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  ‘Would it help?’

  He turns around briefly.‘Yeah, it just might.’

  ‘Are we actually flying or are we crashing?’

  When he has to think about this, I wish I hadn’t asked.‘We need to hit the clouds,’ he says. Yeah, but I’m guessing not at relativistic speeds for preference. Clouds. I can see them clearly now. Just how fast are we going anyway? I hate whatever is out there shooting at me, silent and almost invisible. When death comes it ought be with lots of noise and shouting and flashing lights and shit like that. I want the four horsemen of the apocalypse and their whole fucking entourage, not some distant faceless idea of an algorithm. Also a decent chance of fleeing and escaping and running away, that would be nice.

  ‘Can’t you glide?’ I ask. Jester gives me his shut-the-fuck-up look.

  ‘Glide? What, are you a pilot now?’

  ‘Probably as much as you are! Why do you think I’m crapping myself in terror back here?’

  Then again Jester usually carries code inside his head to drive most things like he’s Raging Rik. Assuming all that code still works, that is… The spinning stops. Either Jester has a clue after all or the autopilot has come back from wherever it was sulking. The world below looks white now. We’re lurching back and forth, shaking like a bean in a maraca. I’m starting to feel sick. Don’t usually get motion sickness. ‘For pity’s sake, slow down!’ wails Mr Cray.

  Alarms begin to scream. Three or four in succession. I stare at them. I don’t even understand what two of them mean.

  ‘Brace yoursel—’

  I fly forward. My head snaps down and refuses to be lifted. The restraining straps cut into me despite my leather overcoat, crushing the air out of my chest. My tongue is trying to force itself through the roof of my mouth. I can hardly breathe, hardly even move… roaring in my ears… vision narrows, blacking away the edges, focussing down tight on the swirling white rushing up to swallow us. A numbness sweeps through me. Shock. Cold. Paralysis. I’ve been to this place before with a bullet in the chest.

  Cold.

  Staring at the sky, clouds staring back, high and still. Words spoken beside me, a thousand miles away. A vile angry grating sound.

  Quicksilver. The Silver River. Don’t forget your breathing mask…

  ‘—back there?’

  I blink. I still see a white sky full of clouds but now I’m on top of them. I twitch. Not Quicksilver. Must have passed out for a moment there.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ I feel sick. Two of the alarms have stopped. I wonder if this is a good sign or whether they’ve simply given up.

  ‘You wanted to slow down. We slowed down.’ Jester gives me a hard look.‘How did you steal this, C? There’s stuff here that hasn’t made it out of prototype even in the United Stars.’ He frowns as the words come out. Yeah. Quite. And where exactly did this shuttle come from then? Some cutting edge one-off prototype just sitting about on the TransOrbit tower? I don’t think so.

  My stomach feels cold. Don’t know who or why, but I’ve been screwed again. The whiteness swallows us.‘Should be safe enough here,’ Jester says.‘A couple of interceptors are after us but they won’t arrive before we hit the dirt. Then we just stand well back with our hands up and see whether they pick us up or just come in for a strafing run.’ The nausea is getting worse. I’m going to be sick. Radiation.

  ‘How long we got?’

  ‘I don’t know. Days.’

  ‘How long before it starts to show?’

  Jester shrugs.‘You’re already bleeding.’

  I can feel it by the time we’re through the clouds. My skin on fire, beginning to blister. The shuttle’s cabin is spattered with blood and vomit. It smells like a charnel house. I want to lie back and let sleep wash the pain away, but sleep won’t come, and anyway one of us has to stop Mr Cray from drowning in his own intestines. Guess that’s me, since Jester doesn’t seem to care. Whatever he’s got in him must be designed to take this sort of shit. Real foresight that, radiation hardening yourself.

  ‘It’ll seem to get better in a few hours,’ he tells me.‘But that’s an illusion. Give it a couple of days more and then it’ll come back and kill you. Slowly.’

  My head throbs. Capillaries are rupturing, dark stains creeping under my skin, washing into the blisters.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, it’ll eventually kill me too,’ he adds, but no, that doesn’t really help, all things considered.

