"Yes, I-"

"I am afraid that the number you have called is unavailable. The channel is closed right now, but if you would like to leave a message, we can transmit it once the channel reopens."

"I . . ." She sighed heavily, unable to help herself, then shook her head. "No. It doesn't matter."

She cut the connection, then sat back, her face pained.

Maybe he was on his way. It was even possible that he was here already. Maybe he'd arrived while she was sitting here, fretting. She stood and crossed the room quickly, then stopped, seeing the young man standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She cleared her throat.

"Excuse me. ..." : ; He jerked round, surprised. "I ... I was just looking." He took a step toward her, his hands out, as if to excuse himself. "I just wondered what kind of girl you were. What kind of things you liked. That's all.

Girls' rooms"-he smiled uncertainly-"they reveal a lot about their owners, don't you think?"

She stared at him coldly, then answered him, her voice hard, uncompromising. "What business is it of yours who I am or what I like?"

His eyes widened, disconcerted by the harshness of her answer. "You mistake me. I ... didn't mean to pry. I was . . . interested, that's all. If we're to . . ."

"If we're to what?" She was suspicious now. She took a step toward him, as if facing an attacker. "What are you talking about, Lieutenant?"

He gave a brief, surprised laugh. "Lieutenant? No, you've got it wrong. I'm not a soldier. I ..."

Bartels swallowed, seeing the look that had come to her face.

"So what are you? And what do you want?" She took another step, her body crouching slightly. "Who invited you?"

He took a step back, his hands raised defensively. "Look, I ..." He sighed, his eyes pleading with hernow. "Your father said I was to be pleasant to you, that's all. He said . . ."

Jelka stopped, straightening slowly, her whole body gone cold, all of her darkest suspicions suddenly confirmed. Her father. This was her father's doing.

That was why there had been no fuss, no arguments, about Kim's invitation. Because he had had no intention of letting the young man step inside his Mansion. Because . . .

She shivered with indignation, then, sweeping past Bartels, went into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

"You thought I'd be fooled, didn't you?" she said with a quiet anger, addressing her reflection as she began to peel off the dress. "You thought I'd play the good daughter and not embarrass you."

She kicked the dress away, then went across and pulled the spacesuit down from its peg. For a moment she hesitated, knowing that if she did this, it would be tantamount to an open rejection of her father-that it would mean a breach with him. But that was what he'd been counting on: that she would think twice before tackling him head on.

Well, you were wrong, she thought, angry with him suddenly. Furious that he should use such tactics against her, after all that had happened.

Facing the mirror again, she rested the suit against her body, remembering how it had felt out there in the outer system; how at home she'd felt among the cold-worlders. Then, without further hesitation, she pulled it on, the familiarity of the garment-the smell and touch of it-making her shiver with a sense of recognition.

Better, she thought, smiling at the new image of herself. But the hair was still wrong. Hurriedly she took it down and combed it out with her fingers. Yes, she thought finally. That's me. Not that other creature, but this. . . .

And if Kim had come? If she'd been wrong about her father?

She laughed, then spoke softly to the mirror. "Then you'll look a fool, Jelka Tolonen, won't you?" But at least it would be her and not some twisted image of her mother-some hideous fulfilment of her father's fantasies.

Seven years she had waited for this day. Seven years. And now, finally, she had come of age. Today she was her own woman, free to choose for herself. But what did that mean-what point had it-if she could not be herself?

Smiling uncertainly, Jelka nodded to her image, then, steeling herself, knowing what lay ahead, she turned and went to the door.

THE MASKED MAN stood in the doorway, a big "scattergun"-one hundred and eighty rounds in its snakelike spiral chamber-leveled at the servants who lay bound and gagged on the stone floor of the pantry. Their eyes watched him fearfully as, from other parts of the Mansion, strange voices called back and forth. They had seen the symbol on the chain about the men's necks-the cross within the circle-and feared the worst. If these were Hand members, then they were dead . . . sooner or later.

Outside, in the main house, masked men went from room to room, checking they were empty. Finally, one of them came down the main steps and went over to a man who sat on the low wall by the drive and snapped to attention in front of him, bowing his head."He's not inside, sir. He must have gone."

Von Pasenow stared at his lieutenant, then shook his head. "He's here. He has to be here. What about the dome?"

"It's locked. If he's in there-"

Von Pasenow stood, angry that he had to do the thinking for all of them. "Well, unlock the fucking thing!

