Everyone reacted to that, except Kortez. Cousin Justine exchanged glances with her comrade. Mr Qixotl shuffled back into the room, an anxious look on his face. The beermats seemed edgy. Homunculette looked like his head would explode if he heard any more bad news. 'Explain,' he snapped.

'I found someone wandering around the ziggurat. He didn't have an invitation.'

Mr Qixotl cleared his throat. 'Erm, how do you know he didn't have...?'

'I scanned him,' the woman replied, emotionlessly. 'No invitation.'

Homunculette's eyes looked as though they were getting ready to pop out and go walkabout. 'Where is he now?'

'Here,' said the woman. A black hole blossomed from the front of her head, and something almost two metres tall was vomited out of her skull, landing in a messy heap on the floor of the c.o.c.ktail lounge.

Bregman lost her grip again.

Under his breath, Colonel Kortez recited another mantra. The others were making too much noise for them to be able to hear it. Truth be told, it had been years since Kortez had needed a mantra, but it was all part of the procedure. To an old UNISYC hand, it was as normal as checking your safety-catch or polishing your boots.

The alien woman's face folded back in on itself. The man who'd been belched out of her head lay motionless on the floor, face-down, clearly unconscious. The other representatives were moving in on him, curious looks on their faces. Kortez felt the thing that had identified itself as the Shift whisper through his consciousness, eager to see the intruder through a material pair of eyes.

Homunculette nudged the intruder's body with the tip of a dirt-encrusted shoe. The intruder obligingly rolled onto his back, and everyone leaned forward to peer at his face. Except for Lieutenant Bregman, of course, who was busy being sick in the corner.

The face was striking, but hardly remarkable. Long features, smooth skin, a high forehead. The man's eyes were closed, but somehow he still managed to look gently bemused.

The mantra froze on the Colonel's lips.

What had General Tchike told him?

What had he been told about the mission?

The other representatives started arguing again. The Time Lord was yelling insults at Mr Qixotl, who was simultaneously panicking and rea.s.suring his guests that there was no cause for panic. But Kortez was already several kilometres above them, extending his spirit until it touched the roof of the world, just as his chiefs at the Goa Inst.i.tute of Military Spirituality had taught him.

Rising above proceedings. Moving out of reach of the noise. Remembering.

UNISYC'S STORY

Arizona, Earth, March 2069

We're standing in a desert that used to be a county. We're on the edge of a crater, although it takes us a while to figure that out; we're not used to seeing holes this big. The camera moves, sweeping across the landscape until we can make out the size of the pit. It's enormous, kilometres from side to side, the floor carpeted with dry bones, crushed metal, and shattered concrete.

It's the Phoenix Sandbowl. The state's most famous city used to stand here, but of course, there hasn't been anything worth seeing since the Wars of Independence. Most of Phoenix vanished in less than a minute, they they say. The people living on the outskirts moved out after that, as their homes began to slide and sink into the Sandbowl. n.o.body's quite sure why the city was taken out, even today. say. The people living on the outskirts moved out after that, as their homes began to slide and sink into the Sandbowl. n.o.body's quite sure why the city was taken out, even today. They They say it was a Tesla bomb, planted in the city foundations by terrorists from the breakaway Southern states, but no one's ever been able to explain why they'd want to get rid of a city all the way out in Arizona. Besides, who cares what say it was a Tesla bomb, planted in the city foundations by terrorists from the breakaway Southern states, but no one's ever been able to explain why they'd want to get rid of a city all the way out in Arizona. Besides, who cares what they they say? say?

So we keep turning, taking in all the little motor-home villages in the desert around us, the camps where the descendants of the city's refugees have been living since '37. There are trailer parks as far as the eye can see, battleship-sized caravans built to house hundreds, their wheels rusting away and sinking into the dust. But it's not the vehicles we're interested in. The camera is zooming in, auto-focusing on a patch of empty white sand off on the horizon.

There aren't any caravans there. All the people have been moved away. The area's blocked off by "extreme force" cordons, great screens of transparent plastic wired to miniature plasma generators. The only vehicles inside the cordon are government vehicles. You can tell they're government vehicles, because they don't have registration plates.

The camera goes to maximum magnification. We see people inside the enclosure, mostly men, dressed in heavy black suits despite the Arizona heat. Most of them are wearing shades, even though the fashion this year is for self-polarising contact lenses (everybody knows that).

There's something in the centre of the enclosure, surrounded by vehicles on all sides. Something the men-in-black are guarding. Something they don't want us to see.

Geneva, Earth, April 2069

'It's a hole in the ground,' said General Tchike. 'We took a satellite picture, before the Americans shot down the last RetCon probe. We think it's an impact crater. A pinp.r.i.c.k, next to the Sandbowl.'

He slid his fingers across the contact panel, and the picture froze on the cinevid screen. The screen was a holograph, so the image hovered above the surface of the table at the dead centre of the War Room. The cinevid's controls were set into the arm of the General's chair, and you had to open a secret compartment to get at them. Childish, thought Tchike. He wondered if the technical staff were still fitting ejector seats in UNISYC staff cars.

