Richie straightened up.

"Not really," he said, his tone light.

Something changed in Zajac's expression, as though the ground had shifted.

"Just because there's gym cla.s.s today don't mean"

"Forget it," said Richie.

"Ha. I was right about"

"Let's do it now."

All voices stopped. Faces grew pale.

"Without armour?" said someone.

"What's the matter, Zajac?" Richie stared into his target's eyes, aware of the pulsing throat, the solid body, even the position of the feet. "Are you scared?"

"No, I"

"Back off," called Mal."No." Zajac ripped his knife free. "You've had it now, Broomhall."

"Richard," said Mal. "Run inside to a teacher."

"My name is Richie." He drew his own blade, scarcely hearing the gasps. "And I'm fine here."

This is it.

He began to circle Zajac. Around them, boys formed a perimeter, defining a fighting arena. From the distance, Richie might have heard Mr Dutton's voice calling for them to stop; but he could not be sure, because his hearing was filled with a hiss like surf. This was a sure sign of stress, and he knew it was natural, so he could continue.

Zajac leaped forward and Richie spun away.

"I knew it," sneered Zajac. "Cowardly little f"

Richie's blade sliced open the back of his hand. Zajac screamed.

It's called defanging, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Then Richie slammed his hilt inside Zajac's right wrist while slapping the back of the hand with his left. Zajac's knife spun away and was gone, clattering to the flagstones. Then Richie's foot stabbed into a knee, and Zajac was down.

Got you.

Richie held his blade against Zajac's throat, preternaturally aware of how soft the skin looked, how easy to slit open, and what it would look like if he did.

"This," he said, "is the carotid artery. One and a half inches to penetrate. Five seconds till loss of consciousness. Twelve seconds to die." He shifted the knife to Zajac's arm. "Brachial artery. Penetration, half inch. Fourteen seconds, unconscious. Ninety seconds dead. Radial artery"

A third of the way through the Timetable of Death, Zajac fainted.

Good.

There was a long, extended pause; then everyone in the quadrangle cheered.

"What's this?" Two teachers finally pushed through. "Broomhall? What's happening?"

"Nothing, Mr Dutton."

"It doesn't look like"

"Hush, Jack." The other teacher, Mr Keele, touched his sleeve. "It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean, it doesn't matter?"

Mr Keele stared upward, then down at Richard.

"You're off the hook this time, Broomhall. Just this once, all right?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

On the ground, Zajac, bizarrely, had begun to snore.

"Cool," murmured someone, and several boys laughed. But Mr Dutton was looking up, just as Mr Keele had.

"You're exactly right," he said.

The two teachers stared at each other. Then Mr Dutton addressed the boys.

"I'd say global cooling is here."

"Salvation?" said Mr Keele.

"Or a different kind of doomsday." Mr Dutton smiled. "Maybe a cup that's half empty or half full."

Now everyone's attention was on the lead-grey sky. And then...

It's not possible.

... Richard held out his hand, and felt the specks descend upon it. They were so soft, when they touched his skin, that he felt nothing, nothing at all.

What does it mean?

The air was hushed as the sound-deadening, soft cascade intensified like thickening snowfall, darkening the world, changing everything.

Black snow.

Acknowledgments.

The late Bob Bridges (aka Rob) formerly of 22 SAS, software guru and teacher par excellence, gave me one of the key events in this book, and with it the character of Josh c.u.mberland. May you walk among the stars, my friend.

Ghost Force is the t.i.tle of a blistering and controversial history of the SAS, written by Ken Connor. It is also the name of his proposed replacement for the Regiment, the hi-tech special forces operatives of the future. In acknowledgment, I have used the same name, although my fictional Ghost Force is an addition to the world's most famous military elite. is the t.i.tle of a blistering and controversial history of the SAS, written by Ken Connor. It is also the name of his proposed replacement for the Regiment, the hi-tech special forces operatives of the future. In acknowledgment, I have used the same name, although my fictional Ghost Force is an addition to the world's most famous military elite.