He's in there. He has to be. He can't be anywhere else, can he? We've watched the transit all day, and there's no other way out. So get to it. Use cutting tools if you have to!"

"Sir!" The man bowed and backed away, then turned and hurried back inside, calling men to him as he went.

Von Pasenow glanced at the timer inset into his wrist then swore. Twenty minutes . . . Twenty fucking minutes! They were supposed to be in and out in ten, taking Kim with them. But now . . .

He growled with frustration. Staying here was the last thing he'd wanted. They had to get Kim out of the dome and quickly, otherwise they could be into a siege situation, and who knew where that would lead?

Fuck you, Knut Tolonen! he thought, kicking at the gravel angrily. If the shit hits the fan, you can take the blame for this! Yes, and explain it to your precious daughter!

He had tried to talk the old man out of it, but it had been like talking to a statue. Tolonen was obsessed with keeping Ward and his daughter apart ... by any means, it seemed. But he hadn't counted on this.

He watched as two of his men hurried down the steps, carrying a laser cannon.

"Beinlich!"

His lieutenant reappeared in the doorway. "Sir?"

"Drug the servants, then get all but four of your men to the gate. I want to be out of here as soon as possible."

"Sir!"

Von Pasenow let out a breath. Security, when they came to investigate this, would know this wasn't the work of the Black Hand, if only because the Hand left no survivors. But then they were never meant to think that. They were meant to think this was industrial-that Kim had been kidnapped by one of SimFic's major rivals. The make of drugs would be one clue-throwing suspicion on MedFac: suspicion which would be fanned by a whispering campaign over the next few weeks.

Yes, but it won't work. It won't keep your daughter from marrying Ward. Not if she really wants to.

In fact, it might even backfire. Like that whole business with sending her away to the Colonies. If what he'd heard was right, she had spent most of her time pining for the Clayborn.

No. There was only one sure way to keep the two apart, and that was to kill him. But as Tolonen wouldn't go that far ...

He shrugged, then walked across to the dome. When he'd taken on the job, he had known very little about Ward, but scanning the files he had come to respect the young man, Clayborn or not. In that regard he didn't share the view of most of the Above. What did it matter where a man came from? It waswhere he ended up that counted. Too often in his life he had had to put up with assholes who were his superiors merely through connection. It was nice to come across someone who had risen, like himself, through merit.

If it were he and not the Marshal whose daughter was in love with Ward, he would have given the match his blessing. After all, Ward was one of the richest men in City Europe. And this Mansion . . . He nodded to himself, impressed. No, he would have had no qualms about a daughter of his marrying a Clayborn.

Not if the Clayborn were worth six hundred million yuan.

By the time he got there they had set up the laser and were already cutting into the steel outer door.

There was the sweet smell of burning in the air. He put up a hand to shield his eyes against the glare, then turned, looking back at the great House.

No ... no qualms at all.

SLOWLY, CAREFUL NOT to make a noise, Kim edged farther into the darkness, wriggling his whole body forward a fraction at a time, his head forced to the side by the narrowness of the space between the ceiling and the floor. The light was just ahead of him now, and he could hear the murmur of voices down below. If he was right he was directly above the kitchens. On the far side there was a service hatch, leading down. If he could somehow twist about and get into it.

He rested, inhaling the warm scent of the new pine floor he'd had put in only a week ago. If he hadn't watched them-if he hadn't witnessed how they'd laid the narrow planks-then they'd have taken him for certain. In all probability he would be dead by now, and Jelka . . .

Jelka would have been widowed before she was even married.

He closed his eyes, wondering what was she doing at that moment. Was she dancing? Was she in the arms of some young soldier, twirling around the ballroom, spiting him, angry with him for not being there-thinking he'd let her down?

He pushed the thought away, then began to edge forward again. It wasn't far now. Another ten minutes and he'd be there. Just another ten minutes.

And if they set the house on fire before then?

"Kim?"

He froze, his eyes searching the darkness in front of him. Then, with a jolt, he realized that the voice had come from inside-from the implant in his head.

"Who is it?" he whispered.

"It is I," the voice answered. "The Machine."

Kim felt a chill go through him. He had not known that it had access to the implant. Always, before now, he had spoken to it in the air-insisting on it. But all the while it had been in there-silent, observant, like a ghost inside his skull.

