Marie's mind was in pieces, but there was still power down in her belly, enough for an emergency resuscitation. She'd be repaired. Resurrected. And once her life had been restored, Homunculette told himself, the first thing he had to do was reactivate her weapons systems. There was an a.s.sa.s.sin, and the a.s.sa.s.sin would pay. One way or another, the will of the High Council would be done.

While, almost a light-year away, a single black s.p.a.ceship flickered into existence, its scanning mechanisms locking onto a certain specific building on the surface of the Earth. Satisfied, the ship's pilot returned the vessel to interst.i.tial s.p.a.ce, and plotted a course for its final destination.

5.

THE CONTINUITY BOMB.

Bregman fished the invite card out of her pocket, then tried reading the small print. The light was still blazing off the surface of the card, even here inside the ziggurat. The words at the bottom of the text were blurred, and the letters kept shifting themselves around in front of Bregman's eyes.

Or rather, her eyes kept shifting themselves around in front of the letters. When the card had been lab-tested in Geneva, the English a.n.a.lysts had reported the text to be in English, the French a.n.a.lysts had reported the text to be in French, the German a.n.a.lysts had reported the text to be in German, and the Swiss a.n.a.lysts had reported the text to be in English, French, and German. All at the same time.

'Well?' asked the girl who called herself Sam.

Bregman started squinting. 'There's something here about "suitable accomodation will be provided", but I don't know if... does that word look like "hospitality" or "hospital" to you?'

'Er... "hospitality".'

'Thank G.o.d for that.' Bregman cast her eyes around the guest room Mr Qixotl had provided for her and the Colonel. As expected, the walls were made of stone and had flaming torches nailed into them, but apart from that the decor was pretty acceptable. There were two beds, both covered in duvets that could have consumed whole armies. A few smaller pieces of furniture were scattered around the room, soft armchairs in soft colours, even a couple of padded footstools.

Sam was checking out the fixtures and fittings as well, but she didn't look happy. 'Don't you think there's something odd about all this?' she asked.

'Uhh. Don't tell me. "Beneath this layer of apparent comfort lie the psychic tendrils of an alien mind parasite."'

Sam stared at her. Blankly. 'What, really?'

'I was quoting. UNISYC training film. OK, I'll go along with you. What's odd about all this?'

'This stuff.' Sam experimentally prodded an armchair, but it absolutely refused to turn into a hideous alien shape-shifter and bite her hand off. 'I mean, it's cosy, yeah, but what's the style supposed to be?'

'Style? I don't know. No style. It's just an armchair.'

'But there's no such thing as "just an armchair", right? If someone English makes a chair, the chair looks kind of Englishy. If someone African makes a chair, it looks kind of Africany. This chair doesn't look anythingy.' Sam indicated some of the other furnishings around the room. 'A couple of weeks ago I was in the fortieth century. And the chairs there looked all fortieth century-ish. I suppose you only start noticing this kind of thing when you time travel a lot.'

'What did you say?' said Bregman. did you say?' said Bregman.

'I said, the chairs in the fortieth century '

'No, to h.e.l.l with the chairs, I meant about...' Bregman realised she had no way of asking the question "what do you mean, time travel?" without sounding like a moron, so she shut up. Sam kept talking.

'If Qixotl's a time-traveller too, and he knew he was going to have to do this room up specially for humans, I'd have thought he'd go out and look at human furniture in a history book or something. But the chairs and things don't look like they come from any period in history.'

'Great. The chairs aren't what they seem.' Bregman glanced over her shoulder at Kortez as she said it. The Colonel was sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, eyes closed, hands on his knees. Still meditating. You could give him a good slap around the ears right now, thought Bregman, and he still wouldn't come back down to Earth. She somehow resisted the temptation to test this hypothesis.

Sam was still agonising about the upholstery. 'I'm thinking about what the Doctor said. Biodata. D'you think you could tell what kind of furniture someone might like, just from what's in their biology?'

Bregman shrugged. 'Possible. You're talking about DNA, that kind of thing? If you know someone's got two legs and a tush from what's in their genes, you can probably figure out what kind of chairs they'd want to sit on.'

Sam snapped her fingers. 'And if you know what light frequencies and stuff their eyes respond to, you can work out the best colour scheme for them. Like this room. It's so... I don't know... tasteful tasteful. You know what I think? I think this whole place was put together using your biodata as a whatsit. As a template.'

Bregman mimed a round of applause. 'Jesus, you're good at this. All I know is, you're supposed to shake hands with them if they've got arms and shoot at them if they've got tentacles growing out their faces.' And even as she said it, something flashed across Bregman's mind, something bright and clear and unexpected. She wasn't sure, but she guessed that, from the outside, her eyes would be popping out of her head like she'd seen a vision of the Virgin Mary.

