Pelter walked unsteadily forward to the operating table. Sylac retained his smirk as he watched. Stanton knew the surgeon had every reason to feel confident; neither Separatists nor ECS had been able to do anything about him for some time. His augmentation had taken him not far from the level of a Polity AI, and the technology with which he surrounded himself made it unlikely that anything less than a tactical strike could take him out, and even that . . .

Pelter placed four etched sapphires down on the table.

‘Rather excessive for a few repairs,’ said Sylac.

Pelter unclipped an object like a small black pebble from his belt, which he placed next to the sapphires.

‘Ah,’ said Sylac.

‘You can do my friend first,’ said Pelter. ‘What I want is going to take a little longer.’

Stanton hesitated when Pelter looked towards him, then moved further into the theatre. Sylac watched him for a moment, then glanced towards the operating table. At that same glance the surgical robot straightened up and began moving some of its instrument arms in a manner that could only be described as eager. Sylac moved over to the table and swept up the sapphires and the other object Pelter had deposited there. A second after this the table motors hummed gently as it folded in a number of places. In moments it had become a chair with a headrest and arms. Sylac gestured to the chair with one of his metal arms. The gesture was graceful, which made it all the more unnerving. Stanton moved across and sat. He looked at Sylac, but the cybersurgeon had turned away and was walking to his side bench. Instead of Sylac, the robot moved round beside Stanton. A thin arm darted out and sliced cleanly through his sling.

‘Wait a minute!’ Stanton cried.

Two padded clamps darted out, pulled his arm aside and pinned it to the chair arm. He felt the broken bone grinding inside and yelled more in shock than in pain.

Sylac looked round at him. ‘I do have other things to do, man. You only have a broken arm,’ he said.

A sharp pain in his shoulder, and Stanton looked around at the disc now pressed there. His arm went completely dead: nerve-blocker. Stanton looked over at Arian, but the Separatist had his concentration fixed on Sylac, who was inspecting the black device.

‘What do you want with this, Pelter?’ he asked.

‘I want it connected into a military aug, and I want that interfaced with my optic nerve,’ said Pelter, and so saying he peeled the dressing from his face.

Sylac looked at the ruin of his face with something like disinterest. ‘I’ll have to do some grafting there, but your payment covers that,’ he said.

Pelter went on. ‘I also want my finger and handprints removed and my retinal print changed.’