Cormac stared down at his hands, unclenched them and flexed his fingers. OK—it was going to be OK.

I will remain calm.

He began walking again before people started to wonder why he was standing still in the middle of the embarkation lounge staring up at the sphere. All he needed now was some Samaritan to come up to him and tell him not to be frightened of it. He smiled tightly to himself as he walked along, then, before he reached the row of gates, he turned towards one of the wide and ornately cast synthestone pillars that ostensibly supported the chainglass roof. At one of the four consoles, in the base of the pillar, he halted and slapped his hand down on the reader. He blinked on a momentary flash of red as the reader scanned his retinal pattern.

‘Identity confirmed, Ian Cormac,’ spoke an androgynous voice.

‘I want passage to Minostra as soon as possible,’ he said, then he turned his head slightly as all sounds beyond him suddenly cut out. A privacy field that he had not requested had developed. Now a completely different voice, but one he recognized, spoke from the console.

‘Would that be executive class or second?’ the Cheyne III runcible AI asked him.

Cormac frowned, but felt a kind of joy. This perhaps was the nearest he could come to linking. This privacy, this difference.

‘I think there is nothing worse than a runcible AI—an intelligence responsible for the lives of thousands every day—that likes to make jokes,’ he growled.

‘Then let us move on to something without humour. Arian Pelter has disappeared. Before doing this, he managed to withdraw Separatist funds as well as his personal fortune in cash. He was also seen visiting Sylac, whom I believe you know. Other events may also be connected. A turbine-powered catamaran was driven into the old lading docks and caused extreme damage. I only mention this because of the rumour that it contained a headless woman.’

‘That may have some relevance,’ Cormac conceded, immediately shutting down on an emotion he did not want to identify. ‘Pelter was always one for melodramatic gestures. Combine something like a Viking funeral with a Separatist blow against the industry the Polity condescends to allow . . . Is that all?’

‘I have no more information to pass on to you at present.’

‘Will you pass on anymore?’

‘If instructed.’

‘Who instructed you this time?’

‘Horace Blegg . . . Now, if you go to Gate C, your departure time will be in ten minutes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Good luck, Ian Cormac.’