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‘It seems we have an agreement,’ Donovan said, looking around. ‘Pay-offs can be arranged later, but can we take it from here that the usual immunities apply?’

‘Of course,’ said Bleibtreu-Fèvre impatiently. ‘Now, details.’

The division of labour he proposed was straightforward. Lawson would network with her counterparts in other communities to discreetly monitor the AI’s activity. Donovan would assist her in using any logged traces of their respective encounters with the entity to develop specific attack viruses for it, while calling off his normal sabotage programme. Van would make a full investigation of the various projects that the Watchmaker AI had targeted, and try to reestablish contact with the fugitive researcher Janis Taine.

‘It seems a reasonable hypothesis,’ Bleibtreu-Fèvre concluded, with a sort of civil-servant pedantry that had Donovan wishing he could clout him, ‘that Taine has fled to Norlonto, possibly in the company of Moh Kohn, if he indeed took an interest in her research and visited her lab. So we should track these two down if only to eliminate them from our inquiries. Ha, ha.’

He took notice of Donovan’s attempts to attract his attention.

‘I think I can help you with that,’ Donovan said as he stopped shrinking and enlarging his fetch, the cyberspace equivalent of jumping up and down. ‘Let me explain…’

9

To Each as He is Chosen

The dead Leninists were live in Bydgoszcz, belting out The Money that Love Can’t Buy. Kohn was trying to filter out the band’s smoke-scarred heavy-water sound and listen to the buzz. A lot of talk about the Alliance’s actions and the ANR’s intentions, a lot of politicking going on. After a random walk through it he realized he’d been neglecting Janis for at least two tracks, maybe three smokes…He said as much to the off-duty fighter he was talking to, bought another couple of litres and turned from the bar. He almost collided with a young man who had obviously been leaning forward from the stool he was sitting on, listening to their every word.

Big-boned, sandy-haired, he had the look of a country boy without the rude health: a bit ruddy-faced, a bit flabby. Young, very intense and slightly drunk. He swayed out of Kohn’s way, and looked right back at him, unabashed.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I…couldn’t help overhearing.’

‘Yes. And?’

‘You were asking that guy about what the ANR’s up to, yeah?’

‘Uh-huh.’ There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it.

‘I’ve been trying to find out about that myself.’ The man kept his eyes fixed on Moh’s, raised a brim-full glass of whisky to his lips and sipped it. The cool-dude effect was more or less ruined by a startled look as he swallowed. ‘There’s one theory I’ve come across. It involves the Last International, the Watchmaker, the Black Plan and barcodes.’

Kohn heard his own voice as a distant croak.

‘Barcodes?’

‘Barcodes containing the number 666.’ The youth’s face broke into an engaging grin. ‘That’s the only bit that surprises you?’

Kohn had the disconcerting feeling of having lost a move.

‘I think we should talk about this,’ he said. ‘Come and sit down?’

The man followed Kohn to the table, dragging a rucksack. Kohn sat beside Janis and the man sat at right-angles to them. He smiled at Janis, almost as if he recognized her, and said, ‘Hi. My name’s Jordan Brown.’ He stretched out a hand to shake. She introduced herself.

Kohn decided it was time to shift the advantage slightly.

‘Dunno about the lady here,’ he said, ‘but I’m always happy to meet a refugee from BC. Welcome to space.’

‘How do you know where I’m from?’

‘Clothes,’ Kohn sympathized. ‘Accent. Traces of skin conditions.’

Jordan looked indignant for a second, then laughed.

‘Stigmata!’

‘Don’t worry. They’ll wear off. OK, Jordan, you might find it a bit more difficult to figure us out. Janis is a scientist and I work for a protection agency. Some people would call me a communist. Much-abused label, but…’

He waved a hand to take in all