‘I— So Alisha’s one of them, is that what you’re saying?’

‘As I said, my manifest hasn’t arrived.’ Jed held up his tu-ring. ‘But there’s a good chance she’s on my list, don’t you reckon?’

En masse, the floating drones began to move.

‘Do you think—?’ Roger tried to work out what he wanted to ask, then let the words fall out anyhow. ‘Could I come with you to Molsin?’

‘That’s why I showed you this.’

‘You think I should go?’

What he meant was, should he be there when Alisha woke up? But Jed had never known Alisha properly, for she had been unconscious during the Fulgor rescue and ever since.

‘Actually, my friend … I don’t.’

‘You think I should stay in Labyrinth?’

‘I think you should have the choice. But if I were you, I’d stay on here. Keep communing with your other girl.’

Jed’s words produced an echo in Roger’s memory: something he said once to Dad, about the other love in his life.

‘Excuse me?’ called Jed. ‘Did you want something?’

A wide-shouldered Pilot was watching them. At Jed’s challenge, he gave the tiniest of starts.

‘Sorry. My name’s Dak Stilwell.’ He stepped closer. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt, Pilot Blackstone. But I did want to pass on my sympathies.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Roger, not sure of the man. ‘Did you know my parents?’

‘I met your father briefly, in fact. But I’m with the Med Centre, and we offer many services, including simply talking.’

‘You’re a counsellor?’ asked Jed. ‘You don’t look like one.’

Stilwell raised his hand. The knuckles were shiny and enlarged.

‘What do counsellors look like? I teach close-quarter combat in my spare time.’ He turned to Roger. ‘When you’re alone and feel like talking, call Med Centre and mention my name. At absolutely any time.’

‘Thank you,’ said Roger.

‘Then I’m off.’ Stilwell gestured for a fastpath rotation. ‘Take it easy.’

He stepped inside and was gone.

‘Counsellor, my arse,’ said Jed.

Beyond the boulevard, the shoal of autodocs continued to move, heading for the ships that would take the refugees away from Labyrinth, where no realspace menace could reach, but where ordinary people could never wake up to continue their lives, to experience joy or hardship or anything else.

The man who called himself Dak Stilwell exited the rotation at the centre of a long, clear chamber whose defences were invisible. In front of him, a holo figure stood.

‘Identify, please,’ it said.

‘I’m Zeke Clayton, beta team leader, section 7.’

‘Confirmed.’

As if loosening a heavy backpack, Clayton shrugged his ursine shoulders, then walked straight through the holo to the next chamber, where shielded doors curled out of existence, allowing him to pass inside. Pavel Karelin was waiting: narrow-bodied, narrow-eyed, quietly spoken.

‘I’m going in with you,’ he said.

‘It’s only Colonel Garber.’ With another shrug of Clayton’s big shoulders: ‘I’m not exactly scared of him.’

‘Of course not. You’re a loyal officer.’

Was that a faint stress on you’re? A hint about Garber’s loyalty? Clayton was trying to figure a way to frame an innocent-sounding question when a doorway folded in on itself, revealing Garber.

‘Come inside,’ he called.

Pavel entered alongside Clayton.

‘I’m sitting in,’ he said. ‘Given our overlapping areas of operational responsibility, Colonel, it seems best.’

‘Very well.’ Garber gestured for flowmetal chairs to rise from the floor. ‘Sit down, both of you.’

‘Roger Blackstone knows nothing.’ Clayton knew better than to begin with chitchat. ‘That’s the short version. Maybe Analysis can find something in my logs, but for my money, every indicator says Carl Blackstone kept his family separate from his work. Trained his son in a few good habits, kept him clear of operations.’

‘Uh-huh. Blackstone senior has already had the posthumous medal.’ Garber’s tone was tight and cold. ‘Now we can pick apart the reality.’

‘Understood, sir. But the son has made no attempt to contact anyone, and he’s said nothing to indicate special knowledge. Poor lad hasn’t got to grips with the basics of spatiotemporal manipulation, so even a simple dead-letter drop is out of the question.’

Pavel said, ‘That’s natural, for someone raised in realspace.’

‘Yes, but he’s not motivated to do anything about it,’ said Clayton. ‘That’s my point. It’s natural for someone who’s, er, grieving, but not for a clandestine operator. If the father cached anything in Labyrinth, it won’t be out in the open.’

Garber changed position, his chair adapting.

‘So you’re persisting in the notion that Carl Blackstone was clean?’

‘Sir, I’m not presenting an opinion either way. What I do think is Roger Blackstone lacks all operational knowledge of his father’s work.’

‘Very well. Present the full report now.’

‘OK.’ Clayton manipulated his tu-ring. ‘Done.’

Garber checked his own tu-ring, nodded, then looked at Pavel.

‘Molly-coddling your team is hardly to anyone’s credit, Colonel Karelin.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, Colonel. I’ve softened them so much, they can’t take the cut and thrust of memos and meetings in the dangerous corridors of power.’

No tightening of facial muscles betrayed Garber’s feelings, but his voice flattened.

‘I’m glad we share the same analysis. Thank you both for coming.’

Clayton stood up a tenth of a second before the flowmetal subsided to the floor. Pavel was already on his feet.

‘Always a pleasure,’ he said.

He led the way out, and Clayton followed.

Sitting in the study carrel, Roger found it impossible to concentrate. Around him the Logos Library contained effectively infinite knowledge; but the amount he felt capable of absorbing hovered between infinitesimal and zero.

‘This is impossible.’

He shut down the display, then gestured for the crystal array to fold back into its designated pocket of fractal reality. It took three attempts before the crystals were tucked away. At this rate, he would soon have the capabilities of an eight-year-old.

I’ll never have a place here.

As he left the carrel, it rotated itself into a fist-sized holding-shape; but he could take no credit: the process was automatic.

‘Been studying?’ asked an olive-skinned woman.

‘Uh, trying.’

‘It never gets any easier, does it?’

She smiled, her face triangular and feline, then twisted away and was gone.

Bloody hell.

Behind him, a young female Pilot said: ‘She spoke to you.’

‘Er— What?’

‘You’ve just been visited by a living legend. Don’t you get it?’

‘I don’t … No, not really.’

‘Oh, for—’

Her fastpath rotation tore the words away, leaving silence in the infinite corridor.

I’m getting out of here.

But he would have to do it the hard way, by walking.

Roger considered Jed a friend; yet it would have been nice to utilize a route of his own devising instead of this one, constructed by Jed. It took him to a chamber off Poincaré Promenade. Once there he had only to stand still: the chamber itself moved fast, a bubble through flowmetal. By logical deduction and feel, he decided it was following a horizontal path across the cliff-like series of edifices that became Ascension Annexe. This was one of the most notable sections of Labyrinth, one that an observer might expect Roger Blackstone to view from a distance and admire, but not to enter.

Great panes of energy swivelling in mid-air, along with the golden lightning flickering across walls, indicated this was a secure area. Internal itching grew in every organ of Roger’s body as deepscan fields passed through him. Then they were gone, and he felt himself grinning as he walked fast through building-high doors that folded back, allowing entrance to a huge hangar space.