Sent them back north in pieces. All followed by orgiastic celebration—bonfire glow and the cries of women in wild orgasm on a surf backdrop.

It was a standard picture, and I’d had it painted for me before by other Vchira enthusiasts in the past. Looking past the more obvious embellishments, I panned out a little useful detail. Brasil had money—all those years with the Little Blues, right. No way he has to scratch a living teaching wobblies, selling boards and training up some fucking Millsport aristo’s spare flesh five years ahead of time—but the man still didn’t hold with clone reincarnation. He’d be wearing good surfer flesh, but I wouldn’t know his face. Look for them fucking scars on his chest, sam. Yes, he still wore his hair long. Current rumour had him holed up in a sleepy beach hamlet somewhere south.

Apparently he was learning to play the saxophone. There was this jazzman, used to play with Csango Junior, who’d told Milan …

I paid for the drinks and got up to go. The sun was gone and the dirty gold sea all but tarnished through to base metal. Across the beach below us, lights were coming to firefly life. I wondered if I’d catch the bug-hire place before it shut.

“So this aristo,” I said idly. “You teach his body to surf for five years, hone the reflexes for him. What’s your end?”

Milan shrugged and sipped at what was left of his rum. He’d mellowed with the alcohol and the payment. “We trade sleeves. I get what he’s wearing in return for this, aged sixteen. So my end’s a thirty-plus aristo sleeve, cosmetic alterations and witnessed exchange, so I don’t try to pass myself off as him, otherwise catalogue intact. Top-of-the-range clone stock, all the peripherals fitted as standard. Sweet deal, huh?”

I nodded absently. “Yeah, if he looks after what he’s wearing, I guess. Aristo lifestyles I’ve seen can make for some pretty heavy wear and tear.”

“Nah, this guy’s in shape. Comes down here on and off to check on his investment, you know, swim and surf a bit. Would have been down this week but that Harlan limo thing put a lock on it. He’s running a little extra weight he could do without, can’t surf for shit of course. But that’ll sort out easy enough when I—”

“Harlan limo thing?” Envoy awareness slithered along my nerves.

“Yeah, you know. Seichi Harlan’s skimmer. This guy’s real close with that branch of the family, had to—”

“What happened to Seichi Harlan’s skimmer?”

“You didn’t hear about this?” Milan blinked and grinned. “Where you been, sam? Been all over the net since yesterday. Seichi Harlan, taking his sons and daughter-in-law across to Rila, the skimmer just wiped out there in the Reach.”

“Wiped out how?”