BEAUTY ANDDDD BEAAST. HORRRIBLENASTY FILTH!!! MEMEMEMEME. YOU SCREW BABIESBABIES MAKKK MAKE BABIES TOOOOGETHER… IIIIIIIII WANNT WANT SHITFILLTH.

GOOOOOOO AWWWAY GGREG.

Greg couldn't move. Revolted and horrified. He wanted to get out, out and never come back. Break free. The Trinities, the Constables, Blackshirts, this tower, this room, Royan; they were all facets of his ingrained guilt, soul-devouring.

DON'TTTTTT CRY.

He rubbed knuckles into his eyes, vision blurring.

QUUIK WHYCOME???

Qoi appeared in the kitchen door, concern marring her fragile, sensitive features. She flashed Greg a look he couldn't begin to interpret.

WHY

"I needed you to run a finance backtrack for me. I think it's the missing link, the one that'll tie Kendric to the hotrods."

The screens exploded into an incoherent image-mash; channel shows, himself seen through Royan's eye camera, sticky tears smearing his cheeks, mad computer graphics. starchy-neat data tables dissolving into tight vortices of green and blue alphanumerics. One of the little trash robots trundled across the floor, gears grinding harshly, and bumped into a plant trough. It backed off, and hit the trough again, and again. Bewitched with a mindless insect sentience.

Qoi was at Royan's side, pinching his nose with one hand, trying to push a feed bottle's nipple into his mouth. He flung his head from side to side, a desperate thrumming sound raised in his throat.

DATA DATA DAT-----------LEAVE IT IT IT

A multitude of red and green LEDs lit up on one of Royan's cranky gear consoles. Greg retrieved the memory O'Donal had given him from his cybofax, and showed it to the console. Squirting.

The screens were showing a giant still picture of Trafalgar Square. Greg recognised it instantly. A euphoric classic. The day the PSP fell; beamed out live by every channel in the world. The crowd singing God Save the King, orange flames rising from a hundred PSP banners, ten thousand Union Jacks waving in joyful celebration, a residue of smoke from Downing Street boiling through the air. The scene was swelling, individual pixels becoming golf-ball-sized, a nonsense mosaic.

Royan sounded as though he was choking. Qoi had got the nipple into his mouth, he was sucking frantically; treacly globs of mashed apple running down his chin, dribbling on to an already badly stained T-shirt.

Behind Greg the robot suddenly stopped its mad battering. There must've been something in the apple. Royan was visibly wilting.

"You go now, please," Qoi said, bowing from the waist.

The lunatic kaleidoscope shrank as the screens began to wink out one by one.

Qoi's small expressive eyes were filled with a sorrow that had no right inhabiting someone her age. "Nothing more you can do."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A flock of black storks were flapping lazily overhead as Greg walked up the Mirriam's gangplank. The bodyguard teleported out of nowhere to block his path, a hand holding both railings. He was wearing a red-and-green-striped rugby shirt and coffee-coloured shorts. "You looking far something?" he asked in strongly accented English.

"Yes, Mr. di Girolamo."