‘All of us?’ Javier asked. Who’s us?’

‘Democratic Unity councillors.’

‘I see,’ Javier said. ‘Tell him we’ll be happy to meet him later today. I must discuss this with my colleagues first.’

Becker glanced down at the corpse, then back at Javier. ‘As you wish. Do you have any idea who might have done this?’

‘No. but we both know a lot of business people aren’t happy with our party right now. Do you have any leads?’

‘No, sir, none. We only found out about the body a couple of hours ago. The bussalores made enough noise to wake a neighbour; she used her ex-sense and found his body.’

‘Body temperature gives me an approximate time of death around midnight,’ the coroner’s assistant said.

‘I see.’

‘Where were you at midnight, sir?’ Becker asked.

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Murder is as serious as it gets, sir. It would help if we could eliminate you from our inquiries.’

‘I was at home. My partner Coulan will confirm that. As will Slvasta.’

‘Indeed. So you all live at the same address?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s very convenient. Did anyone else witness you going home?’

‘The neighbours, probably.’

‘Of course. I’ll check with them. Routine, you understand.’

‘Yes,’ Slvasta said. ‘I understand very well.’

*

Bethaneve was getting ready for work when Slvasta and Javier arrived back at the Tarleton Gardens flat.

‘Dead?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Bryan-Anthony is dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, great Giu.’ She clung to Slvasta, struggling to keep her grief and fear under control. ‘Who did it?’

‘The sheriffs don’t know.’

‘Ha!’

‘They don’t,’ Javier said. ‘Not the ones who talked to us, anyway. They were just the locals. The Captain’s police wouldn’t include them in anything.’

‘You think they did it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

Slvasta’s ex-sense showed him Coulan hurrying up the stairs. When he burst into the room he was carrying three gazettes.

‘Bryan-Anthony—’ Javier began.

‘I know,’ Coulan waved the gazettes above his head. ‘They’re all leading with the story.’

Slvasta gave Javier a concerned look. ‘That was very quick. When do they print?’

‘Middle of the night, so they can get them on the racks by breakfast.’

Bethaneve had grabbed a gazette from Coulan. ‘This is awful,’ she said. ‘They’re saying it was poetic justice, that the anti-mod league mistook him for a mod-ape. What anti-mod league?’

‘This one says that he was skimming union funds,’ Javier said. ‘And that the union is a gangster organization that murdered him because he wasn’t paying the gang bosses their full cut. Bastards!’ He scrunched up the gazette.

‘The union doesn’t have any funds,’ Slvasta protested.

‘What did you expect?’ Coulan looked round at them. ‘Welcome to the opening salvo. You wanted the Captain’s attention, and you got it.’

‘They killed him!’ Bethaneve said.

‘And we want to overthrow them. Do you think that’s going to happen without blood being spilt? How did you think this would play out, that they’d just hand over the keys to the palace? So far it’s all gone our way. Last night it didn’t. We knew it was dangerous being a frontman in this city; that’s why we pushed Bryan-Anthony out there. And it’s going to happen to the next guy, and probably the one after. This is a war. You know that. So now it’s our turn to strike back. The pamphlets are on our side, so we get them to counter all the crud Trevene’s people are peddling to the gazettes. People aren’t stupid; they’re going to realize there was something wrong about Bryan-Anthony’s death. And next Tuesday we can use that to our advantage.’

Slvasta nodded, though he felt bad. They had known it would be dangerous fronting Democratic Unity. But this . . . It was shocking, being reminded just how high the stakes were, how serious this was. He couldn’t even call it a game. Not any more, not now he had blood on his hands. ‘So are we still doing this?’

‘Fuck, yes,’ Bethaneve snapped.

6

The Eastern Trans-Continental Line was one of the four principal railway lines which stretched out from Varlan to cover most of the Lamaran continent. From Doncastor station in the heart of the city, it ran north for nearly a thousand miles to Adice before heading due east for another two and a half thousand miles across the continent’s central lands to Portlynn at the bottom of Nillson Sound – the vital spine of a hundred branch lines (themselves substantial) that nurtured the economy of the cities and towns that cluttered the provinces.

It wasn’t just Lamaran’s economy that was dependent on its railways; it was such a vast continent there was no other way the human society it hosted could hold together under one governmental authority. As Slvasta’s cabal had discovered, organizing anything at a distance was tough. To date their influence didn’t extend outside the capital, and even there they had no traction in the wealthier boroughs. As a result, Varlan’s beleaguered adaptor stables had only to travel a few hundred miles along the tracks to find stables with plentiful stocks of neuts.

Those county stables that suddenly found themselves on the receiving end of bountiful orders to resupply the city with female neuts soon realized their advantage and hiked their prices up. It was a seller’s market. Varlan’s Adaptor Guild gritted its collective teeth and paid. The guild president also insisted that the new stocks be guarded; he was very firm about that, and the Captain’s private estate owned quite a few shares in the adaptor business. So all the roads around Doncastor station goods yard were closed at six o’clock on Tuesday morning. Every sheriff from the surrounding five boroughs was on duty at the station to reinforce the barricades. More sheriffs were deployed at the station to escort the animal wagons back to their stables.

The Adaptor Guild had arranged a train of thirty cattle trucks, each containing fifty new female neuts. It was enough stock to refill every stable in the city, and to restart mod breeding. Already the stables were being strengthened – fortified, according to the pamphlets – by surviving mod-apes and human labourers. Men with strong teekay were being employed as guards, most of them brought in from outside Varlan to be sure they weren’t tainted by this new anti-mod fanaticism infecting the city.

Gossip ’path began as soon as the sheriffs started to put up the barricades. By seven o’clock everyone awake in Varlan knew the train was due in today.

Bethaneve sent a private ’path to five people. It was forwarded to eight more. Then seventeen. Forty-three . . .

Cell members began to agitate each sympathizer they knew to go and protest. People with newfound jobs. People who were now unionized and anticipating higher wages. People who’d realized that their lives would have more opportunity without mods. And, as always, the ones spoiling for a fight, any fight. They all converged on Doncastor station as the sun rose over the city and the night’s river mist burnt away.

Cab drivers outside the borough refused to take anyone there, no matter if they had legitimate train tickets. Cabs already in the borough headed out.

Bethaneve took up position a quarter of a mile away from the station, sitting in a little café on Rycotte Street. Her ex-sight located Slvasta, Javier and Coulan, all of whom were closer to the station, but at the rear of the swelling crowds. She sent out quick private ’paths to each of them, checking they were in range. In turn, they were in contact with all the level two, three, four, and five cells, and confirmed their location. Those cells were the cutoffs, inactive and unseen, they’d never be asked to perform any physical action, never do anything to draw Trevene’s attention. They were the communications strata, in touch with dozens upon dozens of other cells scattered throughout the crowd, relaying orders and receiving observations. Her mind held the beautiful geometry of inter-cell communications, positioning them in her ex-sense visualization of the area.