  There’s an insidious evil to radiation sickness. When God gets off his arse and decidesit’s time for judgement day, this is what’s scheduled. Can’t see it happening, can’t do anything to stop it. One moment you’re fine, a few minutes later and nothing works, everything breaking down at once, system shutdown, please reboot. Somewhere the optimist in me is analysing the symptoms: yeah, that’s your stomach lining haemorrhaging, but don’t worry, it’ll take days to die if you’re only bleeding at that rate; yeah, OK, so your skin feels like you’ve taken an acid bath, but the burns aren’t more than superficial and they’ll fix soon enough; yeah, so you’ve got cancers growing even as we speak and you’ll never have children, but so what?

  Today’s technology can fix you up, cell by cell by cell.

  Another voice mutters something about bone marrow and lymph systems and endocrine glands and how these are damaged beyond repair and shutting down about now, and more to the point, why would anyone want to fix us up when they’ve gone to all this trouble to kill us? Leukocytopenia, it taunts. I don’t even know what that means, so I tell it to fuck off and stop using long words.

  I heave another gobbet of blood onto the floor. Jesus, this hurts worse than being shot. I envy Mr Cray his unconsciousness.

  ‘Who’s to say they’ll even bother looking for us,’ I croak.‘They wanted us dead, remember?’

  ‘Then they’ll come to make sure that we are. Mostly they’ll come to make sure we haven’t introduced some genetic virus into their precious research planet.’ The world outside is green, a deep lush green as far as I can see. A silver-ribboned gash flashes in the jungle below us. A river. Jester sighs like he’s having to explain something to a two year old who’s already been told a dozen times.‘Look, if they know we’re helpless, maybe they’ll pick us up out of curiosity. They’ll want to know what we’re doing here. And I’m going to help them as much as I can with that, C, because I’d like to know what the fuck we’re doing here too. Wouldn’t you?’ He gives me a long hard look and then turns his attention back to crashing. He has a point.

  ‘And if they then don’t we’re fucked, right.’

  Jester doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. We slide between the trees and hit the water soft enough that it only hurts a lot. By then I don’t even care whether shuttles float or sink.

  Davison, D. H. & Walker, I. J. ‘Direct Human Memory Interfaces’. Journal of the Society of Neuro-Electronics, 15, 157-173 (2236).

  The seminal work that really led to all those brainwebs you can get these days. People had been working on it for ages but these were the guys who put all the bits together and finally worked it all out. They were contracting for Interstella back in the First Republic days and were due a cut of the profits but Interstella fucked them over when webs finally got off the ground. They wouldn’t pay up and so Davison and Walker defected to Digitech and sold a whole bunch of Interstella secrets by way of payback. Davison got blown up back in‘47, but for all I know Walker managed to survive and is living on his loot somewhere. Digitech and Interstella spent years fighting each other through the courts trying to get control of the patents but that all kinda died out when the United Stars dropped rocks on everyone.

  Back then, Davison and Walker figured that no one would want a thousand miles of monofilament in their head. They saw a limited market in the military, the hazardous materials industry, shit like that. These days most people get wired simply to play total immersion virtual reality games. People. Go figure.

  Two – Scrambled Egg

  ‘It’
s a simple job,’ they said. Yeah, right. Sure. Because that would make so much sense.

  The last weeks have been long on introspection. Being hooked up to a bio-regeneration tank doesn’t leave much scope for anything else. Dull as shit, but I’ll keep my complaints to myself. The more I think about it, the more surreal this gets. Cray got it right– we’re on New Amazonia. GZW. Permits required. Red zone. That’s about as much as the Tealeaf Guide to the Galaxy has to say. Weapons free-fire policy. Visit to fry and die. Guess they were right about that. Doesn’t say anything about Sunscreen– I can’t find anything that does– but then GZW’s reference library has a bit of a biological and genetic research slant to it. Designer genes, clones, enhanced body parts, the best drugs in known space, welcome to the sort of shit that goes down here. Yeah, and it’s also a secret breeding ground for alien parasites slowly taking over the human race, is sponsored by a conspiracy within the United Stars government, and its real purpose is research into the organic and very probably sentient alien technology recovered from the legendary, infamous, and possibly purely mythical Perot event. Allegedly all those things and more; but apart from the rather impressive medical facility, all we get to see is what looks like a makeshift army camp and an entire battalion of ex-military types pretending to be technicians and scientists and failing dismally. You can pretty much hear them thinking things like“Yo!” and“Hut!” and“Cover me!” and shit like that. Yeah and there’s a cluster of polished white domes and a lot of jungle. Weird jungle, creepy and silent. Even the air’s still. And here we are, outside, sitting around a wobbly metal table perched in the dust on uncomfortable metal and canvas seats surrounded by bored pretending-not-to-be soldiers– Old Worlds navy unless I miss my guess– wondering why the fuck this isn’t the afterlife.

