Defences could be made from anything. The wolves protected Samsara.. As did the rare white elephants, obscure mountain cranes and the last sixteen snow leopards not in cryo. One aid agency’s ‘fugee might be some metaNational’s financial terrorist, but no one got stressed at the Dalai Lama providing refuge for animals. Rumour said the animals got higher corporate donations than the starving, sick and homeless, but no one really knew. Some subset of a subset of Tsongkhapa ran the banking routines.

‘I found it in the stable.’ Axl liked the way both figures suddenly jerked their attention away from the cloth bag.

‘We searched there,’ Tukten announced. The Clone said nothing, but then he couldn’t. What he did do was stare hard at Axl.

‘Yeah,’ Axl shrugged, his voice bored. ‘Well, that’s where I found it.’

The Clone gurgled something and the boy nodded.

‘Where?’ demanded Tukten.

‘In the trough,’ Axl said, remembering a crude waterbox that took rain from a downpipe off the stable roof. That they hadn’t searched the water trough was obvious from the expressions of hope that flicked across the two very different faces.

It was Clone who reached a decision first, jerking his chin towards a track that threaded between bodies. Translated it meant, ‘you take him’. At least that was what Axl figured it meant. The boy didn’t want to, that was equally obvious. He wanted to ride back with the good news, but Clone was already wheeling his mount about, Axl forgotten.

It couldn’t be better. Not for Axl anyway who watched as Clone yanked roughly on the reins of his horse and galloped back the way they’d all come. A minute or so later he vanished behind a low bank of scrub and Axl was left alone with the Tibetan boy, who was now looking more nervous than ever.

‘Ride,’ the boy demanded, scowling at Axl.

No way. Axl was going to negotiate his way out of this one. Only when Axl smiled and shook his head, Tukten lifted the heavy revolver with both hands, fingers of his left hand steadying those of the right, just like you saw on NVPD/Live.

The long barrel shook so badly it looked like the boy was running a fever.

Fear did that to you. Fucked up the adrenal levels without damping down neural feedback. Not that understanding this was any consolation to Axl who sat right in the path of any bullet. The kid was frightened and the kid was armed, no one had to tell Axl that this wasn’t a good mixture.

From the wrong end of the revolver it looked like the thing packed a 250 grain, conical bullet, soft lead with no jacketing. Which gave the revolver a muzzle velocity of 900 feet per second. More than adequate. And mechanically the gun looked so simple there was little chance it was going to jam any time soon.

But what worried Axl most wasn’t the revolver’s .45 calibre or its muzzle velocity, it was the amount of shake Tukten was giving to the barrel. Rock solid told you the guy with his finger round the trigger was either a psycho or had done it before, probably often. Rank amateurs Axl identified by the dangerous level of hand-jive their fear imparted to the barrel. The ones in between presented no problem to anyone, being slower, less clued-up and a lot less mean than they’d like to believe.

‘Point it somewhere else,’ Axl suggested, and kicked his mare into reluctant action, heading back towards Cocheforet. It looked like good advice wasted. The bullet didn’t come, but then nor did Tukten. And Axl turned to find the Tibetan boy holding the revolver with straight arms, as far away from his own body as possible. The barrel still shook as if Tukten was running a come-down but the revolver was very definitely pointed straight at Axl.

Taking him across the plateau wasn’t the boy’s job after all, Axl realised with shock. He’d misread Clone’s unspoken instructions completely. Tukten was meant to kill him and dump his body for wolf feed. Sure, the kid was frightened by the charnel ground but not as scared as he was at the thought of having to shoot someone.

Big casino, little casino. It was a virginity that no one got back.

Axl swung round the head of his mare and rode slowly back towards the trembling boy who looked, for one flustered moment, as if he was about to try to get his own mount to back up. Instead, he gripped the revolver tighter, knuckles whitening around its crude wooden grip.

If Axl had ever needed his Colt now was the time. Or maybe not. The boy would have been dead already.

‘Stay back,’ Tukten demanded.

Axl didn’t. He kicked his heels softly into the mare’s flanks and pushed her forward a few paces, his eye firmly on the boy’s face. Looking into someone’s face as you killed them was difficult enough when killing was what you did as the day job and Tukten wasn’t yet angry enough to pull the trigger out of anything except fear. At least, Axl hoped he wasn’t.

‘Come on,’ Axl told Tukten, ‘give me the gun.’

The boy tightened his grip, eyes widening.

‘We’ll ride back together,’ Axl said hastily reining in his horse, but Tukten wasn’t listening. The connection was gone.

When the shot came its blast sent a black cloud of Egyptian vultures spiralling skyward but Axl was too busy dropping sideways from his spooked mare and rolling behind the nearest boulder to notice. And it took him until his ears stopped ringing to realise he hadn’t been injured.

‘Fucking terrific,’ said a voice behind him and a silver monkey crashed into the dirt, a jagged hole torn in one wing. ‘Can’t leave you alone for a minute.’

As Axl watched the hole mended itself, closing up from the edges like liquid mercury coming together. It didn’t take a genius to know that the Colt was back on line, sort of ...

‘You trying to get yourself shot, eh?’ Rinpoche demanded. ‘And what were you going to do if I didn’t turn up? Frighten him to death with your fucking face?’

The monkey paused, took a look at the black cavity where Axl’s missing eye had been and twisted its lips into a rueful grin, thin lips sliding back to show gold canines. ‘Been picking fights you can’t win?’

Yeah, thought Axl, mostly with life, but he didn’t admit that to the monkey. Instead he gazed pointedly at the raw skid mark its landing had carved into the plateau grass.

‘Fucking air density’s fucked,’ the monkey said furiously, tripping over one of its own wings as it stood up. ‘You any idea how badly this check-the-real-altitude, then add-ten-thousand-feet-to-get-virtual-altitude shit fucks up basic aerodynamics?’

Axl shook his head.

‘Didn’t think so,’ said Rinpoche. ‘It’s a fucking miracle anyone can get a sodding helicopter to move in these conditions ...' The monkey looked over at the terrified boy. ‘What’s with Mowgli?’

‘He’s scared.’

‘He should try dropping through the upper atmosphere of this place. Wind like a cosmic fart. Not to mention more fucking hardware up there than there are HondaGlydes on the Beltway…’

‘Security?’

‘Plus CySat, C3N, TimeWarner. Simple peasants fanning the homestead, brave hunters, furry little bears scooping fish from crystal streams. This place is a fucking goldmine ...' The silver monkey turned its attention to wings which spread across the ground behind it.

‘Lose those for a start,’ Rinpoche said crossly and both immediately shrank, thickening as they did. ‘The wings are a given,’ it told Axl with a sigh, ‘coded into the animus, but there are style choices.’ The monkey shut its eyes, which looked horribly like real rubies, and ran some permutations. Gold scales, bronze feathers so perfect they looked real, wings of transparent glass, the monkey rejected them all without even opening its eyes.

‘Small,’ Axl told it, ‘something basic…’

‘Basic!’ Rinpoche glared at Axl and did a quick pirouette on the damp grass, showing off jewels that ran like exposed vertebrae down its spine. ‘Does this look fucking basic?’ All the same it let its wings stabilise to two bat-like sails that opened and closed around hollow silver spars. The downy skin between the thin spars was niello black.