‘I put these processor shunts into ’im,’ Surt said, directing my attention to two fine probes, a little like the ones we used on skulls, jammed into the dome’s innards via two tiny holes that she must have drilled herself. ‘If there’s still some life in him, he’ll perk up when you join those probes together. Like smelling salts to a robot, that is. I didn’t do it myself, though. Robots are particular and if they see a face they don’t recognise, or don’t care for, that can have ’em shutting up shop for good.’ Then she turned her famished, drawn face onto mine and looked me hard in the eyes. ‘Core consolidation’s a neat trick for any machine, but with robots it was commoner with the military variants than the civilian units. You sure you want to wake up a Twelfth Occupation battle servitor, Fura?’

‘I know him,’ I said. ‘Know him and trust him.’

‘Best be right about that. Then again, him being just a head . . . I don’t suppose there’s much mischief he could get up to, even if he had the desire.’

‘You know more about robots than anyone I’ve met. His body’s gone, I think. Would this head work on another one?’

Surt sucked in air, had a squinty look about her. ‘Depends on the head, and depends on the body. Ain’t no easy answer. Tell you one thing, though. Finding a robot’s knotty enough these days. Finding a robot in want of a head’s even knottier. You might have a long search ahead of you.’ After a silence she nodded at the two ends of the probes. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

‘Wait,’ I said, before she had time to pull away. ‘We made a deal, and you’ve kept your side of it. Even if he doesn’t work, you tried, and that was kind of you. I’d still like to help you with reading.’

‘That was nice, Fura, but we both know you ain’t got the time or inclination for it.’

‘Then I’ll make time. And I am inclined. Find a book. Bring it to me. Captain Trusko must have a few he can share with the rest of you.’

Her eyes settled on my meagre belongings, the miserable handful of things I’d brought with me from Mazarile. ‘A book’s a book. I ain’t fussy. What’s wrong with that one?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. But I took the black-bound cover from under my blankets where it had been jutting out, the cover of the 1384 edition of the Book of Worlds, and opened it to show her that there were no pages in it, just the marbled insides of the cover and the gluey ruin of what had once been the spine. ‘Except there wouldn’t be much to read.’

‘You’re a strange one, Fura,’ Surt said.