  Mr GZW – we have no idea what his real name is and he’s not dropping any clues– brings a flashy holographic projector out of his briefcase. Real leather, I think. One of the perks of working for a bio-corporation, I suppose. The projector hums into life and stars appear. A map of known space. How sweet. Who does he think we are?

  Mr Cray makes some sarcastic ‘ooooo’ and‘aaahh’ sounds and rolls his eyes. Mr GZW continues to pretend that Mr Cray doesn’t actually exist.‘This is where we are now. Technically part of the First Republic Dust Sector but actually more a part of the Mongolian Rim ever since…’

  Yeah, yeah, ever since that. Ever since the thing we all don’t talk about when the United Stars went frothing bonkers about mass genetic manipulation and put the Dust in The Dust Sector. Amazing what a mess fifty billion billion tons of rock at near light speed can make of your planets. I think everyone’s still kinda pissed with the Stars for reducing Earth to a lifeless rock– not that it wasn’t a total mess already anyway, but seeing it trashed, broadcast live before your eyes… There’s people who still remember it, who watched it happen, and you can see their faces turn distant talking about good ol’ Earth, the home they never got to see. Tourists go in droves, stare down at the ruined surface, the storms, and wonder. Then I guess they buy a shed-load of overpriced souvenirs, genuine Earth Rock and shit like that, and go home pretending they’ve had some sort of cultural experience, all the while secretly vowing never to go to such a rip-off hole ever again.

  Mr GZW sees my eyes have glazed and stiffens just enough so I notice. He points. ‘Over here. The habitable world is a Rim world, but two orbitals defected to the Stars six months back. Maybe you heard about it.’

  ‘ Yeah,’ mutters Mr Cray.‘Stars buttfucked the Tintenstrahl-Nachfullsatz data haven good and proper. Cunts.’

  Jester sneers. Mostly Jester and I keep our views on the Stars and the Rim and all that shit carefully to ourselves.

  Mr GZW’s hologram zooms us towards a single star. Circles of light grow up around it. Orbits.‘You shouldn’t need to know the system details but familiarise yourselves with them on the flight. What matters is the piece of surface territory that belonged to one of the defecting orbitals and now belongs to the United Stars.’

  Jester’s still got some legs left in that sneer.‘Any left who remember what it was like to actually live on the ground?’

  One of the circles expands into a line, then a line with a dot, then a planet and a map. It’s all so retro it’s almost cute.‘We need someone with no ties to take a truck full of merchandise across the border into Rim territory. That’s you. You make the transfer and we’re quits. You stay out of our lives and we’ll stay out of yours and focus our resources on whoever was supposed to be in that shuttle you crashed.’

  Yeah. Right.‘Merchandise?’ I’m still weak from bio-regeneration but the unease in my gut comes from something deeper. Can’t figure why they bothered to put us back together. Sure, they ask a few questions about how we got to be here in a stolen shuttle with more enhancements than Cynthia Toobright, but not like they mean it. It’s almost like they already know. Shit, and they could rake in a load of cash from Network SixtyNine just for killing us, never mind turning us in, certainly far more than it would cost to hire a few dumb grunts to do a border run. So this is all bullshit. Maybe I shouldn’t bring it up, but really? What, there’s a shortage of truck drivers on– what was this world called? Szenchzuen? I don’t think so.

  ‘Secret stuff,’ says Mr GZW, fresh and comfortable in his designer thermal suit. I feel the blue sun beating down on me, shrivelling me up. For some reason I kind of have a thing about radiation at the moment.

  We’re being set up for something. No doubt in my mind. Question is what. Question after that is, can I see it coming before it hits us? Was the shuttle part of it? How far back do I dig? That shuttle was meant for someone, but for us? Just to bring us here for this? Yeah, sure, we’re special, but we’re not that special.

