‘You get him?’ he asked through swollen lips.

‘I got him,’ said Gobleka.

They stared down at Eisenhorn’s body. It was crumpled against the handrail, propped up in a half-sprawled, half-kneeling position. His eyes were closed, and the empty injector was slipping from his limp fingers.

‘Nothing’s happening,’ said Davinch.

‘I thought I heard him scream,’ said Gobleka.

‘Yeah, me too,’ said Davinch. ‘It came from his mind, not his mouth. Goran, why isn’t he–’

‘Just wait,’ said Gobleka.

‘For what?’ asked Davinch. They looked at each other. They both knew the symptomatic progression. They’d documented it in enough test subjects. After the antigenic was administered, a subject lapsed into violent, thrashing seizures that could last hours or days. The skin blistered and peeled. Sometimes it fell off completely. Even for them, it was hard to watch.

After the frenzied agony, every test subject had become still, a few moments of calm that preceded death. None had survived except Sark, and Sark’s first exposure had resulted in a six-hour ordeal of fits, screaming and haemorrhaging.

But Eisenhorn had just become comatose. Twenty-five seconds had passed since Gobleka had stabbed the injector into his neck, and he was silent and still.

‘It didn’t work,’ Davinch said. ‘I think we killed him.’

Gobleka crouched down and put his ear close to Eisenhorn’s mouth.

‘He’s still breathing,’ he said.

Davinch shook his head.

‘Not for long,’ he said. ‘You hit him with a full dose. He was already weak–’

‘Strong up here,’ said Gobleka, tapping his temple with his index finger.

Davinch continued to look dubious.

‘Well, I think that’s the problem,’ he said. He walked over to the med kit and started to sponge the blood off his face with a sterile dressing. Each wipe made him grimace. ‘That’s the thing they always said about him. Iron will. He probably tried to fight back. Resist, you know. You don’t resist the antigen. Resisting makes it worse. You’ve fried him. Brain-dead. That’s probably just an autonomic response you’re seeing. His body spinning down.’

Davinch suddenly recoiled and cried out in alarm.

Eisenhorn had lurched forwards without warning. He was on his hands and knees, his eyes closed, sweat dripping from his face. He was trying to rise, but the cuffs around his wrists were hindering him.

‘Get him up,’ Gobleka ordered.

They battled to raise Eisenhorn to his feet. As Davinch held him upright, Gobleka slapped Eisenhorn around the face a couple of times.

‘Wake up! Can you hear me?’

Eisenhorn’s eyelids fluttered.

‘Eisenhorn?’ whispered Gobleka. He dragged Eisenhorn’s right eyelid up with his thumb, expecting to see a blood-blown iris, or worse.

‘Great spirits of the dark…’ he whispered in wonder. He started to laugh.

‘What?’ asked Davinch. ‘What is it? Gobleka, what?’

Gobleka turned Eisenhorn’s face so Davinch could see.

‘Damn,’ Davinch said.

Eisenhorn’s eyes were shining with violet light.