I hit all the possible escape codes, in the hope of finding some wider menu – but this was it, the complete list of choices. All the glorious fantasies I hadn’t dared entertain had involved reaching the ship’s main computer, gaining instant access to the net, and archiving the ACs’ pre-recorded confession in twenty safe places, while simultaneously sending copies to everyone at the Einstein Conference. This was nothing but a vestigial emergency system – probably built into the design as a minimum statutory requirement, and then ignored when the ship was fitted out by a third party with proper communications and navigation equipment.

Ignored – or disconnected?

I mimed typing B.

The text of a simple mayday broadcast flowed across the virtual screen. It gave the ship’s model number, serial number, latitude and longitude – if I remembered the map of Stateless correctly, we were closer to the island than I’d thought – and stated that “survivors” were located in the “main cargo hold.” I suddenly had a strong suspicion that if we’d bothered to search the rest of the hold, we might have found another panel, hiding two fist-sized red buttons labeled BEACON and FLARES – but I didn’t want to think about that.

Somewhere up on deck, a siren started screaming.

Kuwale was dismayed. “What did you do? Trigger a fire alarm?”

“I broadcast a mayday. I thought flares might get us into trouble.” I closed the panel and started rebuttoning my bloody shirt, as if hiding the evidence might help.

I heard someone heavy running across the deck. A few seconds later, the siren shut off. Then the hatch was wound halfway open, and Three peered down at us. He was holding a gun, almost absentmindedly. “What good do you think that’s going to do you? We’re sending out the false-alarm code already; no one’s going to take any notice.” He seemed more bemused than angry. “All you have to do is sit tight and stop fucking about, and you’ll be free soon enough. So how about some cooperation?”

He unfurled the ladder and came down, alone. I stared up at the strip of pale dawn sky behind him; I could see a fading satellite, but I had no way to reach it. Three picked up two pieces of discarded rope and tossed them at us. “Sit down and tie your feet together. Do it properly and you might get breakfast.” He yawned widely, then turned and yelled, “Giorgio! Anna! Give me a hand!”

Kuwale rushed him, faster than I’d seen anyone move in my life. Three raised the gun and shot ver in the thigh. Kuwale staggered, pirouetting, still moving forward. Three kept the gun aimed squarely on ver, as vis knees buckled and vis head sagged. As the shot’s reverb faded from my skull, I could hear ver gasping for breath.