Suzi grinned knowingly. "Just in case you're thinking of visiting, right? There's nine real crew, sailor types, including the captain. On top of that you've got seven assorted staff, cooks, maids, and such. Then there's six bodyguards, mean-looking bastards. Oh, here," she leaned over him, tiny pointed breasts squashing against his cheek, damp and salty. He detected a glint of amusement in her mind. She scrabbled amongst the gear modules and came back with a memox crystal. "This has got all the visitors' faces and times they turned up. We managed to get names for a few of them."

One of the flatscreens switched to the Mirriam's blueprints. "There are always at least four people left on board," Suzi said, pointing at it. "We think we've got their cabins assigned, but you can never be sure."

Names had been superimposed over the various cabins.

"Great. Where did you get the specs from?" Greg asked.

"Son snatched them. Mirriam's hull was built in Finland, but she was fitted out up in Tyneside. Apparently the English are still unbeatable when it comes to quality handicrafts."

Greg squirted the memox crystal data into his cybofax, and began skipping through the faces. The images were good, high definition, most seemed to be staring straight into the lens. Morgan Walshaw should be able to assemble profiles on them.

"Oh yeah," Suzi muttered. "They've got themselves a permanent doxy on board, too. She don't do much; too flicking stoned the whole time by the look of her. That Kendric, ménage a quatre every night, some stud, huh?"

Greg flipped through the index until he came to the girl; she'd been given a number, but no name. Her face appeared on the cybofax's little screen.

"That's some looker," Suzi said, craning over his shoulder. "Wouldn't mind her for myself."

"Has she been on board the whole time?"

"Yeah, since we've been watching, anyway. Why, you know her?"

"Yes. Her name is Katerina Cawthorp."

SO WHY I***FYRNST… +! IS IULIR'SSSS FRIEND SHCKED UUUUP WITH KENDRIC DE GIROLAMO???

"I don't know the specifics," Greg said, his voice raised, strained.

Royan was jittering about in his dentist's chair, shoulders jerking in an erratic pumping rhythm. Royan was having one of his bad days, and when Greg considered just how shitty even Royan's good days must be…

CONNNNECTED?

"There is no such thing as coincidence."

WAS I HE%%%%LPING YOU WITH l OTIIIIMES>>?

The catheter bag which dangled below the chair on a chrome coathook was filling with an oily bilious liquid.

"Big help. He was a blackmail victim, not a proper hotrod. Someone has been feeding him sophisticated viruses to use on burns."

THINK HE WAS ODDDDDD. TOOOO QUICK TO GOOOO SOLO. NOT ENOUGH SHITTTT END END END. NOT ENOUGH CIRCIT SKORES TO HISSS HANDEL.

HURTSSS GREEG. REALLLY HURTS MEEEEE.

And how could he answer that? He smiled broadly, feeling a prize turd. "Hey, you made a friend in Eleanor. She's planning on coming back."