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Who knows what she’s capable of? What if she’s come from –’

‘But they don’t even know we’re here,’ Megan interrupted.

‘And if they did, they wouldn’t send a girl and an old man, would they?’ She watched Sooal silently for a few moments. ‘So what are we going to do, then?’

‘ We are not going to do anything.’ He jabbed a finger at her.

‘ You are going to get a pulse rifle, follow her through the airlock and track her down.’

Apart from his imperious tone, Megan found the idea quite appealing. She’d taken an instant dislike to the smart-arsed girl: getting even with her would be a pleasure. ‘And when I’ve tracked her down...?’

Sooal grinned wickedly, showing his sharp little teeth. ‘What do you think? Kill her, of course.’

Sooal stomped off up the stairs, frustration and anger making his heart pound painfully in his chest. He had to steady himself halfway up, feeling his breath come in sharp, ragged gasps. He fished a silvery device from his pocket, applied it to his wrist, and felt the metabolic stabiliser course icily through his veins.

Not now, he thought, fear tightening its grip on his already weak heart. Not now. For a few moments he stood in silence, grasping the handrail as sweat pricked out from every pore. Not when I’m so close.

He tried to calm his breathing, felt his heart steady. He knew he didn’t have long; but it had to be – had to be – long enough.

Gritting his teeth against the sudden pain in his joints, he heaved himself up the stairs to the attic. He needed to get replacements for the disconnected processors. It occurred to him that the three that had been removed might still be somewhere around –

perhaps even aboard the ship. But it seemed unlikely. He reached the treatment room and pulled down the clipboard from the wall, checking the treatment rota. There were several of the residents who hadn’t been to the ship for a while whom he could

‘call on’: attachment to the processor was a draining experience that, long term, could cause damage. He tried to rotate them –

he didn’t know how long he would need them, and although Graystairs was ideal for his purposes, he didn’t want to exhaust his supply. He’d already used the more dispensable staff. The irony of the whole situation was that he couldn’t risk using the Tulks in the processor array: they were far too valuable.

Sooal jumped at a gentle tap on the door. Menzies stuck his head round, clearly surprised to find him there.

‘Is everything OK?’ he asked. ‘Only there’s a treatment-booked for Ceris in twenty minutes. D’you want to be in on it?’

‘I have absolute trust in you, doctor, Sooal answered smoothly. ‘In fact you probably know the process better than I do by now –’ He broke off as a coughing fit shook his body.

Menzies rushed over and settled him into the chair, despite his protestations. He pulled his stethoscope from his pocket and checked Sooal’s heart and chest.

‘Fluid accumulation again,’ he said, tucking the instrument away. ‘Have you taken the stabiliser recently?’

Sooal nodded. ‘Just a few minutes ago.’

‘You need to rest. Give it a chance to kick in.’

Sooal waved him away. ‘I don’t have time.’

‘Exactly,’ said Menzies, peering meaningfully over his glasses. ‘The metabolic stabiliser can only hold off the ageing symptoms for so long, you know. Without rest –’

‘I know, I know. But if the processor doesn’t finish its work soon, I’ll be dead anyway.’

Menzies looked away at the mention of the processor. Sooal knew that it was the one thing about his work there that bent Menzies’ Hippocratic oath almost to breaking point: he’d assured Menzies that no harm was being done, and that acceptance of it was the price Menzies paid for Sooal’s work on Alzheimer’s. Menzies had gone along with it with bad grace; but the potential good that the treatment could do was enough to keep him in line.

‘You’d better go and give Ceris her sedative. Steve will help you.’ ‘Where’s Megan?’

Sooal tried hard to suppress a smile – and