I gained insight into covert operations from The Operators The Operators, James Rennie's terrific account of life in 14 Company, aka 14 Int, aka Det.

The bodyweight exercises used by Josh are from Matt Furey's Combat Conditioning system. I use the system myself. (So, apparently, do instructors from the US Marine Corps Martial Arts Program.) Josh's groundfighting drills come from MMA coach (and fighting legend) Steve Morris. Petra's combat cla.s.s derives heavily from the Morris Method and from Geoff Thompson's realitybased training.

The fictional fighter called Mad Mick Foster bears absolutely no relation whatsoever to my good friend, sensei Mick Foster, fourth dan. Ahem.

Scary but true: the Timetable of Death was devised by a surgeon on the prompting of WE Fairbairn, founder of WWII commando training and co-inventor of the Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger. The figures are in Fairbairn's cla.s.sic book Get Tough! Get Tough! I got the term "Timetable of Death", along with the historical background, from Pat O'Keeffe's excellent I got the term "Timetable of Death", along with the historical background, from Pat O'Keeffe's excellent Combat Kick Combat Kick Boxing. Boxing.

Suzanne's therapeutic techniques are real, though I've omitted certain details, particularly from hypnotic inductions. They derive from NLP, and are currently used by medical doctors that Suzanne would approve of (and by less scientific pract.i.tioners too).

Nexus by Mark Buchanan is a great description of complex networks and small-world connectedness. Check out books by Steven Strogatz, and (for complexity theory) Stuart Kauffmann, and the incomparable Jack Cohen and Ian Stewart for further reading.

I owe an immense debt to all my martial arts teachers over the decades, in particular the late Enoeda sensei, ninth dan. He truly was the shotokan tiger.

Finally, endless thanks and unbounded love to Yvonne, who has suffered through all my books, whichever name they appear under.

Oh, and I have a view on edged weapons...

The place for a knife is in the kitchen.

About the Author.

Thomas Blackthorne is the pseudonym of science fiction writer John Meaney, author of To To Hold Infinity Hold Infinity, the Nulapeiron sequence, Bone Bone Song Song, Dark Blood Dark Blood and the Ragnarok trilogy. His works have been shortlisted several times for the British Science Fiction Award, won the Independent Publishers Best Novel award (in SF/Fantasy), and been one of the and the Ragnarok trilogy. His works have been shortlisted several times for the British Science Fiction Award, won the Independent Publishers Best Novel award (in SF/Fantasy), and been one of the Daily Telegraph Daily Telegraph Books of the Year. Books of the Year.

Now a full-time writer, in his time he has taught business a.n.a.lysis and software engineering on three continents, and is a black belt in shotokan karate, cross-training in other arts. A trained hypnotist, he remains severely addicted to coffee. He is currently finishing Point Point, the even darker sequel to Edge. Edge.

www.johnmeaney.com

Extras

An extract from

POINT.

Coming soon from Angry Robot

His hands were claws because they had to be. Josh hung in shadow beneath the bridge, like a frozen bat on the underside; but he could not flit away: he needed to wait.

"happened to him?" said a voice overhead.

Police officer.

You could tell from the tone.

"Disappeared," someone said.

"Like a bleedin' ninja, or one of them magicians, like."

The sniffling kids were gone, led away by murmuring adults. You might call them traumatized, but not if you had seen what Josh had seen: in Africa, in Siberia, in post-Deathquake j.a.pan.

Like claws.

He could not let go, that was the thing.

Like steel.

Only failure of will could stop him now, but the stubborn aggression that had kept him alive so many times before was active again. If only it had neared the surface earlier, he might have avoided the despairing stance on the bridge, hands on the rail as if contemplating the jump was I really thinking of it? was I really thinking of it? leaving it to the emergency response centre of the brain, the amygdala, to react when the hand clapped his shoulder, and that was it: the craziness that could have turned worse, into murder. leaving it to the emergency response centre of the brain, the amygdala, to react when the hand clapped his shoulder, and that was it: the craziness that could have turned worse, into murder.

Black Thames beneath; but he would not let go.

Like steel.

Entering endurance-trance in order to survive.