he observed numerous hermit crabs. Many of these had made their homes in a variety of natural whelk shells, but many others had found other quite odd-looking residences.
'What is all this stuff?' Cormac asked.
Dax replied, 'Indestructiphones,' but said nothing more.
'Mackerel?'
'Here you see the result of the industries, of the early twenty-second century, producing cheap and incredibly hard-wearing ceramics and glass,' the submind replied. 'Those are the ceramic cases of Indestructiphones, just like your brother said, also webcams, glass pipe fittings for plumbing and bottles and jars.'
Cormac could see that some of the latter still bore inset labels of their erstwhile contents—coriander, mustard, tabasco, pickled ginger. He then paused to gaze at the ghoulish sight of a hermit crab that had taken up residence in the remains of a ceramic artificial hand.
Soon he passed the crumbling rails of the tanker and swam after his brother across the wide deck, now occupied by a garden of brain corals which, like all the corals in the vicinity, were no product of evolution, but had been adapted to grow fast and survive in the cold waters here. Beyond the ship the reefs proper began: corals stretching as far as they could see. Only by pausing and gazing for a long while could Cormac discern the regularity of this waterscape.
'Mackerel,' he said, 'what was it they dumped here?'
'One-hundred-year tyres,' the submind replied. 'They were carbon-filament tyres that gave even the most advanced recycling equipment of the time indigestion. They epoxied them together in tubes and dropped them to make a conservation area impossible to trawl.'
'Was that before the Tesco got hit with a missile?'
'Yeah.'
'So they were still trawling then?'
'Oh yeah—Oceana Foods was still struggling to get started and there were still pollution problems with the sea farms. You couldn't fart back then without some environmentalist following you about with a gas monitor.'
'Should be there in a few minutes,' called Dax, now a good hundred yards ahead.
Cormac swam harder to catch up, but Dax was not slowing down; in fact, as the sand-beds beyond the reefs came into view, he began swimming harder.
'There is something wrong with your brother,' said Mackerel abruptly.
'Dax!' Cormac called. 'Slow down!'
Soon Dax was low over the sand-beds swimming hard just above a shoal of fish. Something was stirring up the bottom and in a moment Cormac spotted the harpoon spear shoot down, its trailing string the bright orange of instantly clad monofilament. Dax was jerked down as something two yards wide and as long as Dax was tall took off along the bottom. Some kind of huge flatfish.
'What's he got?' Cormac asked, panting as he continued to swim hard.
'Turbot,' Mackerel supplied. 'They're big buggers out here—crossbred with escaped sea-farm stock from Oceana Foods.'
'Right.'
Dax was clinging onto his harpoon as the massive fish just kept on going. Now a trail of blood was streaming from the fish.
'Dax!' Cormac called again.
'No it's not,' Dax replied. 'They weren't… they weren't…'
'I have summoned help,' said the submind.
Suddenly the great fish jerked and shuddered, coming up from the seabed. Cormac realised the harpoon gun must be the kind that could deliver a massive electric shock. The turbot was almost certainly dead now. It slowly turned over, exposing its milk-white underside, blood clouding around it.
'No… no it… no please. I didn't mean…' Dax's voice slowly lapsed into an indistinct muttering. He just hung in the sea, still clinging to his harpoon, still linked to the dead fish.
'You must return to your hotel now,' said the submind.
'I will not,' said Cormac.
'Sorry about this,' said the mind.
Suddenly Cormac turned and began swimming back, only it wasn't him swimming, it was the suit.
'You can't do this!' he protested.
'Assistance is coming for Dax,' said the mind.
Then far ahead, Cormac saw a shape hurtling towards him, a white water trail behind it. As he watched, it swung wide, so it remained distant enough for him to be unsure, but certainly it was insectile, with many legs folded underneath.
'I hate you,' said the boy, not sure whether his hate was directed at the submind controlling his suit or at that distant unknowable drone.
Cormac could not tell how many periods of sleep and rude awakening passed as the ATV travelled over rough terrain, but eventually they arrived somewhere, and the compartment was opened. Samara peered in at him for a moment, backlit by dawn sky, then reached in and slipped something over his head.
'That's braided monofilament around your neck,' she said, 'so climb out very carefully and be careful not to snag on anything, or your head might end up on the ground.'
Cormac climbed out, unable to take his time as she kept up the tension on the glittering strand extending from her hand to his neck.
'The neurotoxin is leaving your system now, agent,' she said. 'Don't make any errors of judgement at this point.'
'I'm not an agent,' he said, though he wasn't sure why he bothered.
The ATV had been parked beside a copse of stunted and charred skarch struggling to put out leaf. Ahead, a track disappeared between a sprawl of low buildings interspersed with the occasional silo.
'Head for the door.' Samara pointed to the nearest building.
He was about to nod, but thought better of that and just walked. Halting at the door he glanced back past her at Carl, but Carl was gazing thoughtfully off into the distance, his whole physical pose seeming completely wrong to Cormac.
'The door,' Samara instructed.
Cormac pushed the handle down and stepped in.
It seemed some sort of control centre had been sited in this warehouse. Numerous foamstone pillars supported a smoked-glass roof. There seemed to be a lot of wiring, fibre optics and items of hardware up there. Similar wiring and optics snaked across the floor from sets of consoles gathered about two newer looking ATVs whose bodies were all sharp angles and plain faces—sure sign that they deployed chameleonware. He then realised what all that stuff up in the roof must be: a similar camouflage shield.
There were people busy at the consoles while others, mostly armed and clad in chameleoncloth, conducted typical army tasks with a worrying professionalism. Samara towed him over to one of the pillars, wrapped the monofilament about the foamstone and locked it off. Cormac had no doubt that the loop of filament wrapped around his neck was locked off too. Then, seeming to lose interest, she went over to stand with Carl, who was now talking to one of those working a console. After a moment she said something then pointed across the warehouse to where Skyril had handed over the case of antimatter flasks to two individuals at a set of work-benches. Carl nodded, and Samara returned to Cormac.
'Sit down,' she said.
Cormac was grateful to do so, but it just had not occurred to him, which told him he still wasn't thinking straight. He sat with his back against the pillar and Samara squatted before him.
'You do understand that we knew right away that it was a trap—that the AIs wanted us to take those CTDs so they could trace them back here, Agent Cormac.'
'I've already told you I'm no agent.'
He glanced across and saw that Carl and Skyril were now heading over, and guessed it wouldn't be long now before the
'I do hope you are,' she replied. 'Because if you're not, I don't see any reason to keep you alive. Just like