'You all right?' asked Sam.

'I think I just had a great idea,' said Bregman.

Trask was smiling, and had been ever since the human woman had come to the room. The smile had started out as a muscular twitch, the result of a social impulse Trask hadn't actually had any use for in nearly four hundred years. Since the woman had left, he'd had no reason to change his expression, so he hadn't bothered resetting his facial muscles.

He certainly wasn't happy, though. He wasn't anything, much. He was aware, as always, of his responsibilities, and that was as close to self-awareness as he wanted to get. His controllers had charged him with the task of recovering the Relic, and carrying it back to Mictlan by whatever means became necessary. Beyond that, there was nothing of importance to consider. No need for any new thoughts inside his head.

Ideas are for the living.

For the first time in decades, Trask felt himself flinch. Ideas are for the living. It was true, of course, it was very true. But the thought was, in itself, an idea.

Please don't be alarmed, Mr Trask. It's only me.

The Shift. The first ent.i.ty Trask had encountered when he'd returned to Earth, when he'd turned up at the City entrance with the sun searing his eyes and the heat of the forest burning the dead flesh off his limbs. The Shift was in his head. Nestling at the back of his brain.

I apologise for my directness, Mr Trask. Usually, I'd be much more subtle when communicating with a more physical being than myself. However, your quarters are a little spa.r.s.e. Not much opportunity for manifestation, if you understand me.

'Yes,' said Trask, thinking on his feet.

And there aren't many concepts in your mind I can easily, shall we say, inhabit. This is why I'm speaking to you directly through the creative centres of your brain. This would kill any living creature, I'm sure. However, your creative centres aren't doing very much, at the moment. No offence intended.

'No offence taken,' Trask replied.

Another bidder has arrived in the City, Mr Trask. I thought you should be informed. n.o.body seems to know who he is or what effect he might have on the auction.

Trask thought about this for a moment or two. 'And?'

Mr Trask, I know who you represent, and you know who I represent. Naturally, I'm quite happy for us to keep each other's secrets, but you'd have to admit, our objectives are... in opposition, shall we say? Officially, our respective employers wouldn't want anyone to know we had even this degree of contact.

Trask nodded, but said nothing.

The balance of power must be maintained, Mr Trask. A threat to your people is also a threat to mine. He's coming. Perhaps you'll see what I mean.

'Good afternoon,' said a new voice. It took Trask a while to figure out that it had come from somewhere on the outside of his head.

There was someone standing at the threshold of his room. Trask wasn't sure about the man's species, but he stank of life. He was tall, slim, long-legged. He looked shocked when Trask made eye contact with him, but he recovered himself quite well.

'Nice to see a happy face around here,' said the man, smiling genially. 'I don't think we've met. My name's Smith, or at least, that's the nom de guerre nom de guerre I seem to keep ending up with, lifetime after lifetime. At least I didn't choose it myself, this time. And you are...?' I seem to keep ending up with, lifetime after lifetime. At least I didn't choose it myself, this time. And you are...?'

'Trask,' said Trask.

'Ah. Well, I was wondering if you could help me. I'm looking for Mr Qixotl. I don't suppose you have any idea...?'

The man's eyes were darting around the room, taking in the decor. Or lack of it. 'No,' Trask said.

The stranger nodded, apparently having run out of things to say. 'Yes. Well. I'm sure I'll be seeing more of you later, anyway. Goodbye for now, Mr Trask.' The man turned to go, then stopped dead. He glanced over his shoulder, just briefly. 'And you, Mr Shift.'

A moment later, he was gone.

You see?

Trask nodded.

I've got things to do before the auction, Mr Trask. I thought it was only fair to warn you about this new... well, let's not call it a threat. Let's call it a "concern".

'Thank you,' croaked Trask, but the Shift didn't reply.

Alone again, Trask considered the "concern". He wasn't convinced the new bidder would make any difference to his plans. Whoever the man Smith was, he was life. And all life was susceptible.

An entirely unexpected thought suddenly unravelled inside Trask's head.

Life. When he'd seen Smith, the first thing he'd noticed hadn't been the man's face, or his body, or his clothes. It had been that quality of life. Stronger than it was in most organisms. Strong enough that you could smell it, if you knew what to smell for. Trask had only scented that kind of intensity in a living thing once before, and that had been in the early years, when he'd taken life for granted. The early years. The final moments.

