Once the session was over and formal bows were in progress, Kanazawa stood up fast. It took a second for Dmitri to do likewise; Kanazawa was already striding for the side exit. Dmitri and Sergei caught up with him outside, where he was putting on his boots. They retrieved their own shoes, and tugged them on, then followed Kanazawa to his borrowed staff car.

He’s upset about the one they beat up.

The man lying in the corner had been very still.

‘Is he dead?’ Dmitri asked in Japanese. ‘Is that it?’

‘Yes.’ Kanazawa trembled. ‘Come.’

Once they were in the car, Kanazawa started it up, making metal grind as he put it into gear. The car rolled off, Kanazawa’s steering unsteady.

‘But why did they kill him?’ asked Dmitri. ‘Was it something political?’

‘Because he wanted to leave the dojo,’ said Kanazawa. ‘He wanted to concentrate on his studies at the academy, because he was falling behind.’

That would be the Naval Academy.

‘It happens,’ said Sergei. ‘If someone wants to leave a dojo, they get ordered to come back for one last lesson. A memorable lesson, except sometimes—’

He did not need to finish.

Sometimes it really is their final lesson.

Dmitri had done worse, so he was surprised to recognize his own disgust, though not as strong as Sergei’s or Kanazawa’s. Or perhaps Dmitri’s subconscious was causing him to mimic the lieutenant’s reaction, broadcasting sympathy, sensing an opportunity to get the man to open up.

‘Saké,’ Dmitri said. ‘We need a drink after that. Our apartment is fully stocked.’

Kanazawa must have duties to attend to, but this was a moment of weakness.

‘Please come,’ added Dmitri, wording it as a polite request, inflecting it as a command.

‘All right,’ said Kanazawa, pushing down on the accelerator.

They were in fits of laughter. Each cup of saké had intensified the redness of Kanazawa’s face while eroding his balance: the prim, controlled, ivory-featured man from the morning replaced by this jerky comic marionette. And now it was Dmitri’s turn again for singing.

He lurched to his feet.

I am a loyal Nazi.

Dmitri followed nothing without question, neither the darkness in his head nor the tenets of dialectical materialism, and even in this most intimate of moments when he hoped Kanazawa would let his guard down, Dmitri’s own cover must remain intact. Blurting secrets to allies was one thing – and Kanazawa was not quite there, not yet – but for him to betray his god-Emperor to an enemy would be different.

And so Dmitri danced; and even worse, sang:

‘Raise high the flags!

‘Stand rank on rank together.

‘Storm troopers march

‘With steady, quiet tread …’

His left arm was raised in exaggerated salute, his right forefinger held horizontal above his upper lip to suggest a dictatorial moustache; and his hand did not move from his face even when he tumbled sideways to the mat and continued the Horst Wessel song to the end.

Kanazawa was crying, the laughter allowing him to weep.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Sergei thumped Dmitri. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

In German, Kanazawa roared: ‘He no sir! Not now!’

All three of them laughed: deep, belly-straining laughter because everyone lived under tension and any form of release could hurt.

‘We should do this every week,’ said Dmitri.

‘Aloha,’ said Kanazawa. ‘If only we could. Goodbye and hello again.’

Squinting, Dmitri searched in his mind for the word.

‘A-lo-ha,’ Kanazawa repeated. ‘Useful … word. But. One strike, one kill.’

Sergei was frowning, perhaps because the old samurai principle of ikken hisatsu had applied this morning in the dojo where long, all-out single strikes were the order of the day.

‘Like a woman’s treasure.’ Kanazawa giggled as he raised a porcelain cup. ‘The pearl in her harbour.’

As Kanazawa drank, he missed Sergei’s reaction; but Dmitri caught it: facial tension then relaxation, falling back into role.

What did he notice?

But in the end Dmitri did not need to ask, because sometime before they drank themselves into oblivion, he remembered naval charts and Hawaii marked with the red circle that designated a major US base; and when he awoke the memory was bound to remain because it was so preposterous, so admirably insane, just the kind of thing these marvellous, misguided warriors would do.

Sen sen no sen, the most audacious of the three timings: to strike while the enemy was unprepared.

THREE

LABYRINTH 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)

Grey and black, the pulsing complexity of walls and space; purple, the lightning that flickered without sound throughout the cell. Max had not even tried for a fastpath rotation, knowing the geometric turbulence would tear him into twisting, bloodied strips. From the outside, though, an insertion was possible – hence the growing silver light, and the thin man who stepped from it and smiled at Max, like a vulture sighting dead flesh.

Tendrils from the floor formed helical bonds, holding Max in place.

‘You’re here to debrief me?’ he said.

‘No, I’m here to torture you.’

And so it commenced.

In Roger’s apartment – granted by the authorities, whoever they might be, for a duration that he had not been able to determine – all of Labyrinth’s public service offerings were his, provided he had the talent to make use of them. For a second he tried to initiate a fastpath, succeeding to the point where the air began to waver with a hint of geodesic turbulence, very dangerous; then he backed off and blanked his thoughts, letting go of the summoning induction.

I’m still like a child here.

Only her presence in Ascension Annexe gave meaning to his life in Labyrinth. Perhaps he should call Med Centre and talk to that counsellor he had brushed off before. In the meantime, he had to get to Poincaré Promenade, where he was supposed to meet Jed for breakfast. At his command, a section of wall became a blizzard of Koch snowflakes which dissolved, leaving an opening. He had at least mastered the art of opening doors.

‘Stop whinging,’ he said aloud.

From his silver balcony he descended into a maze of Labyrinthine architecture, passed through halls and galleries – here, a helical colonnade where ‘up’ pointed to the horizontal axis, and walking figures formed changing radii – out onto Fourier Flyway where the path flowed, carrying him high over a wealth of buildings and structures, to deposit him on a golden concourse. From there, he jogged to an exit he recognized, came out on Poincaré Promenade, then walked fast to the Café d’Alembert, where Jed was already sitting at a table, juice and daistral in front of him.

‘Do you feel as bad as you look?’ said Jed.

‘Probably.’

‘Breakfast is what you need.’

Not so long ago, living at home with his parents, breakfast for Roger had been an occasion for smart remarks and shared jokes, a time of bonding before each of them began their separate work-day. It had been sacred and fragile and ritualistic, in ways he had never appreciated before his world shrivelled into death.

‘Here,’ said Jed. ‘Let me show you something gruesome.’

Roger sat down. ‘I’m afraid to ask.’

‘No, see’ – Jed pointed – ‘follow my finger with your gaze, then relax all your muscles and just let— There, you’ve got it.’

Something twisting, shards of transparency and blood; and a sound: a modulated screech that matched the awful rotation.

‘Ugh.’ Roger pulled back in his seat, snapping his senses back into mean-geodesic reality. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘Sort of a public monument, in a nasty way. Every now and then,’ said Jed, ‘someone raises a petition to get it removed, but nothing happens. Exactly as Dirk intended, I guess.’