Questions and doubts, coiling back and forth in his head, and Carmen withdrawing, cooler now with every time they lay together, drifting away from him. There’d been times recently when she simply didn’t want him, shrugged him off, made excuses that convinced him less and less. He could see the time coming when—

And then, instead, the black man came.

“You stay out of it,” Carmen snapped at him as she threw on clothes. “You don’t make a move unless I call it, right?”

At the door of the tiny lower-deck apartment, she turned back, softened her voice with an effort he saw on her face.

“Sorry, Scott. It’s just, you know how hard this is for all of us. Just let me handle it. It’ll be fine.”

So he watched on the monitors instead, and he saw the black man for himself. No doubt in his mind anymore; he felt the thud of certainty in his blood. The black man, betraying himself in his arrogance. I’m not a policeman, Ren. Don’t make that mistake with me. I’m here for Merrin. If you don’t give him up, I’ll go through you to get him. Your choice, but one way or another, it’s going to get done. Scott felt his previous confusion shrivel away. Regained conviction was a solid joy in his throat, a pulsing in his limbs.

And Carmen, showing no fear—his heart swelled with love and pride for her—but he knew the terror she must feel, there alone, facing the darkness. Carmen, brave enough to keep silent in the face of the black man’s threats, to stand his presence, but not strong enough to do what needed to be done.

We have a part to play in this, Scott. You have a part.

And now he knew what it was.

The machete was cling-padded to a panel under the bed. He hadn’t told Carmen, but he’d seen how it might come down, the enemy smashing in the door like the faceless helmeted UN police in End Times Volume I Issue 56, dragging them naked and defenseless from the bed.

He wouldn’t go that way.

He dressed, pulled on a midlength deck coat with DASKEEN AZUL logos across back and sleeves. He freed the machete from its cling-pads, tucked it under the coat, under one arm. Checked himself in the mirror and saw that it worked—not enough to get past any kind of door with security on it, but in the incessant crowds of the shopping decks, more than enough to let him get close.

The rest was in God’s hands.

He looked into the mirror, saw the taut determination his face threw back, and for just a moment it was as if it were Him, Merrin, looking out from behind Scott’s eyes, lending him the force of will he’d need.

Scott murmured a swift prayer of thanks, and walked out to face the black man.

It was like the fucking Saudi opsdog all over again. Like Dudeck and the Aryans. Carl saw the eyes, locked with them on instinct, and it was the same blank, driven hatred that filled them. Who the fuck—

No time—the machete swung down. His attacker was a big guy, tall and reachy, the response wrote itself. Carl hurled himself forward, inside the chopping arc, blocked and stamped, took the fight to the ground. Against all expectation, the other man flailed like an upturned beetle. Carl got in with an elbow, stunning blow to the face, tanindo grasp on the machete arm, twist and the weapon clattered free. A knee came up and caught him in the groin, not full force but enough to half kill his strength. The other man was screaming at him, weird invective and what sounded like religious invocation. Hands came clawing for his throat. It was no kind of fighting Carl knew. He fended, expecting a trick. Got feeble repetition instead. He did the obvious thing, grabbed a finger and snapped it sideways. The invocation broke on a scream. Another long leg lashed at him, but he smothered it, kept hold of the snapped finger, twisted some more. His attacker screamed again, quivered like a gaffed fish. Carl had time to look down into the eyes again, saw no surrender there. He chopped down, into the side of the throat, pulled it a little at the last moment—he’d need to talk to this guy.

The fight died.

Rovayo circled in, gun drawn, leveled on the unmoving figure on the floor. Carl grunted around the ache in his balls, shot the pistol an ironic glance.

“Thanks. Little late for that.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet.” Carl levered himself to his feet, groaned again, glanced around. The gathered crowd gaped back. “Just him, huh?”

“Looks that way.” Rovayo hauled an arm aloft, showed the holo in her palm to the spectators.

“RimSec,” she stated it like a challenge. “Anyone work security around here?”

Hesitation, then a thickset uniform with blunt Samoan features shouldered his way through the others.

“I do.”

“Good, you’re deputized.” She read the name off his chest ID. “Suaniu. Call this in, get some backup. The rest of you, give me some space.”

On the floor, Carl’s attacker coughed and flopped. They all looked. Carl saw suddenly that he was young, younger even than Dudeck had been. Barely out of his teens. He cast about and saw a cluster of carbon-fiber chairs and tables around a sushi counter that had closed for the night. He hauled the boy up by the lapels and dragged him toward the nearest chair. The crowd skittered back out of his path. The boy’s eyes fluttered. Carl dumped him into the chair, settled him there, and slapped him hard across the face.

“Name?”

The boy gagged, tried to rub at his neck where Carl’s stunning chop had gone home. The black man slapped him again.

“Name,” he said again.

“You can’t do that,” said a woman’s voice from the crowd. Australian twang to it. Carl turned his head, found her with a narrow look. Elegant olive-skinned shopper, early fifties, stick-thin. A couple of bags, ocher and green parcels, black cord handles, flicker ad for some franchise or other across the ocher in black Thai script.

His lip curled. “Haven’t you got some shoes to go buy?”

“Fuck you, buddy.” She wasn’t backing down. “This isn’t the Rim. You can’t walk all over us like this.”

“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.” Carl went back to the boy in the chair, backhanded him and got blood. “Name.”

“Marsalis,” Rovayo was at his side. “That’s enough.”

“You think?”

Her voice dropped to a mutter. “She’s right, this isn’t the Rim. There’s only so far we can push this.”

Carl looked around. The Samoan security guard was talking into a phone, but his eyes were fixed on the boy and the black man standing over him. And the crowd had shuffled back when Rovayo ordered them to, but beyond that they were staying put. Carl guessed maybe one in ten had actually seen the fight, even less the machete attack that preceded it. The scenario was wide open for interpretation.

He shrugged. “You’ve got the gun.”

“Yeah, I do. And I’m not about to start shooting these people with it.”

“I don’t think it’d come to that.”

“Marsalis, forget it. I’m not—”

Spluttering cough. The boy in the chair floundered there, grasping the carbon-weave arms. His gaze was locked on Carl’s face.

“Black man,” he spat.

Carl glanced sideways at Rovayo. “Observant little fucker, isn’t he.”

The Rim cop grimaced and put herself between Carl and the chair. She showed the RimSec holo to the boy. “See that? Do you know how much trouble you’re in, son?”

The boy glared back at her. “I know you lie for him. Authority out of Babylon, and black lies that shield the servants of Satan. I know who your master is.”

“Oh great.”

“Marsalis, shut up a minute.” Rovayo closed her hand, stowed her gun, and scrutinized their prisoner with hands on hips. “You’re from Jesusland, right? You’re a fence hopper? You got any idea how quickly I can have you sent back there?”

“I do not answer to your laws. I do not bow down before Mammon and Belial. I have been chosen.” In the crystalline lighting of the mall, the boy’s face was pale and slick with sweat. “I have gone beyond.”