Behind her, Otto Krous stepped from behind an arch, where he'd been crouched, watching their ascent. His peeling, sunburned face bore livid scratches. Part of his moustache had been torn loose. He'd used a handkerchief to bandage his left hand, and there were bloody gouges on his right leg, where sharp claws had ripped through the fabric of his black combat trousers.

He glanced at Ed and Alice, and then turned his attention to Kristin.

"Lieutenant Cole," he said, lip curling. He bent over and yanked the white-haired woman one-handed to her feet. He seemed to have either lost or discarded the shotgun, but still clutched the machine pistol.

"You don't know when to give up, do you, sir?"

Obviously irritated, Kristin slapped his hand away. "At ease, soldier."

Krous sneered. He pushed his face into hers. "You don't get to give me orders any more, sir."

He shoved her in the chest and she fell back, landing heavily on her backside.

Ed stood up. "Hey!"

Krous ignored him. He raised the machine pistol and fired a burst into Kristin's torso. The noise made Ed flinch. Kristin jerked as the shots hit her, blood splattering in the sunlight, shockingly red. For a frozen second, nobody moved. Then, even as the shots still echoed across the plain below, Ed's feet were pushing him over the rocks, his hands grasping for the other man's throat. Krous saw him coming, but Ed caught him off balance and he couldn't turn the gun in time. Ed crashed into him and they fell, past the arch and down the slope on the far side, with Ed on top as they hit the ground. Loose stones and gravel skittered down around them.

Ed lay winded for a moment, sucking in air. He'd fallen heavily, pulled down by the planet's unfamiliar gravitational pull. His legs hurt where he'd barked them on the rough ground. His pulse hammered in his head.

As quickly as he could, he scrambled to his knees and punched Krous in the face. Pain seared in his knuckles, but he ignored it, punching again and again. He had a fury in him. Beneath his blows, Krous groaned and jerked. Since passing through the first arch, Ed had been improvising, reacting instead of acting, overawed by his alien surroundings. Now, he was asserting himself for the first time. He was taking control. All his pain and fear were funnelled into this moment. He brought his fist down and felt Krous's nose give with a sickening crack. Another blow to the man's jaw. Then Alice had his arm.

"Ed, get up," she said. Below, the grass rustled and swayed. Ed's pulse battered in his ears. His right hand felt bruised and broken. The knuckles were already swelling. Alice dragged him back up towards the arch.

Raptors lay in wait at the summit. Their haunches quivered, ready to pounce. Ed gave Alice a shove toward the arch.

"Go," he said.

She stepped through, and disappeared. Ed looked down the slope but Krous was nowhere to be seen. Warily, he backed towards the arch, keeping an eye on the approaching animals. One of them paused to sniff Kristin's boot. Her corpse lay spread-eagled and alone, eyes and mouth open to the sky, chest tattered and bloody, peroxide hair shining clean and white in the light of the sun. As Ed watched, the creature started worrying the leather of her boot with its teeth, shaking its head from side-to-side. Its companion slunk over to join it, sniffing at a patch of spilled blood.

Still walking backwards into the arch, Ed opened his mouth to shout at the hungry, inquisitive creatures; to chase them from her; but the white light took him before he could make a sound.

To: ed.Rico23@megaserve.com From: alice@photographybyalice.co.uk Dear Ed, This will have to be a quick note. I left Verne at the hotel. I told him I was going for a run, and he'll be worried if I'm not back soon.

I think you'd like Barcelona. It's nice here. It's a very artistic sort of city, especially around the old gothic quarter. Lots of old buildings and narrow streets. Very picturesque. Just your kind of thing. I've taken loads of photos.

I'm writing from an internet cafe on La Rambla, opposite the Museu de l'Erotica. Everything smells of car fumes, garlic and cigarettes. From where I'm sitting, I can see stalls in the middle of the street selling caged chickens, budgies, baby rabbits and parakeets. At the end of the street is a square called the Placa de Catalunya, and our hotel.

