Roger had been feeling sick, imagining Alisha cocooned in delta-coma; but for Jed this was just another mission. Thinking of med-drones as cargo was part of getting the job done.

The air smelled different – a hint of honey, overlaid with something Roger could not name – and the gravity was odd. He could not tell whether it was greater or less than the mass-force of Labyrinth, designed to induce one-g acceleration. Instead, his sense of balance seemed to be searching for missing directions, axes of reality that were not there.

Because I’ve been in mu-space too long?

It was a question for later, when they were back in the ship and preferably in mu-space. When you grew up with a spy for a father, privacy became a habit.

In a greeting-hall – as near as Roger could decipher the holokanji – a pale-faced man bowed, his two fists pushed together. Jed returned the gesture; Roger copied it in haste.

‘Greetings, sirs. I am Bodkin Travers by name, and I hereby grant you all best—’

‘Knock off the bullshit,’ said Jed. ‘I’m a working man, and I’ve been here before. No need to treat me like one of the toffs.’

‘Thank Cosmos for that. You can call me Bod, if you like.’

‘Fair enough. I’m Jed and this is Roger.’

Grinning, Bod held out his right fist. Roger bumped it with his own – smiling: it was like being home on Fulgor – then Jed followed suit.

They were speaking Spanalian, one of Roger’s languages since the age of three. This might not be Lucis City, but face it: Barbour was closer to the place he grew up in than Labyrinth could ever be.

‘The commercial formalities’ – Bod grinned at Jed – ‘are waived in any case. It’s not exactly a trade mission today.’ More seriously: ‘The first lot, two hundred or so, are being released from the med-halls today. Poor bastards.’

‘One of Roger’s friends,’ said Jed, ‘is among this consignment.’

‘Oh. I am sorry.’

‘She got clear,’ said Roger. ‘At least it means that much.’

With treatment, she might recover. It was a splinter of hope amid the reality of so many dead or Anomaly-absorbed.

Maybe I need treatment too.

But that was soft thinking, and there was work to do.

‘What happens to the refugees after the medics have released them?’ he asked.

‘There are support groups,’ said Bod. ‘Cabin suites are arranged, so they’ve somewhere to live. Plus employment, based on capabilities, part-time at first.’

‘It’s good of you take them.’ Jed almost growled: ‘Unlike other worlds.’

‘An attitude that’s hard to understand, at least among the rich ones.’

Some colonies could scarcely support the scrabbling inhabitants they already had: that was understandable. But Roger thought that perhaps if Bod had seen Fulgor’s final hours, he would be less keen on refugees coming here, no matter how minuscule the risk of another Anomaly might be.

‘What can I do to help?’ asked Roger. ‘With getting the refugees in from the ship, I mean.’

Bod said, ‘The ship’s Pilot is supposed to start the process from on board, then come out into the reception space to oversee things. If you, Roger, could do the overseeing – not that you really have to do anything, you understand – then Jed won’t have to pause things while he returns from the ship.’

‘Good plan,’ said Jed. ‘Can you send me to my ship the quick way?’

‘Ah.’ Bod smiled. ‘You really have been here before. So, brace yourself.’

‘I’m braced.’

‘In that case—’

Bod’s chin dipped and his eyes narrowed, triangulating on some mental image; then Jed was ankle-deep in quickglass, and filaments were coiling around his legs and torso.

‘—go!’

Jed whisked down the tunnel and was gone.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Roger.

‘Trivial,’ said Bod. ‘Are you up for the same?’

‘Crap. I suppose so.’

‘I tell you what. I’ll slow it down, since it’s your first time.’

Roger was used to quickglass architecture, but he should not say so – at least, not to reveal the extent to which he had lived his life incognito, along with Mum and Dad, hiding what he was. In any case, he thought, as a thick band wrapped around his waist, this place seemed different.

‘With me.’ Bod’s hand clamped Roger’s upper arm. ‘Ready.’

‘Shit. OK.’

‘Now.’

They flew, without leaving contact with the floor.

It was grand and huge, the great reception hall, though not in comparison to Labyrinth’s spaces. Roger stood on a balcony with Bod, now almost bored with the slow-floating shoal of med-drones manoeuvring into twin corridors that led apparently to the med-halls. There was no telling which drone contained Alisha; she might have already been carried out, or remain in the ship’s hold, the last of Jed’s cargo to be discharged.

Some twenty watchers stood scattered around the hall. Official observers, it seemed to Roger: no casual passers-by. When the last of the med-drones had slipped past, the watchers drifted together into clumps, conferred, then made their way out in twos and threes.

‘I’ll take you to the med-halls,’ said Bod. ‘Jed can obviously find his own way.’

‘Thank you.’

Bod must have other duties; it was good of him to take the time to help.

What if I weren’t a Pilot?

Too cynical. The matter-of-fact manner suggested Bod’s behaviour was natural and professional both, ready to assist anyone, not caring who they were.

‘We’ll take our time,’ said Bod. ‘You’re OK just walking?’

‘Of course.’

Roger did not really process the peripheral sights – cross-corridors, convex-ceilinged halls edged with colonnades, something that appeared to be a market-place filled with a swirling crowd – as he walked with Bod along a thoroughfare whose shining blue floor curved up to form the walls, while white decorative panelling ran horizontally some four metres up, beneath a concave white ceiling with the visual texture of icing. The city must be richer in colours and style than the outside suggested.

Trying not to think of Alisha.

Will they wake her straight away?

Trying very hard not to think of her.

One trick was to imagine something else entirely, but sod that because Alisha had been through evil and did not deserve to—

He stopped, shuddering.

… da-da.

No.

He could not have heard what he thought. Not possible.

‘Roger? Are you—?’

‘Fine. Let’s … carry on.’

It had to be stress and the ongoing shock of the new.

There’s no way it can be here.

Really, it just had to be.

No. Absolutely, no.

All in his mind.

Alisha’s face looked blue as the upper carapace grew transparent. Purple-garbed medics tended holodisplays. All around, the med-hall was a vast space of mint-green and icing-white quickglass, the floor shining, reflecting the dozens of med-drones laid out in rows. Peripheral archways led to similar halls. Here and there, green hemispheric quickglass bubbles grew from the floor to enclose a med-drone, cutting off the patient from view as human medics and the city’s inbuilt systems got to work.

‘—your friend?’ someone was saying.

‘Sorry?’ said Roger. ‘I missed that.’

The medic had short white hair and green eyes, matching the surroundings.

‘Alisha Spalding is your friend,’ she said. ‘Have I got that right?’

‘Yes. Yes, she is.’

Jed was off somewhere with Bod, sorting out the overall disposition of the comatose refugees. Roger could have done with Jed’s support.

‘We’re going to try to wake Alisha now.’ The medic nodded towards three younger-looking colleagues whose hands were flickering through control gestures. ‘Taking it carefully.’

Many of the other drones appeared to be cycling to slow wakefulness without human oversight.

‘She was … traumatized,’ said Roger. ‘I guess the annotation data shows that, right?’