  ‘It wasn’t our fault we crashed on your stupid planet.’ Mr Cray is shivering and never mind that it must be about a hundred and four out here.

  ‘We crashed because they were shooting at us with a ridiculous laser,’ I remind him. ‘Technically it’s their fault we crashed.’

  ‘Yeah, but I mean it wasn’t our fault we’re even fucking here! We were fucking unconscious. It gassed us or something. We were coma-fucked, man!’

  ‘With an orbital laser,’ I remind him, in case he’s forgotten.‘They shot us down with an orbital laser.’ Not a laser. Sunscreen. What is a Sunscreen?

  ‘We thought you were spies.’

  ‘We are,’ says Jester helpfully.‘We just didn’t mean to be spying on you. We’re more into data and info-theft than all this bio-stuff. Wouldn’t know a synthetic molecule if it jumped up and shouted at me.’

  ‘Spy all you like,’ shrugs Mr GZW.‘The Fading Suns need engineered trees that’ll grow in the toxic slag-pile they’ve become and the Old Worlds won’t be far behind. Some of the worlds in the First Republic Dust Sector can still be saved too.’ He tries a smile, so forced I have to cringe.‘People make up all kinds of stories about what we do here, but really it’s just about the trees.’

  That would be why you need several hundred soldiers pretending to be useful members of the research staff and a thing called Sunscreen, would it? Yeah, tricky bastards, trees.‘Do you do shrubberies too?’ The cynic in me really ought to know when to shut up but it never does.

  ‘The United Stars has discovered a conscience. They’d like to buy some redemption for what they did.’ Mr GZW looks briefly mournful, considering, I imagine, the dent we might have made in his next bonus.‘That was a pristine piece of engineered forest you landed in– and I use the term landed loosely. We’ll have to quarantine the area. God knows what bugs you brought in with you.’ He sighs.

  I look at Jester. Jester looks at me. We both know this sucks and stinks and blows all at once, that it’s a set-up for something neither of us expects to walk away from. And we both know we’ll take it if it means getting out of here, and yes, we’ll probably be grateful too. Szenchzuen sounds a much better bet as a place for turning sidewinder and biting smug Mr GZW on his pol
ished corporate arse.

  ‘You could pay us,’ suggests Mr Cray.‘It was just—’

  Jester reaches out and dislocates Mr Cray’s shoulder. A casual, careless gesture as though reaching for a glass of water.

  ‘You fuck! OW! You fucking piece of fucking shit, I hope you fucking die!’ Mr Cray dances little circles, bouncing from side to side the way he does when he gets excited, clutching his arm. I think irritable thoughts at my brainweb augment. I have an audio filter, another present from the Company back in my days as a suit. Useful for eavesdropping on other people’s meetings but it could just as easily have been made for editing out Mr Cray’s tantrums. Getting old now. I wonder if anyone I know would upgrade it if I asked nicely. Although these days I’m starting to lose track of what asking nicely looks like.

  Some of the ex-marines look up. Mr GZW seems unfazed but then he’s probably running an emotional inhibitor. Standard practice once. Boy could you have some good stand-offs back then. Politicians and CEOs staring each other down for days straight. Gone out of favour since the Stars did their rock-throwing thing– more arse-licking and backstabbing these days, less collateral damage– but I figure Mr GZW to be something of a sentimentalist. He fixes Jester with pale grey machine eyes, far clearer than nature ever managed.

  ‘You’ll fly out to the Old Worlds. We’ll move you about enough to make sure no one’s watching. Then you’ll go to Szenchzuen. You can have your hardware back when you make planetfall.’

  Mr Cray looks crestfallen. Stupid shit can’t even be bothered to get his arm fixed up, just lets it dangle limp, dosed up on something so he doesn’t feel the pain.

  ‘Can’t I just have my sims back? Just the little one?’ Somehow it seems Mr Cray has saved them from the shuttle even though he was unconscious and can’t swim. I have a bad feeling this means I accidentally carried them out for him.

  ‘And what would you want those for? So you can play cracked vintage Elder Scrolls games or is it so you can have a go at raping our datahaven? Shall I see if I can guess? Use the public network like everyone else.’ I reckon that’s Mr GZW using up his year’s quota of sarcasm all in one go. Maybe he’s not running an inhibitor after all. The sad thing is, if I know Mr Cray, it was the games he was after.