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'What's this for?' asked Kadiatu.

'We found the laser torch in your suit pocket,' said the major. 'It was set on a killing frequency but the batteries were nearly exhausted.' The major opened a ribbed metal case and drew out a pistol. 'One megawatt point zero one-second burst,' she said, 'does six hundred bursts a minute on full auto, but your charge's only good for a hundred, so keep it on single.'

She handed the pistol over and Kadiatu felt the weight settle in her palm. In a single unthinking movement she flipped the gun and slipped it into the holster.

'You've used one before,' said the major.

'It's illegal for me to carry this,' said Kadiatu.

'What does that matter?' said the major. 'You're with him.'

'Maybe, but do the police know that?' asked Kadiatu.

'Turn around,' said the major.

'What?'

'Your hair,' said the major. 'Turn around.'

Kadiatu turned round and the major seized her extensions and started to braid them. She kept the tension up, pulling hair and scalp back from the face. Kadiatu remembered her mother pulling tight when she was young, hard enough to fold the scalp in places. While the major worked she spoke in Kadiatu's ear.

'He strikes a stone in the forest,' she chanted, 'stone bleeds blood. He dances savagely in the courtyard of the impertinent. He sets the liar's roof on fire.'

'Who is he?'

'He is the leopard with flaming eyes.'

'Who is he?'

'He is in the discharge of a laser, in the lightning flash of the semiconductor.'

'Tell me his name?'

'He is the bow wave across the ocean of time.'

'His name!'

'He is Shango, god of lightning,' said the major.

'All things to all cultures,' said Kadiatu.

'Stand up,' said the major.

Kadiatu checked in the mirror. Her hair was tied into a severe series of bundled plaits that rested on the nape of her neck. Hair was important to the Yoruba - how they wore it was once a matter of social importance - but this style was severely practical. It kept the hair out of the eyes and protected the vulnerable portion of the neck.

Fighting style, her mother would have called it.

The major gave Kadiatu a leather jacket that clinked when it brushed against a locker.

'Kevlar lining,' said the major.

'He's not a god,' said Kadiatu.

'His temples are the preserve of priestesses,' said the major. 'It's women who dance for the Lightning God. His spirit possesses them through the dance.'

'Why me?'

'Don't ask me that,' said the major. 'Ask the dead.'

Acturus Station (Stunnel Terminus)

The other floozies reminded Blondie that as the youngest he was still honorary dogsbody and sent him off to get food. He didn't mind, it beat welding the barricades together.

They'd all pulled in at least two drones to do the work. When he saw them collected all in one place Blondie realized that over the years more than just the drones' personalities had been taken from their operators. Credit Card's drones were so customized that it was almost impossible to determine the original make. Honda perhaps, from the early 2000 series, but Blondie wouldn't bet money on it.

Lambada's drones were painted a rainforest green and were, well, aggressive. They had to be segregated from the Dogface drones or they spent more time fighting than working.

Old Sam's drones were barely visible, backgrounds sliding across mimetic polycarbon shells. Tools and manipulators emerging from jack turrets when they worked. The drones had more hatches than tools and Blondie wondered what was hidden behind the spares. Maybe they should have brought in a few more of those.

Blondie felt that he should do something about his own unfashionably pristine units. He considered painting a black rose on their flanks. Would she understand that? he asked himself. Would she approve? More importantly: would she notice?

The KGB went in for on-site catering, a portable canteen was set up in one comer of the galleria. Old Sam didn't approve; he'd have been happier if the KGB troops had been eating vacuum-packed