On the market stalls behind, a pathetic amount of food was on display, while the best business was being conducted out of the back of a transvan. It contained bags of homegrown tobacco, in strong demand because everyone knew that when you’re smoking you don’t feel so hungry. Here and there lolled guards armed with very up-to-date assault rifles – underworld enforcers. Over to the right, behind an area almost fenced off by car bodies, lay piles of engine parts and burnt-out computer-locking mechanisms. Pillars of tyres formed the entrance to this zone, but no one was currently doing any business there. Saul guessed that the car-breaking business must be on the wane. Over to the left the open side of the car park overlooked the urban sprawl, now lost in the hazy polluted distance. There were plenty of people about, he noticed, but none by the mobile hospital except Bronstein himself.

The doctor inspected the end of his cigar. ‘It’s a matter of priorities.’

‘Really?’

‘You got enough cash for lung wash and a relining you now spend it on bread.’

Hannah stepped forward. ‘I didn’t realize that All Health was charging for its services now.’

‘All Health?’ He eyed her wonderingly. ‘I stopped working for them once they told me to carry on reusing syringes after the sterilizers broke down.’ He waved his cigar at the vehicle behind. ‘I’m private now, and this set-up is my pension plan.’

‘Won’t they miss it?’ Saul gestured at the vehicle.

‘Amazing what records can disappear when you M-bullet a bowel cancer for the right official.’ Bronstein drew on his cigar again and let out a long stream of smoke. ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘You’ve got the full auto-surgery with telefactored instruments, clean box and full life-support?’ Hannah asked.

‘Yup.’

‘Nerve-sheath scouring and microtools?’

‘Yup.’ He looked slightly puzzled and wary now.

‘Sigurd biotic tools?’

‘Fuck me, lady, this is an AH unit not a Committee hospital.’

‘But you must do implants here, so what do you have available?’

‘Some Sigurd,’ he admitted, stubbing out his cigar and taking his feet off the crate, ‘and old Clavier biotics.’

‘That should do it.’

‘So what’s the deal?’

‘Cerebral implants,’ she said.

He grimaced. ‘I do some, but nothing after the Net Chips.’

‘Not a problem. I’ll operate and you can assist.’

‘Lady, no one uses my stuff.’