There were five individuals at the table, the minimum number required for any UNISYC Conclave. It was a Zodiac Level meeting, 60-L clearance and above, so there were none of the usual secretaries or security guards in attendance. The War Room looked empty without them. Bleak. The walls were sheer black, which didn't help, the only decoration being the old UN insignia stamped across the tabletop. The UN was a joke, and had been ever since Whiteacre had signed the World Zones Accord in '38, but UNISYC still liked to pretend it took its mother organisation seriously.

'Government agents,' said Brigadier Renault, with a nod towards the frozen men-in-black on the screen. 'Dinner suits and dark gla.s.ses. The usual dress code.'

'Protecting a hole in the ground?' queried Dr Martinique.

Renault turned his swivel-chair towards Tchike. 'I a.s.sume we're not just talking about a meteorite strike here, General.'

'Skydrop Scenario Four,' Tchike replied. 'Whatever hit the ground was artificial. Alien. Our sources tell us it landed near the Phoenix Sandbowl on March 26th, at around 11:30. This footage was taken on the 27th, using an MI7 microcamera.' His hand moved back to the contact panel. 'There's more, of course.'

So we're back in the desert, but the picture's wobbling. The cameraman is running, darting between apartment-sized mobile homes with portable suncatcher generators strapped to their rooftops. When the camera stops shaking, we see a trailer caravan in front of us, its door broken off its hinges. Two of the men-in-black stand outside, pinioning a third individual between them. The victim is male, in his thirties, with grease-coloured hair hanging down to his waist, his face covered in stubble and sticking plasters. Trailer trash, then. One of the thousands who made it out of the Phoenix suburbs before they slid into the dust. He's yelling something as the men-in-black grab his arms, but we don't hear any sound.

Now one of his a.s.sailants looks up, towards the camera. Suddenly, everything goes white. We realise the cameraman has ducked behind something, although we can't tell what. The next thing we know, there's a flurry of movement. We feel like we're twining again. This time, we suspect we're being followed.

Tchike stopped the cinevid footage.

'The alien object hit the ground in the middle of a trailer community,' he explained. 'No known casualties. Obviously, the authorities took the usual precautions.'

'Witness intimidation,' noted Major-General Bael.

'I've got a question,' said Professor Cogan.

Everybody swivelled in his direction. Cogan hadn't said a word up until now. The man was English, and therefore naturally reserved. Or, to put it another way; no one cared what he had to say, most of the time.

'Who took this footage?' Cogan asked.

'One of our people. Colonel Kortez. Working undercover in Arizona.'

There was a long, drawn-out groan from Dr Martinique.

'Is there a problem, Doctor?' asked the General.

Martinique crossed her arms, and turned down the corners of her mouth. 'Kortez is insane,' she said. 'I worked with him in Ontario. His idea of "undercover" is to dress up like a native American and go around asking people if they're what they seem. We should have put him in a home years ago.'

She shot an accusing glance at Bael, and Tchike was glad to see the Major-General squirm in his seat. It was easy to dislike Bael, whether he did his job well or not. The man had a nasty little beard, a nasty little gnome's mouth, and two nasty little piggy eyes. He never did anything wrong, as such, but Tchike always got the feeling he was on the brink of doing something deeply irritating. His uniform didn't suit him, either. He looked like he'd be happy working as a game-show host, not handling personnel and recruitment for a paramilitary organisation. Even one as rundown as UNISYC.

'Don't start on me,' Bael announced, in his slithery New Zealand accent. 'Kortez was the best man we had ready. Look, I don't have to tell anyone here how short we are on manpower. We don't have people queueing up to kick the c.r.a.p out of Cybermen any more. If we hadn't cut half the NCO ranks out of the organisation, we'd have more officers than ground agents by now. Half of our lieutenants aren't qualified for officer duty, d'you know that? They've just stuck at the job long enough to prove they're not completely brain-dead.'

Martinique looked unconvinced. 'You're seriously telling me you couldn't find anyone saner than Kortez?'

'This is besides the point,' Tchike rumbled. 'I want your opinions on the footage, not on the cameraman. Watch.'

A cut. A splice.

We're not in the desert any more. We're in a hangar, probably at an airbase, judging by the military paint-job. Oh, you know the kind of place. You've seen the movies, you've heard the rumours, you've watched Ed Bogeley's Conspiracy Hour Ed Bogeley's Conspiracy Hour on Channel 101. According to the folk stories, whenever an alien ship crashes on Earth, the soldiers turn up and drag the wreckage off to a hangar like this. It's traditional. on Channel 101. According to the folk stories, whenever an alien ship crashes on Earth, the soldiers turn up and drag the wreckage off to a hangar like this. It's traditional.