"What do you want?" he said, the words so soft, they were barely formed-yet it heard him perfectly.

"You must go back. Now. You must make your way back to the room you were in when they came."

"But they'll find me.""No. There are only two of them in the House now, and they are in the control room."

"Then they'll see me."

"No. For there will be nothing to see."

"Ah . . ." He understood. It was talking about manipulating the images on the screen-of showing an empty room when the room was not empty.

"Who are they?" he asked.

It was silent a moment, then. "You must start to go back. There's little time. She will be here very soon now."

Kim tensed. "Who?"

"Jelka . . . She's coming for you."

"No." He said it slightly too loud, then repeated it more quietly. "No. She mustn't come. They'll kill her."

"Only if they see her. And even then ..."

"Even then what?"

It ignored his question. "You must begin. Now;. The rest Fit see to."

"Machine?"

"Yes?"

"Make sure nothing happens to her."

"I'll try."

"And Machine?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

THE REALITY OF IT was worse than she'd imagined. Seeing the women's skins hanging there on the rail of the cool room, padded out by their plastoform inserts, their owners' eyeless faces staring lifelessly ahead, Emily felt the bile rise in her throat and had to turn away, leaning over the sink in the corner to retch, until there was nothing left in her stomach.

For once the files hadn't prepared her. For once she had let the sheer nastiness of it get to her.

They called it "shelling." Five years ago it wouldn't have been possible, but new research had found a way of keeping the flesh of a human being alive without the bone or blood or muscle. These-these skins- had once been "worn" by living human beings; by young women from the Lowers: the kind of women who, even if they were missed by those they loved, would never have been traced, never accounted for, because they were too poor, too unimportant in the scheme of things, to be bothered about.

Kidnapped by special teams, they were taken to a special lab and drugged. There the operation wasperformed, the surface layer of skin and fat skillfully removed, to be preserved in a vat of nutrients until required. The rest-the living being, stripped to a bloodied skeleton- was given to the Oven Man.

She shivered, thinking of it; trying to imagine the kind of man who would find this sort of thing attractive; who would pay a thousand -yuan a time simply to wear a skin.

Of course, the skin was the simplest part. The really "clever" bit was the part that brought the skin to life-that allowed the wearer to tap into the skin's nervous system and experience exactly what it experienced. A fine mesh of ice was sewn into the inner layer of the skin, feeding to a series of artificial ganglions, at the base of the spine, beneath the sex organs and at the base of the neck, which rooted pain and pleasure signals to the brain of the recipient.

By this foul means a man could wear the body of a woman and make love as a woman. He could feel what it was to be possessed by another man, to have his breasts fondled, the nipples kissed. It was an ancient dream come true. Shelling made it possible. But at a cost . . .

She forced herself to look again-to sear it into her memory. This was what human beings could do to each other. This. She reached out to touch one of the skins, surprised by its warmth, a shiver passing through her at the thought that this had once been a living woman like herself, with dreams and hopes and memories, perhaps with children of her own-children who missed her, crying themselves to sleep at night for want of her. But now . . . Emily shuddered. Now it was a mere sense-matrix, a flesh-pad for some rich, unthinking cunt.

A shock of the purest, blackest hatred passed through her like an electric bolt. Inhuman, some might call this. Obscene. But she had her own word for it. Evil. These bastards were evil.

She pulled on her gloves, then stood before the mirror, taking long, deep breaths, trying to prepare herself. The attack had been an unqualified success. Despite the heavy security of the place, they had achieved almost complete surprise. The guards had been overwhelmed in the first thirty seconds, the alarm system shut down. The rest had been easy.

As for the clients, they were in the next room, lying facedown on the thickly carpeted floor, naked, their hands tied behind their backs.

She had intended to gut the place-to set fires at all the doors and let the bastards burn to death, or suffocate-but that would be too kind. Having seen these awful mementos, she was of a mind to take the bastards back with her; to take them downlevel and keep them; to torment them, the way these poor women had been tormented.

Yet even as she considered it-even as her blood sang at the thought-she knew how impractical it was.

Torment. Yes, they deserved to live in everlasting torment for what they'd done.

She looked about her one final time, then turned away and, drawing her knife, stepped out into the other room.

I'll cut your balls off, that's what I'll do, she thought, looking about her at the dozen men who lay spread-eagled on the floor before her. And I'll make you eat them, you evil fuckers. Every last tiny morsel.