When I've finished this email, I'm going to meet Verne for a late breakfast at a restaurant on the Vila de Madrid. We ate there last night, I had ravioli with lamb, pine nuts and mint (which was delicious, BTW). Then we're going to take a look at the Sagrada Familia.

I think this break is just what he needs. He hasn't been quite the same since he came back from Somalia, and this is the first time in months that I've seen him relax. Getting away like this could be just what he needs to perk him up.

And I guess that brings us around to the real reason I'm writing this email.

Ed, I want to make my marriage work. I have to try. And I can't do that with you distracting me. We have to stop seeing each other, immediately.

Hopefully this fortnight in Spain will give us both the space to look at our situations objectively. We need clarity to make adult decisions. We can't go on the way we have been. It's not fair to either of us, and it certainly isn't fair to Verne. He's your brother and my husband. We owe it to him to put an end to all the deception, before he gets hurt. From now on, we will simply be in-laws, and I hope we can be civil to one another at family occasions. Beyond that, we must not see each other. I must be a good wife and you must try to be a good brother. We must forget that we ever had feelings for each other. We must forget we were ever in love.

I'm sorry if this sounds heartless, but I must be firm with myself as well as with you.

Please don't call, text or reply to this email. It is for the best. I hope you understand.

With regret, Alice.

x.

PART TWO.

UNDER A BLOOD RED SKY.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

DJATT.

The Ameline popped back into being four hundred thousand kilometres above the sands of Djatt's eastern desert, slap-bang in the centre of the planet's designated Emergence Zone. Coasting inward on its residual velocity, the ship's scanners raked the surrounding space for potential threats.

Djatt was a small brown world out on the edge of human space, a hop and a skip away from most trade routes. With only one product to trade, it was ignored by the wider galaxy for ninety-nine years out of every hundred. It only attracted trade ships once a lifetime, when the centennial flowers of the cacti-like desert succulents were harvested to make the stimulant known simply as Pep. Then for a few weeks, merchants would come from far and wide in the hope of buying enough to make a fortune.

There were old men on the surface who hadn't even been born at the time of the last harvest, and children alive now who would grow old and die long before the next one. They were a nomadic people, mostly of Middle Eastern and Saharan African descent. The name 'Djatt' meant 'dustbowl' in one of their dialects. In between harvests, they slept in inflatable tents and followed their goats and camels around the coastline, from the snow-capped mountains of the west to the scrubby deserts of the east. Their only permanent structures were clustered like barnacles around the spaceport's perimeter: a score of warehouses, several leaky air processing plants, a church, and two or three hotels. Everything else they either carried with them or foraged for in coastal rock pools. Their needs were simple. Yet in business, they were as sharp as magpies. They always drove a hard deal, and for a third of a thousand years they had been loyal to the Abdulovs. This time, however, Kat was arriving empty-handed, with nothing to trade, and it remained to be seen how far that loyalty would carry her.

> Uh-oh.

Strapped into the pilot's chair, Kat heard the ship's voice in her head, relayed through her implant.

"Problem?"

> I'm not getting any response from the local grid.

"That's strange."

> And I'm picking up distress calls.

Kat felt herself stiffen.

"Show me."

The bridge around her dissolved into darkness. Through her implant, the ship gave her a real-time view of the surrounding volume. Red circles appeared, indicating the origins of the received transmissions. Numerical figures chattered away next to each one, reeling off measurements of signal strength and distance. Roughly half came from ships drifting in odd, unpowered orbits, the rest from points on the planet's surface.

Kat focused on the ships first. She saw four or five trading ships and a dozen in-system vehicles: passenger shuttles, automated tugs and the like. Most were adrift. Some had lost all their power. A few twitched like dying insects. She took a closer look at the nearest, a blocky freighter from a rival family, which wheeled slowly past her bow, tumbling end over end through a cloud of its own vented gas. Its airlocks were open and she could see smoke. Only fires didn't burn in vacuum, and the red-tinged 'smoke' seemed to be coagulating out of nothingness and streaming into the ship, not out.

