A shell went off somewhere east of the hotel, the closest yet. White powder rained down from the ceiling; one corner of the polymer window popped loose from its frame, and curled up like a dead leaf. I squatted on the floor, covering my head, cursing myself for not leaving with De Groot and Mosala – and cursing Akili for ignoring my messages. Why couldn’t I accept the fact that I meant nothing to ver? I’d been of some use in the struggle to protect Mosala from the heretic ACs – and I’d brought ver the news which supposedly revealed the truth behind Distress … but now that the great information plague was coming, I was irrelevant.

The door swung open. An elderly Fijian woman stepped into the room; the hotel staff wore no uniforms, but I thought I’d seen her before, working in the building. She announced curtly, “We’re evacuating the city. Take what you can carry.” The floor had stopped moving, but I rose to my feet unsteadily, unsure if I’d heard her correctly.

I’d already packed my clothes. I grabbed my suitcase, and followed her out into the corridor. My room was just past the stairs, and she was heading for the next door along. I gestured at the other half of the corridor – some twenty rooms. “Have you checked—?”

“No.” For a moment, she seemed reluctant to entrust me with the task, but then she relented. She held up her pass key and let my notepad clone its IR signature.

I left my suitcase by the stairs. The first four rooms were empty. More shells were exploding all the time, now – most of them mercifully distant. I kept one eye on the screen as I waved my notepad at the locks; someone was collating all the damage reports and posting an annotated map of the city. So far, twenty-one buildings had been demolished – mainly apartment blocks. There was no question that if strategic targets had been chosen, they would have been hit; maybe the most valuable infrastructure was being spared – saved for the use of a puppet government to be installed by a second wave of invaders, who’d “rescue” the island from “anarchy”? Or maybe the aim was simply to level as many residential buildings as possible, in order to drive the greatest number of people out into the desert.

I found Lowell Parker – the Atlantica journalist I’d seen at Mosala’s media conference – crouched on the floor, shaking … much as the woman from the hotel had found me. He recovered quickly, and seemed to accept the news of the evacuation gratefully – as if all he’d been waiting for was word of a definite plan, even if it came from someone else who didn’t have a clue.