He emerges in woods, mud forming a birth caul, muscles shaking from exertion and from cold. It has been years since he has been in the outside world. He hears the splash-gurgle of a nearby stream and heads for that. It is also freezing, but he doesn’t hesitate. He washes all the muck off and stands leaning into the wind to dry. He has dried apricots to chew on and some water to drink. He heads north in the forest. After an hour of walking, his clothes are dry and his water, apricots and energy are all gone. He isn’t entirely sure where he is going.

His IFC alerts him to a short-range broadcast. Care packages that hunters left for other travellers. Potable water. Food. A map download with GPS. Three and a half hours brings him to a hotel – or, rather, a bar that has rooms. The girl at reception looks about fifteen and has a Portwine Stain. She smiles at Brisbane, which is remarkable given how he looks. She hesitates a little when he asks for a room – saddle weary and asthenic as he seems – but an IFC scan shows he is worthy and then some. She mistakenly broadcasts her single status and apologises.

Later, in the bathtub, he wonders if it was on purpose. The rot has started for him in earnest now. The skin on his belly is wrinkled like he is an old man. It seems to have accelerated since he left the Tehani. Or maybe the acceleration is because of his exertions. He uses the hotel stationery to write down a list of medical establishments the Tehani doctor gave him. All are specialists in “prosthesis and adjustments”.

“They have all done military-grade work, and referral is by word of mouth. What you are asking for is not available on the open market, Jeremiah. But you need this for the work ahead.”

The first is an out-of-order contact, and further searches reveal the establishment is out of business.

The next two refuse to even speak to him and block his IFC hardware code after two tries. Number four sounds so informal and congenial that Brisbane wonders if they can do the job.

“You understand what I am asking here?” he says. Even he does not fully understand.

“Oh, I do. You want military-level body adjustments that would ordinarily take six years in a matter of two months. You want a containment suit, full body, that keeps toxins in, not out.”

“With the…” Brisbane checks the notes. “Advanced Interface Agent.”

“AIA, yes. People think that’s a myth, by the way. Okay, we should meet.”

“You haven’t told me how much this will cost. How do you know I can afford any of these materials?”

“One, you have this number. Two, you’re a miner, aren’t you? The containment suit is a giveaway. Your type squirrels away Rare-Earth and Exotics. This means money. I am not worried about your ability to pay.”