'You're sure about that?'
'Yes. I'm not making this up. He was a Zantiu-Braun squaddie.'
'So what happened: he walked in and shot everyone?'
'No. He was talking to some bloke. Then Jack and a couple of the others went over. I guess they were looking for trouble. Jack's like that; a good bloke really, though. That's when it happened.'
'The man fired darts that knocked everyone out?'
'Yes. I saw him hold his hand up high, and someone shouted that he was in Skin. I got down behind the counter. Then I heard everyone screaming and falling. When I got up, they were all just lying there. I thought... thought they were all dead.'
'And you called the police.'
'Yes.'
'Had you ever seen this man before?'
'I don't think so. But he might have been in. We get a lot of people in here, you know.'
Simon glanced round the bar, and just avoided wrinkling his nose in disgust. 'I'm sure you do. What about the person he was talking to—have you seen him before?'
'No. But—'
'Yes?'
'He was Zantiu-Braun as well.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yeah. I've worked in bars all around Cairns. You get to recognize the squaddies, not just from their valves.'
'Very well. So the shooter came in and bought a beer, then went straight over to the other squaddie, is that right?'
'Yes. That's about it.'
'Try to remember, did either of them seem surprised that the other was there?'
'No. The one who was here first was drinking by himself, like he was waiting for the other.'
'Thank you. You've been most helpful.'
Captain Finemore gave Simon a surprised look when he emerged from the bar. 'What happened?'
'Nothing,' he said. 'It wasn't a Skin suit He was using some kind of scatter pistol. I expect the dart toxin was produced in an underground lab. Shame the chemist wasn't a bit more attentive to the actual molecular structure when he attempted to retrosynth it.'
'A shame?' The line of Captain Finemore's lips was set hard. 'We've got one dead, and Christ alone knows if the rest of them will recover.'
'Then you'll be glad we're getting out of your hair.' Simon gestured along the clutter and confusion of Kuranda's main street. 'It's all yours. But if you do need any help rounding the shooter up, then don't hesitate to ask. Our boys can always do with a bit of live training.'
'I'll keep it in mind,' Finemore said.
As before, police and civilians parted for him with sullen, silent resentment. He ran quickly through the TVL77D's start-up procedure and lifted from the baked mud. His personal AS reported there was no unauthorized removal of a Skin suit from the Cairns base armory.
'Check this out for me,' he told Adul. 'I want to know who it was walking round in Skin.'
'Some squaddie got jumped in a bar. Do you really think it's that important?'
'The incident isn't. The fact that there's no reference to Skin missing is. And I'm curious why two of our people should choose to meet in such a godforsaken place.'
'Yes, sir.'
Zantiu-Braun's Third Fleet base centered on the old Cairns International Airport just to the north of the town. There were no commercial flights there anymore; the main transport link was the TranzAus magrail train, bringing cargo and people northward with smooth efficiency at five hundred kilometers an hour. Now the parking aprons held squadrons of Third Fleet helicopters along with scramjet-powered spaceplanes and a few dark, missilelike executive supersonic jets; eight old lumbering turboprop craft maintained by Z-B provided a civil coastwatch and rescue service all the way out to New Guinea. As a result, the airspace over Cairns was the busiest section in Australia apart from Sydney, where the remaining airlines had their hub. Synthetic hihydrogen fuels had replaced natural petroleum products, ecologically sounder but relatively expensive to produce, the cost pushing air travel right back where it started in the twentieth century, the preserve of governments, corporations and the rich.
With mass tourism dying and agriculture effectively eliminated by vat-grown food and worsening ultraviolet infall, Queensland was fast becoming an economic wasteland in 2265 when Zantiu-Braun was offered zero-tax start-up incentives to site a new wave of Earth-to-orbit operations there.
In those days, the operation was purely commercial. Freight spaceplanes boosted factory station modules to loworbit stations and returned with valuable microgee products, while the passenger variants ferried colonists up to starships. After 2307 that all began to change. Asset realization became the new priority, and the nature of the cargoes that the space-planes hauled up to low orbit switched accordingly. The number of colonists flying from Cairns fell to zero inside of a decade, replaced by strategic security personnel. Third Fleet support systems took over from industrial shipments.
The base expanded, throwing up barracks and married quarters for the strategic security division squaddies. Engineering and technical support constructed themselves ranks of blank warehouselike buildings. New hangars and maintenance shops sprang up to house and service the helicopters. Huge swaths of government land were rented for training grounds. And, essentially, all of the new arrivals required administration. Glass and marble office towers rose up in the foothills, overlooking the base and the ocean beyond.
Simon Roderick had an office that occupied half of the top floor of the Quadrill block, the newest and plushest of Z-B's little managerial division enclaves. As soon as he landed the helicopter on the rooftop pad he was plunged into yet another round of planning committees and tactical meetings. Senior staff came in and went out of his office as if it were some kind of transit lounge, each with his own proposal or complaint or report. For an age that relied so heavily on artificial sentience, it always astounded Simon that so little could be achieved without human intervention and supervision. People, basically, needed a damn good kick up the ass to get them motivated and acting like adults. Something not even quantum-switch neurotronic pearls could provide.
After three years on-site Simon knew he was going to have to make a drastic recommendation to the Zantiu-Braun Board after the Thallspring campaign. Forty-
