"Thank you," said Cormac to Samara.

"You're going to need all your strength," she said unpleasantly.

Cormac folded his arms, made himself as comfortable as he could, and stared at Carl, just trying to figure him out.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I was killing ECS soldier boys before you appeared in your daddy's testicles." Carl glanced round. "That's if you are what you appear to be."

It sounded so utterly wrong coming from the recruit Cormac had known for over two years, so wrong from someone he thought his own age. He tried to think of something else to ask, but it was almost as if the juice he had just drunk was alcoholic, for abruptly he just could not see straight. Perhaps he had been drugged, but it was just as likely the aftereffects of the toxin. He closed his eyes and drifted…

"Out!"

He fell backwards, just managing to catch hold of the door frame to stop himself from tumbling out of the car, swung his feet round and staggered out. It was dark, but not so dark he could not see Skyril's grin. Though he might hesitate to kill Pramer, Cormac felt he would not hesitate for a second if the target was Pramer's partner. Utterly weary, Cormac stood, shoulders hunched, and seemingly without the strength to even lift his arms. They were in the midst of a skarch forest, with only the odd glimpse up through the foliage of cloudy sky backlit by the glow of the orbital debris ring.

"Get in."

Skyril was holding open the hatch to the luggage compartment of a corroded ATV with worn bubble-plas tyres. Cormac walked over slowly, gazed into the oily space and hesitated.

"Wasn't the instruction clear enough for you?"

Something prodded him in the back and he glanced back to see Samara brandishing a pulse-rifle, probably his own. A few paces back from her Carl stood holding a thin-gun—probably the one Cormac had stolen earlier—his expression glacial. Beyond him Pramer was driving the limousine away, Sheen sitting beside him. Cormac was glad to see the both of them go, for, should the opportunity arise, Sheen was another he might hesitate to kill. He climbed into the luggage compartment whereupon Skyril slammed the hatch shut on him. He closed his eyes and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible in the cramped space. In a surprisingly short interval he drifted into sleep, but was then snapped out of it by the first bump—a sequence of events that was to repeat for a nightmarish time.

The diving suit felt clammy and sticky but that was due to the internal gel layer. The top half of the suit was ribbed and padded since it incorporated a haemolung and a breathing-assist formed of artificial muscle. Fortunately all this equipment had been positioned to flatter the wearer so when Cormac donned it and clicked his room's viewing window to its «mirror» setting, he gazed upon an eight-year-old who was either heavily into weight-training and steroids or had been boosted. There were gill slits positioned at intervals down either side of his chest, signs of the additional ribcage within the suit for deep water work, but the joint motors for that same work were artfully concealed.

Next Cormac pulled on the gloves, engaged them at the wrist and flexed his fingers. He ran a finger down the palm of one glove and it felt to him almost as if there was no intervening material as the glove transferred the pressure of his touch inside. After a moment he toggled a touch control at the base of his forefinger with his thumb, and webbing extended between his fingers, another touch and it receded. Now he pulled the hood up over his head, felt the pressure phones ooze into his ears, then pressed the face mask into place. Air was fed to him from the haemolung through holes where the mask engaged with his collar ring, so there were no inconvenient dangling tubes. The mask itself was a simple hemisphere, the top half transparent and separated from the opaque bottom breather half. A membrane pressed against his face running in a line which centred on the tip of his nose.

"Diagnostic test," he said.

"I am fully functional," the suit replied in his ear, a little snootily he thought.

"Run a test anyway."

"I just did," it replied. "And again."

Entertaining a suspicion he asked, "Are you AI?"

"Yup," the suit replied. "Lot of processing power in these suits nowadays and sometimes subbies like me often hitch a ride."

"And if I don't want a submind in my suit with me?" Cormac asked.

"Aw, don't be a spoilsport."

Cormac considered dismissing the interloper, but curiosity, and perhaps a little in the way of a loneliness he wouldn't admit, got the better of him.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Well," replied the mind, "I can give you the name of the AI that made me about twenty years ago, but I prefer to be called Mackerel."

"Then Mackerel it is."

"Are you ready yet?" Dax leaned in through the door, also suited up. He was grinning and had a harpoon gun resting across one shoulder.

Cormac understood this utter change in his brother's character, but still felt uncomfortable with it. He pulled the mask from his face and the hood back off his head, stooped and took up his flippers, then headed for the door.

"Are you allowed to use a harpoon," he enquired.

"Special dispensation," Dax spoke over his shoulder as he headed for the water locks of this section of the hotel. "There's a lot of very large g-mod turbot out there. If I get one the hotel will cook some of it for us and pay us for the rest—or rather take the cost off our bill."

As he followed his brother he looked round for his mother, expecting her to be here to see them off. No sign of her, but then lately when she wasn't talking to Dax she was often ensconced alone in her room.

The corridor doglegged at the end and along one wall were three pressure doors with windows spaced between them. Halting by the first door Dax turned to Cormac.

"Let's take a look at your suit," he said.

Cormac grimaced in annoyance, since he felt himself more than capable of checking out his own suit. Really, having an adult check your suit was the kind of thing that needed to be done for infants. He held up his arm, showing the small screen attached to his wrist. Dax waved it away.

"Put your mask on and your hood up, and put on your flippers," he said.

Cormac obliged, while Dax did the same.

"Your suit is fine," said his brother, turning towards the pressure door. Of course, Cormac's was a child's suit and would have a computing channel open directly to his brother's. If there was any problem with Cormac's suit, Dax would receive an alert at the same time as Cormac did.

The inner pressure door opened with a slight hiss of equalizing pressure and Cormac noted a change since the last time he had been here: the door that opened into the sea, which had once been made of ceramal, had now been replaced with chainglass, which made the whole experience of going through the lock a lot less claustrophobic. They both stepped inside and the door drew shut behind them. Immediately, seawater began pouring in through nozzles set in the walls. Cormac remembered with some embarrassment how frightened and helpless he had felt when he first experienced this.

In moments the water was up to his knees, then up to his waist.

"We'll head straight out to flat sands above the reefs," said Dax, his voice clear through the phones in the plugs filling Cormac's ears. "The turbot are out that way hunting mackerel."

"Nasty turbots," said the submind, Mackerel.

Cormac glanced at his brother, but Dax showed no sign of having heard the submind speak. "Don't worry," said Mackerel, obviously guessing what Cormac was thinking. "I'm not letting him hear me and I won't let him hear any replies you make to me… unless of course you want me to?"