Beyond the wreck, something obscured her view of the planet's daylight side. She frowned. For a moment, she couldn't make sense of what she saw. Then it snapped into focus.

"What the hell is that?"

Streamers of blood-red fog reached to encircle the globe's equator, as if the very fabric of space were trying to wrap itself in an embrace around the planet.

> Unknown.

The ship magnified the image. Seen closer, the fog resembled an impossible storm cloud. Although the main bulk of the cloud stretched maybe two thirds of the way around the world, its edges were diffuse and hard to define, its ruddiness streaming back and merging into the greater blackness of space. She had to infer its shape from the way its edges occluded the stars beyond. From its underside, bloody tendrils snaked down into the atmosphere, sixty kilometres long and grasping at the surface. Lightning crackled around them. Where they touched the ground, fractal red blots bloomed like blood stains, spreading to cover land and sea alike, swallowing deserts, lakes and mountains.

"Can you raise the local family office?"

> Nope.

The ship expanded the image. The spaceport and most of its attendant buildings were gone, consumed by what looked like an expanding lake of glutinous gore. As she watched, a group of specks broke from one of the surviving warehouses, running pell-mell ahead of the slowly-advancing flood.

"There are people down there."

A second larger group appeared, shambling after the first in ordered ranks.

"What are they doing?"

> It looks like they're fighting each other.

Members of the first group kept stopping and turning to face their pursuers. By increasing the magnification yet again, Kat saw they held weapons.

"They're shooting each other?"

She turned her attention to the ranks of the second group.

"That's weird," she said.

> What?

"Look at how they move."

The ship was silent for a second.

> Ah, I see. They turn as one, like shoals of fish or flocks of birds.

"And they're making no attempt to dodge the shots of the first group."

> Weird.

"Can we raise them?"

> I'm getting several distress signals from the planet's surface including one from- > Ah.

"What?"

> You may want to see this.

The Ameline had unfolded its communication array to its fullest extent-gossamer thin receivers stretching out like dragonfly wings from the hull-yet the transmissions were still faint and snowed with static, prone to dissolving into jagged bursts of random pixels. Through the interference, Kat made out a face: unshaven, haggard and dirty, like a hostage in a video. Through the grime and bristles, it took her a moment to recognise it. When she did, her stomach flipped. The face belonged to Victor Luciano. The picture came from a handheld camera. From the little background she could make out, it seemed he'd taken shelter behind a row of storage crates somewhere on the edge of the disappearing spaceport.

"Kat? Kat, is that you? Oh, thank God. I thought you were dead."

"I very nearly was."

He leaned in close to the camera. A piece had been torn from one of his ears and blood matted the hair on that side of his head. "Get out of here, Kat. Just turn around and run. Don't look back."

Crouched figures moved back and forth behind him. Some carried rifles. Gunshots popped like firecrackers.

"What's happening?" she asked.

Something exploded near the tanks, and Victor flinched as dirt rained down around him.

"It's that red cloud," he said. "It hit the ships in orbit first. We've been stranded down here for three days, running with the locals."

"What about the Tristero?"

"We lost contact. It's gone."

He rubbed hollow eyes with dirty fingers, as if he hadn't slept for the whole of those three days.

"Listen to me, Kat. This is important. I wasn't behind that bomb. You have to believe me. I know I've done some stupid things recently, but that wasn't one of them."

Kat narrowed her eyes. "A friend of mine died."

Victor looked away, visibly upset. "I know. I thought you had, too. But it wasn't my fault. You have to believe me."

"Why?"

"You used to."

"Before you walked out, you mean?"

Victor wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a dirty smear. He looked a lot older than she remembered. "What choice did I have? You deliberately went behind my back."

Kat's jaw tightened. "I did what I had to do."

"You killed our child."

"No!" Static fuzzed the screen for a second. Kat felt her eyes prickle with the threat of long-denied tears. "I was twenty-two years old," she said, not knowing if he could hear her through the interference. "I'd just left my family for you. I didn't know how to look after myself, let alone a child."

The picture flickered, gained some solidity.