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He gave one last look at the centre of shift-space. So many ships trying to enter and exit through one point. Maybe it was as well they weren’t going through Proper Shift. But why so many? Why now?

Randall grunted from Secondo. ‘Funny sort of config around the shift point. Looks to me like we’re in for some . . .’

Jo-Jo flicked his eyes to Rast Randall. She was hunkered down in her vein, almost indistinguishable from the sink tissue that had slithered over her, other than the outline of her boots and the mound of her breasts.

‘What?’ Jo-Jo rasped.

‘Strife.’

The word planted itself in Jo-Jo’s mind as the ‘zoon went into Imperfect Shift.

Strife. Strife. Striiiffe.

It sounded over and over and over; in every possible intonation, volume, and in ways that turned it into something much more than a word.

It hammered at his temples, drilled through his ears, cascaded and crashed upon and crushed his chest, ripped strips from his skin. He cried like a baby trying to block out the sound and the sensation with his own noise but it clung to him, sticky and cutting and deeply...

‘Rasterovich!’ Rough hands shook him. ‘Quit howling.’

A whiff of something strong and a stinging slap to his . . . face. Yes. He knew that much. Someone had hit him.

‘Lemme piss on him,’ offered someone else.

Jo-Jo’s eyes fluttered open and his hand rose automatically to protect his face. ‘Piss on me and I’ll k—’

Laughter cut him off. Randall and Catchut. Clutching their sides.

‘Always works, Capo.’ Catchut guffawed again. Tubercle slime had stained his face an unhealthy colour. He was bent over as though there was pain beneath the laughter. Rast looked much the same, vein goo flaking off her skin.

Jo-Jo blinked a few times until the blur retreated a bit. His head was fugged and buzzing at the same time.

‘You got shift hysteria,’ said Randall.

Jo-Jo swallowed to see if everything was working. ‘Don’t handle that kinda shift well when I’m sober.’

‘Yeah - or maybe it’s yer bingeing that messed with you.’

Jo-Jo scowled. He wasn’t interested in a lecture on sobriety from a mere. ‘So where the fuck are we?’

She pointed to the space above the Primo vein where a brand new set of images floated.

‘Extro space,’ said Rast. ‘For real this time.’

THALES

Thales stared at his reflection. The necrosis had eaten the tip of one earlobe and spread down his cheek to one side of his chin, leaving an ugly decay like slick, dark algae on a wet rock.

Bethany assured him it would dry soon but that didn’t curb his despair.

‘I am diseased,’ he whispered. ‘Abhorrent.’

But Bethany refused to let him indulge in self-pity.

‘You’re alive, Thales - for Cruxsakes, get over it! And what’s more you’re free to do what you please. We can cover the scar as soon as it dries. Now focus on the important things!’

He turned from the mirror to look at her. Farr had given them a simple but comfortable apartment to stay in: a separate bedroom from the living room and bathroom. Between them they only had some worn clothes and a handful of personal items to fill it.

Bethany sat on the couch, hugging her knees against her chest. Under the stark white Edo lighting she looked much older than she had aboard the biozoon or the cruise ship. And right now there was none of the sympathy in her voice that he sought -but neither, at least, was there the pity or disgust he felt for himself.

‘You don’t understand my ahisma. I have sworn never to harm another sentient, but this ... hideous ... thing... I would kill your brother if I could for doing this to me. And for making me realise how much conviction I lack in my own belief.’

Her stern expression didn’t change. ‘Do you think you’re the first person to change their mind? Or reassess their ethics? Thales . . .’ She made an exasperated noise and held out her hands in a pleading manner. ‘I am sorry for your lost ideals but life tests everything you believe. I would kill Lasper and he’s my brother ... do you understand how that makes me feel?’

Bethany’s pragmatism foundered