‘Strip,’ she ordered and Axl did, dropping his shirt and trousers onto the dirt floor.

She’d fed him already, thukpa, a thin noodle soup with lumps of lamb floating in the salty liquid. And then insisted he finish a bowl of cold dumplings stuffed with radish.

He’d left the grey coat with his money in its pockets upstairs. That seemed safest and anyway Axl was alone in the inn with her and he had no intention of letting her out of his sight.

‘How hot?’ The woman had a huge iron kettle in her hand and was standing next to a tub that rose slightly at one end, so it looked like a crib for an oversized child.

‘Hot as you can,’ Axl said and stepped out of a pair of dirt-grey Calvins. She looked him over without shame.

‘I’m Ketzia,’ she announced suddenly. For a moment Axl was worried she was going to try to shake hands. ‘They messed you over bad ...'

Axl grunted and gave a half shrug. He was proud of the shrug. ‘No worse than anyone else.’

Her brown eyes were counting up his wounds, looking at bruises and putting dates to those scars. He’d met the type before. Women who couldn’t make conversation, looked twenty-five before they hit fifteen and had two kids before they hit twenty, but who could remove bullets using just a knife and their fingers and stitch shut a machete wound using thread from a sewing basket.

You found them among the poor on the edge of every war zone and disaster area. Living there because that was where no one else wanted to live. His mother had been one of them, apparently. Not that he’d known her. She’d been dead three years by the time the Cardinal had her tracked down for him.

‘Who did it?’

Good question. Axl let the silence stretch thin between them, wondering if she’d break it. She didn’t. Instead, Ketzia filled her vast kettle from a bucket and put it back on the embers. She finally left the tiny kitchen carrying the empty bucket.

Somewhere out front the pump clanked and then she was back.

‘Get in,’ Ketzia said, nodding at the half-filled bath, ‘you don’t want someone to see you.’ She grinned sourly. ‘So,’ she said, ‘how good’s that eye of yours?’

‘You’re a woman,’ Axl told her, ‘long hair in a braid, long skirt, that’s it... It doesn’t do fine detail, it doesn’t do night sight and it only manages black and white. Oh yeah, and everything’s flat, like you get on a cheap screen…’

‘You’ve got enough money to buy a real one?’

‘Out here?’

Ketzia nodded but she was agreeing the idea was silly. ‘The Savonarolas didn’t leave you much nerve, right?’ It was a statement not a question. Her voice made it obvious she figured Axl knew that already, first-hand. ‘And they got you for doing that Ishie stuff ...' She paused. ‘You can imagine what the bastards core out if you’re a prostitute or a rent boy.’

He could, imagine it that was. The Savonarolas weren’t original. Most of what their death squads had made their own in the atrocity stakes wasn’t even new. Merely updated from outrages first committed in the Balkans or the North African littoral. Places like the outskirts of M’Dina where the Mufti had been fighting a vicious, fifty-year campaign against the Jihad fundamentalists, and losing.

Five minutes later Ketzia was bored with watching Axl scrub half-heartedly at the wounds on his face. So she took the cloth from him, almost gently. And leaning back in the tub, Axl shut his eye and concentrated on feeling her heavy breasts as they brushed lightly against his shoulder through her blouse. She smelt of sweat, but he only knew that because he’d finally stopped stinking himself. And her movements were soft and surprisingly deft as she used a cloth to lift recent blood from the half-healed scar on his forehead.

Everytime Ketzia reached a new gash, she stopped to move her fingers softly round the edges. At first Axl figured she was feeling for swelling, but what Ketzia was really doing was checking the wounds were real, that it really was a SQUID scar, that what looked like a spike plug in the back of his skull was just that. . .

The woman was running a none-too-discreet check routine on his injuries and Axl was passing with flying colours. Hell, he wasn’t just passing, he’d passed. He knew that because her callused fingers were slowing, her touch getting ever more soft as her makeshift flannel soaped gently down his gut towards the waterline where there wasn’t a scar in sight.

Despite the cold that howled under the kitchen door and the metal edge of the tub digging into his back, Axl was suddenly tumescent and getting harder by the second. Grinning, the woman dipped her cloth into the water and squeezed slow droplets onto the swollen head of his penis. As moves went it seemed positively inventive for someone whose sex life looked like it was confined to once on Saturdays when beardface was drunk.

Axl groaned and she grinned again, a wide knowing smile at odds with her drab, washed-out clothes… And then the front door opened and shut and Ketzia was gone, out of the back without pausing to say anything at all. Though she hesitated long enough to shut the door.

‘What the ...'

What indeed. Axl kept his legs hugged up to his chest, like he always took a bath with his chin resting on his knees. ‘I was dirty,’ he told the innkeeper. ‘Okay? And I’ve already told your wife I’ll pay for the dung on the fire.’

‘It’s a thaler,’ stated the man.

‘For a tub of water?’

‘Yeah.’ He had his fists clenched on his hips and it was obvious that Leon was furious, but it was equally obvious he had no real idea at what.

‘Okay,’ said Axl calmly, ‘but I’ll need a towel.’

‘You’ll need a…’

‘For a thaler,’ said Axl, ‘I want a towel.’

The innkeeper didn’t even bother to go to the door, just stood in the middle of the kitchen and screamed ‘Ketzia’. The only answer he got was silence.

‘Where is she?’

Axl shrugged. ‘How the fuck would I know?’

Footsteps, when they finally approached, came through the bar at the front and stopped carefully at the kitchen door.

‘You decent?’ There was a brisk knocking and then the woman stuck her head round the door.

‘Well… ?’ Ketzia stopped and looked at the innkeeper. ‘Didn’t know you were back,’ she said to her husband, not sounding too pleased.

Leon flushed. ‘Our guest wants a towel.’ He put heavy emphasis on the second word, as if the idea of anyone wanting to stay at his inn was somehow ridiculous.

‘Probably does. If he plans to dry himself,’ said the woman.

‘Budvar,’ Axl demanded, but only because he knew Leon couldn’t possibly provide bottled beer. Couldn’t provide a decent shave either, obviously enough, because Cocheforet didn’t run to generators and the Braun disposable Axl had stolen from Dr Jane’s surgery didn’t work on daylight, it needed a feed.

Which was tough, because Cocheforet didn’t run to that either. The better Axl felt inside himself the worse his temper got. Almost as if the constant headache had acted as a filter against the world in which he’d found himself.

No razor, no newsfeed and no new eyes, but worst of all no hope of finding any of them anywhere ... It was like stumbling back two centuries. Except it wasn’t. What it was really like was going below Third World.

Standing at the zinc, Axl stared slowly round at Leon’s filthy bar and the silent, three-man crowd of even filthier customers and wondered for the first time what he was doing, other than saving his own life. Mind you, he knew what they were doing. Waiting for him to leave the room.

As for Samsara itself… Well, the best you could say was that it was economically self-sufficient. Not importing food or technology from Earth meant no commercial ties, and no commercial ties meant no metaNational leverage. Economic blockade might have replaced the gunboat kind nine times out of ten, but even the guys on Capitol Hill weren’t stupid enough to try that one on Tsongkhapa, not when there were no essentials that Samsara needed.