Sometimes he wondered just whose bright idea it had been to give him this much responsibility, and then he reminded himself, for the millionth time, that he had volunteered for the job. Previous investigations of attempts to either kill him or hurt the colony in Ocean’s Deep had a nasty habit of running into dead ends. Would-be executioners and saboteurs either proved to be mercenaries with no knowledge of who’d hired them, or simply turned up dead by the time the Consortium’s own intelligence services tracked them down.

‘Who’s our most likely suspect?’ he asked. ‘I’m talking governments here, Nisha. Who would you say wants rid of me the most of all this week?’

‘I would guess. . . the Midgarth security services are near the top. There are rumours they’ve been soliciting secret talks with both Morgan’s World and Bohr. In addition, they’ve been openly vetoing our request to take part in the next round of crisis talks. Also, some of their more recent candidates for navigator training turned out to have connections deep within their respective intelligence communities. We rejected them, naturally.’

‘We’ve been sitting around while other people take potshots at us for far too long. Where’s Willis right now?’ Corso asked, referring to his security head back at Ocean’s Deep.

‘Probably asleep, Senator. I reckon Leo Olivarri would be on active watch-duty about now.’ Olivarri was Willis’s deputy.

Corso grunted and checked the bandage in a mirror, to make sure it wasn’t going to slip. His arms and chest were marked with a fine criss-crossing of scars, like memories of pain and death carved into his flesh.

He started to get dressed, pulling on an anti-ballistic vest made from compacted layers of genetically enhanced spider-silk, then a formal dress shirt on top. A carefully concealed holstered pistol was next, followed by a slim blade tucked down the back of one boot. He kept himself armed at all times these days, and had recently spent a lot of time in the company of men like Breisch, learning how to properly use the various weapons he carried.

In the two years since Dakota had left, his chest had broadened and any excess fat had drained from his face, lending him a much more angular appearance. His fingers had grown calloused from months of weapons and hand-to-hand combat training. There was a long, dark burn mark on the inside of his left arm, invisible beneath his shirt – testament to a challenge he had taken part in less than a year before.