“You will find.” Her amplified voice trod down the dissent. “That successful deCom has three stages. First you take down your mimint. Then you register the claim for it. Then you have to live long enough to get back to the beachhead and pick up the money. The last two stages of that process are especially hard to do if you’re lying back there in the street with your guts spilled and your head gone. Which is more than likely what’ll happen if one of you tries to take down a karakuri nest without help. The word crew has connotations. Those of you who aspire to be in a crew at some stage, I suggest you meditate upon that.”

The noise fizzled out into muttering. Behind me, Jadwiga’s corpse straightened up and took the weight off my arm. Sylvie surveyed her audience.

“Right. Now the radial pattern is going to fan us out pretty fast, so keep your mapping gear online at all times. Tag every street when you’re done, stay in contact with each other and be prepared to double back to cover the gaps as the pattern opens up. Spatial analysis. Remember, the mimints are fifty times as good as us at this. If you leave a gap they’ll spot it and use it.”

“If they’re there at all,” came another voice from the crowd.

“If they’re there at all,” agreed Sylvie. “Which they may or may not be. Welcome to New Hok. Now.” She stood up on the grav bug’s running boards and looked around. “Does anyone have anything constructive to say?”

Quiet. Some shuffling.

Sylvie smiled. “Good. Then let’s get on with this sweep, shall we. Radial search, as agreed. Scan up.”

A ragged cheer went up and fists brandished hardware. Some moron fired a blaster bolt into the sky. Whoops followed, volcanic enthusiasm.

“…kick some motherfucking mimint ass …”

“Going to make a pile, man. A fucking pile.”

“Drava baby, here we come!”

Kiyoka cruised up on my other flank and winked at me.

“They’re going to need all of that,” she said. “And then some. You’ll see.”

An hour in, I knew what she meant.

It was slow, frustrating work. Move fifty metres down a street at webjelly pace, skirting fallen debris and dead ground cars. Watch the scans. Stop.

Wait for the foot sweepers to penetrate the buildings on either side and work their way up twenty-odd levels one creeping step at a time. Listen to their structure-skewed coms transmission. Watch the scans. Tag the building clear. Wait for the foot sweepers to come down. Watch the scans. Move on, another halting fifty-metre stretch. Watch the scans. Stop.

We found nothing.

The sun fought a losing battle against the cloud cover. After a while, it started to rain.

Watch the scans. Move on up the street. Stop.