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The map he had been given had a red line drawn on it, enclosing a shaded, oddly shaped space, maybe ten square kilometres.

Simon watched from the window of the flitter as it ambled over the Reserve, mentally following his map. Every so often they put down in a designated tourist zone and went for a walk, the tour guide pointing out interesting plants and insects. One more stop, and they’d be as close to the red shaded area as they were going to get.

Getting away from the tour party was easy. The tour guide led his little group through a patch of forest, naming each species of tree. Simon took some photos, gawped at the canopy, straggled, and slipped behind an Ulmus procera.

He waited ten minutes for the tourists to move out of sight. The tour guide’s pleasant voice diminished slowly, merging with the 141

sounds of the forest. Simon leant against the elm and risked closing his eyes for a moment.

Rooftop parks didn’t sound like this. You couldn’t hear the wind making a sound like rushing water through the leaves, the tiny sounds of insects, the intermittent, soft bird calls. Or maybe you could hear them in the roof parks, and your brain just couldn’t sort them out from the chatter, screaming kids and blaring portable playbacks.

He slung his camera around his neck and moved off down the hill. If he was caught, he was a tourist who’d foolishly followed a robin in the hope of a better picture and had been wandering in increasing panic ever since, too embarrassed to call for help.

He stuck to the forest, avoiding anywhere he’d be easily visible from the sky, following his mental map without thinking. He felt an almost tangible sensation as he entered the red-shaded zone, waking him out of his murmuring thoughts. Somewhere in here, in these ten square klicks, there was a garden.

It took him another two hours to find it. He emerged from the forest into a wide, cleared area. It took him almost a minute to pick out the shape of the house. The lines of roof and wall suggested by the squiggle of vines and moss and shrubs.

Somebody had got there first.

There was a flitter parked in a hollow above the house, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible among the dead trees littering the slope of the hill. It let Simon get within three meters before warning him that it was authorized to use deadly force to resist theft.

It was hard to tell under the mimetic paint job, but Simon thought it looked like a heavily customized Holstek Firefly. Très cash heavy and out of his scope; even when he was a spoilt playboy student. He paused for a moment to admire its lines before moving off downhill to kill its owner.

The concrete lump was an eroded, mossy shape, a few metres from the house, hidden by grass and humus. Just enough of it stuck up out of the ground to form an inconvenient and hidden step.

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Simon fell off the edge, twisting his ankle and cursing, and hurtled down a short slope until his embarrassing descent was cut short by the tool shed.

The shed shuddered once, groaned, and disintegrated, showering Simon with bits of rotting wood and small digging tools. Its collapse revealed a surprised-looking woman, who dropped into a martial-arts stance.

Simon spent just half a second lying in the mud with silverfish crawling over him before leaping up and scowling at her.

‘Nice car!’ he yelped, lowering a hand.

‘Thanks. Don’t even try going for the knife in your boot.’ She was around his age, dark, with full lips and electric-blonde hair.

She looked like a sim star. ‘I’ve got a laser pistol in a fast-draw shoulder holster – you’ll never make it.’

‘You wouldn’t get your hand on the butt,’ said Simon, ‘I have a disgel gun built into my right forearm.’

‘But I’m wearing flexible mesh armour under my coat, and it’s been treated to be resistant.’

‘Your hands are exposed,’ said Simon, ‘so you still wouldn’t be able to get your pistol.’

‘Maybe,’ said the woman, ‘but it wouldn’t do you any good because there’s a troop of heavily armed bodyguards in a military