Trask remembered being under the water, choking on his last mouthful of oxygen but not being able to let it go. His arms, weaker than they should have been, were trying to pull the rest of his body up to the surface. His hands broke free of the water, touched air above his head, but something was dragging him down, tugging at his ankles. There was liquid pressing against every inch of skin, searching for an opening. Ready to fill up his lungs. It was supposed to be a good way to die, a peaceful way, but Trask knew it'd all be over as soon as he gave up and tried to breathe in. That was the hardest thing to take. Knowing that when he died, it would be his his fault. There was no peace in a death like that. fault. There was no peace in a death like that.

And then he saw the face, hovering in the air on the other side of the surface. Inches above his head. The face was old, serious, a terrible frown stretched between a pair of sagging cheeks. The man who'd brought him here to die.

Trask looked up at the man, and saw him for what he was. Life. Sheer life. And the quality was infectious. So infectious that Trask managed to fight against the lake for a good thirty seconds more before the last of the air slipped out of his lungs.

So infectious that even now, sitting in the ziggurat centuries later, Trask could feel the panic and the nausea seeping into his nervous system, even though he knew he was supposed to be dead to feeling. Life. The man who'd appeared in the doorway of the guest room had been just like the man on the other side of the water. His face was different, though. Younger. So it couldn't be, surely couldn't be, the same man.

'...Smith, or at least, that's the nom de guerre nom de guerre I seem to keep ending up with, lifetime after lifetime...' I seem to keep ending up with, lifetime after lifetime...'

Unless...

'...keep ending up with, lifetime after lifetime...'

Was it possible...?

'...lifetime after lifetime...'

Was it possible that Smith was the one?

The one who, all those years ago, had been responsible for putting Trask among the ranks of the dead?

'Run this by me again,' said Sam. 'What is it we're supposed to be doing, exactly?'

Lieutenant Bregman Kathleen was hurtling through the corridors of the ziggurat, her head darting from side to side, peeking into the corners, nosing around in the alcoves. 'We want to find the other guest rooms. They're all supposed to be in the same pa.s.sage, but Qixotl moved us around after I found the dead guy.'

Sam tried to keep up with her. Physically as well as conceptually. 'Um, what kind of dead guy was this? I mean, a murdered dead guy, or a guy who just happened to be dead?'

'A smiling dead guy. Forget about it, it doesn't matter right now.' They reached another junction, and Kathleen swung off to the right. 'It's like you said. The guest rooms can tell you everything you need to know about the people staying there. Right?'

Sam sucked her lip. 'Wait a minute. Kathleen, are you suggesting...?'

'Look, I'm UNISYC, OK? And yeah, I know we're not the most professional outfit in the world '

'I didn't know that,' Sam mumbled.

' but the defence of this planet is kind of in our brief. So what I'm saying is, we have a quick look around the other rooms, and we get the advantage. We can start figuring out exactly what the other BEMs are, and why they're here, maybe.'

'Kathleen.' Sam grabbed the woman's shoulder, dragging her to a halt. Kathleen looked irritated, but relieved at the same time, as if she were glad she'd been given an excuse to stop running. 'Listen. Half an hour ago you looked like your head was going to burst if you saw another alien. Now you're trying to break into their hotel rooms.'

'We don't have to break in. There aren't any doors.'

'"We"? Who's this "we"?' Kathleen gave Sam a suspicious look. Sam tutted at her. 'I don't mean I'm going to turn out to be a Martian spy or anything. I mean, in case you'd forgotten, we're supposed to be rivals here. We're both bidding for the Relic, whatever it's meant to be.' Bregman, Sam had learned, didn't know what the auction was all about either. The Colonel did, but he wasn't saying anything. At least, he wasn't saying anything that made sense.

'The auction isn't the main thing. It's a question of planetary security.' Sam wasn't sure if Kathleen was quoting another UNISYC training film, or just talking drivel. 'We're both human, that's what matters here.'

'What?'

'Look, I don't... I don't know how to say this. We were standing there in our room, and you said what you said about biodata, and... it made sense, OK? I had this idea, and it made sense. Christ, I don't know. I don't know what else to say. I think maybe I'm starting to figure out how to do my job properly.'

Sam sighed. Loudly. 'Kathleen, you're a seriously messed-up individual.'

'Yeah, well, I'm UNISYC. I'm probably going to end up like the Colonel one day, I might as well practise being a sad loser now.' She started sniffing around the pa.s.sageway, with a faintly bemused look on her face, as if she'd forgotten where she was.

Sam tried to distract her. 'Speaking of the Colonel, don't you think we should tell him what we're doing...?'

'He's meditating. It's like hypnosis, you can do serious damage to someone's psyche if you wake them up early. Hey, Sam?'

'Yeah?'

'I think we've found something.'

Kathleen had moved a few paces up the corridor, and now she was standing in front of one of the open doorways, staring into the room on the other side. She had the same vaguely sick look Sam had seen on her face in the c.o.c.ktail lounge.