Let's concentrate on the things around us. In the distance, on the other side of the hangar, men are working on a piece of serious high-tech machinery, but it's only a helicopter. Probably fitted with whatever weaponry's fashionable this season last year it was viral missiles, the year before that it was psyche-guided warheads, you know the drill but it's definitely man-made. No UFOs here.

There are other shapes in the hall, though. Some the size of cars, some the size of tea chests, lined up in neat rows from here to the far wall. We can't see what they are, because they're all covered with the obligatory green military tarpaulin. The cameraman sneaks from item to item, sheltering behind the material whenever a technician looks his way.

There are tags on the objects, little grey plastic tags, tied to the corners of the tarp. We watch the cameraman's hand reach for one. He turns it over between his fingers, reads the tiny digital numbers. Obviously, this isn't what he's looking for, because he moves on.

'My G.o.d,' hissed Brigadier Renault.

Tchike froze the footage. Renault was goggling at the cinevid as if he'd just seen the face of Jesus Christ inside a pomegranate. Still, Renault did have a tendency to overreact. The Brigadier was Canadian, with the kind of attractive-yet-boring features that'd look good in a Hollywood action movie. Evidently, Renault had noticed this himself, because he tried to make every word he uttered sound interesting and dramatic. The man was an experienced field agent, though, and he'd spent a good few years working for UNISYC in North America, so he'd seemed like a good choice to attend the Conclave.

'That's the Toy Store,' Renault went on, still looking for Oscar nominations. 'It's the same as the footage the Hourly Telepress Hourly Telepress smuggled out in '54.' smuggled out in '54.'

As usual, Dr Martinique looked dubious. 'I always thought the Telepress Telepress story was a joke.' story was a joke.'

Professor Cogan raised his hand. Typical English, thought Tchike. He looked like he wanted to leave the room. 'I'm sorry, I don't... what's the Toy Store?'

'It's where the Americans keep all their little alien keepsakes,' explained Martinique. 'They used to have a hangar in New Mexico, but they moved it to Los Angeles after the States fell apart.'

Renault was nodding. 'So Kortez made it into the Toy Store. I'm impressed.'

If only, thought Tchike. 'What you're seeing isn't the Toy Store proper, Brigadier. The Toy Store is impenetrable. Protected by commandeered alien technology. If it weren't, we'd have taken it by now. This hangar is a clearing house. Even with inside help, we can't get any further in than this. Neither could the Telepress Telepress.'

'Then we've got someone working inside the American organisation?'

There was a murmer around the table. Back in the days of the UN, Tchike remembered, UNIT had entered negotiations with North America to try to get a look at its alien relics. Of course, when UNIT had been superseded by UNISYC and the United States had ceased to be United, the talks had broken down. There was no diplomatic link between the powerblocs now, just nonstop subterfuge. And, to be honest, Tchike preferred it that way.

UNIT had been soft. UNIT had been weak. That was why the organisation had fallen, and that was why the militant wing of the UN's "Security Yard" had risen to take its place.

Tchike tried not to consider the fact that UNISYC was going the same way as its predecessor. He started the footage again, leaving Renault's question unanswered, and fast-wound through the boring bits.

The cameraman reaches out again, touching another one of the tags. The number matches the one he's been given by his contact we're reading between the lines here, naturally so he sticks his head up over the top of the tarpaulin, to make sure none of the helicopter technicians are watching. They aren't.

Slowly, carefully, he lifts the fabric. Underneath, something is glowing.

It's a box. A casket. The same size as the average coffin, from what we can see of it. It seems to be made out of metal, though the footage isn't clear enough to show us the surface in detail. The box is throbbing, pulsing, and the light's causing interference lines across the cinevid. This, we know, is the object that fell out of the sky near the Phoenix Sandbowl.

The camera jerks, swings around. We see smudges of white, smudges of grey. People. Moving. Technicians are pointing, figures are flooding out of darkened doorways on the other side of the hangar.

The cameraman turns and runs.

Tchike turned to Cogan. 'Professor? Your department, I think.'

Cogan practically jumped as he became the centre of attention. He addressed the other three, not Tchike himself. 'Ahh... well. The Colonel was supplied with, ah, with both general and specific monitoring equipment, in addition to the camera. The readings were, were, were pa.s.sed to me by the General a few days ago. I've had my people take a look at them. A good took. Ahem.'

'And?' Tchike prompted. Cogan was young for a man in his position, not much over thirty; with big stupid blue eyes and a floppy blond fringe, but he seemed to be practising to be an old English eccentric already. He'd be wearing wire-framed gla.s.ses next, the General decided.

Cogan cleared his throat. 'Well. Well. Yes. We've found some very unusual things. Tachyon traces, for a start. Quite extreme tachyon traces.'

'Tachyons?' Dr Martinique looked startled, much to Tchike's amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Are you suggesting that box is a time machine?'

'Ahh, no. The scan didn't pick up any signs of, of, of internal technology. It seems to be exactly what it, ah, seems to be. A box. Not a vehicle of any kind.'

'An escape pod?' suggested Renault.