real world, where people don’t mutilate themselves with kitchen knives.

The sound of drums explodes all around him and he flinches, stumbles, grabs at the wall, trying not to scream…He scrabbles back into the corridor, heart hammering faster than the deafening drums. He stands there, trembling for a moment, then wipes a hand across his eyes. Frowns. Blinks.

There’s a light, flickering weakly at the far end of the passageway.

It’s getting brighter.

Oh Jesus…

They’re coming.

Will sat bolt-upright in the middle of the bed, surrounded by clammy sheets, sweat running down his chest, heart pounding. He dragged in a couple of ragged breaths and swore.

Hadn’t had that nightmare for nearly four and a half years.

‘Lights.’ The controller bleeped, filling the apartment with dazzling brightness. ‘Argh…Down, down!’ They slowly faded to something less likely to burn his irises off.

Will slumped back on the bed and scowled at the ceiling. Not a good start to the day.

By the time he’d showered, dressed, and caught the shuttle into work, it was half past seven and the dream was gone.

Network Headquarters was enjoying the quiet lull before the day shift kicked in. Services were delivering their daily consignment of halfheads, herding them through the squeaky corridors. Giving them their instructions in small, easy to understand words, then handing each a wheely-bucket full of cleaning supplies and leaving them to get on with it.

Sweep. Mop. Polish. Tidy. Dust.

One of the bigger halfheads bent to pick up a cloth and cleanblock from the bucket at its feet, then shambled over to polish the lift doors. What was left of its surgically truncated features was covered in spiral tattoos, a brand new patch of pink skin grafted onto its forehead with the barcode right in the middle. It looked vaguely ridiculous, but then that was the point. Will stood for a moment, waiting for the halfhead to finish, then decided that he’d really rather take the stairs.

Somehow the lift didn’t appeal today.

An hour and a half later his desktop terminal bleeped at him. Incoming call. Will scowled at the little camera mounted into the unit. The bloody thing had resisted all attempts at sabotage. He’d even tried sticky tape over the lens, but the halfhead who did the offices cleaned it away every time it came in to empty the bins.

Will stabbed the ‘receive’ button and barked, ‘Hunter,’ into the microphone.

‘Aye, very good.’ A familiar, podgy face filled the screen, one eye a milky ball of grey with little flashes of light going off inside it. The image was slightly distorted, stretched by the tiny wide-angle camera attached to the end of the caller’s fingerphone. ‘Nice haircut byraway, circus in town?’

Will ran a hand through his unruly locks, unable to stop the smile breaking out on his face.

‘Morning, Brian. Had a dream about you last night.’

‘Oh aye? Don’t tell James, he gets affa jealous.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ He settled back in his chair. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘Lousy. The Munchkin From Hell keeps givin’ us cases Sherlock Holmes couldn’t fuckin’ solve.’

‘That’s because you’re her special little soldier.’

‘Aye, and my farts smell of rainbows.’ A scowl turned his features ugly. ‘Every time I see the old bag I get another impossible case.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s gettin’ her own back for what happened at the Christmas party. Did I tell you…’

Will listened to Brian rant for a while, nodding his head every now and then to pretend he was paying attention. Brian was wrong about Director Smith-Hamilton, yes she had it in for him, but her grudge went back a lot further than last Christmas.

‘What can I do for you Brian?’

‘Oh, right…It’s your new girl, DS Cameron.’ There was a squeaking noise and the background swooped past Brian’s head-probably swivelling his chair around-settling on a patchwork of old, two-dimensional photographs as he dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘She’s dodderin’ about this mornin’, looking like somethin’ the cat shat out. What the hell did you do to her yesterday?’

‘George found traces of VR syndrome in two bodies from Sherman House. Natives got restless when we went back to search the victim’s apartment.’

Brian blinked. ‘What do you mean, “when we went back”? You’re no tellin’ me you went with her!’

‘If it’s an outbreak of VR it’s out of Bluecoat jurisdiction. You know that.’

‘Sherman House…’ Brian’s face shuddered. ‘Jesus an’ the wee man. I mean, I find it hard enough and I was away with the fairies the whole time. Last time I bagged and tagged a set of Termies there thought I was going to pee myself…’ He trailed off. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

‘I lost Stein.’

‘Aw, Jesus.’ Sigh. ‘I’m sorry. Two in one week…’

Will changed the subject. ‘Anyway: DS Cameron?’

Brian’s round, pink face suddenly loomed on the screen, until Will was staring straight into one huge, magnified eye. ‘She doesn’t know I’m telling you this-and she’d probably throw a blue hairy if she found out-but she’s no doin’ as well as she’s kiddin’ on.’

Will nodded. He’d seen the look on her face when the mortuary techs wheeled Stein’s body away. The life of a Blue-coat wasn’t easy, but it was nothing compared to what the Network went up against every day.

‘Can you no’ get her to take some time off?’

‘Don’t know, Brian: she only started yesterday. If I send her home it’s going to look like I don’t think she’s up to the job.’

‘What’s more important? You lookin’ like a shite in a suit, or her being able to cope?’

‘Point taken.’

‘Knew you’d see sense.’ The image zoomed out again, showing off a big toothy grin. ‘Oh, and while I’m on, James wants to know if you’re free for dinner tonight?’

‘I don’t know if I can-’

‘Bollocks. My place: seven thirty. And bring a bottle of somethin’ drinkable this time, you tight-fisted bastard.’ There was a muffled sound from the room behind him and the picture jiggled around until Will was looking at DS Cameron. She was carrying two steaming mugs. Brian reached out and took one. ‘Thanks, that’s smashin’.’

‘Got you some biscuits too…’

Biscuits? First George, now Brian. Maybe she had a thing for strange little fat men?

Will shook his head. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’ He killed the link and went back to the paperwork.

The crime reports should have been interesting-high-tech transgression, murder, fraud, espionage, disappearances, kidnappings, hostile interventions-but somehow his team of agents always managed to make everything read like stereo instructions. He waded through as many as he could before near-suicidal boredom set in.

He dumped the last two inches of cold tea from his mug in the nearest sickly pot plant and headed for the fourth floor.

There was no sign of Brian in the tiny office, but Detect ive Sergeant Jo Cameron was at her desk, grumbling away at something on her screen. Her hair was even more fashionable than before-the tightly-wound bun sitting at a bizarre angle to accommodate the new bald patch. The back of her neck was a swathe of fresh skinpaint, the shiny pink surface looking out of place against her caramel skin. But what really grabbed the attention was today’s suit. It hadn’t looked too bad on Brian’s fingerphone, but in person it was…hard to ignore. Bright blue with a narrow, luminous orange pinstripe, orange buttons, and orange lapels.