Crossover: (Cassandra Kresnov Book 1)

Petr Shimakov was bothered. He sat in the dark, surrounded by office equipment and blank display screens, darkly contemplating the night-time view of the city that had been his reluctant home for the past weeks.

As missions went, this one had not gone smoothly. He had lost people. More people than he, or his mission planners, had anticipated. The CSA were good … he’d been warned so repeatedly in the preparatory briefings. But their abilities should have come to nothing if they were unable to trace the encryptions his team utilised to coordinate their activities about Tanusha. And they had been unable. Mostly. But still, with guesswork and ingenuity they had tracked centralised FIA activity to Tetsu Consolidated, had been tipped off to Renaldi’s hideout at the Vista Hotel and had somehow found a way to implicate the Governor’s Office so as to allow the Supreme Justice to overrule the Governor’s assumption of power.

It was an unsettling number of things to have gone wrong. And now this, the fiasco at Centa Research, where the Command GI had abruptly gone nuts and killed his own people. The Centa vulnerability had been neutralised. Ninety-five percent of the listed, traceable vulnerabilities had been cleaned away. The rest, without their support structures, would fade and wither without notice. Overall, a successful mission. An achievement. But still it troubled him.

The CSA getting close was one thing. The GI going nuts was another. Both of them together was just plain unsettling. He couldn’t see a connection. And was frustrated, even now, at the utter lack of intelligence they’d had of the CSA’s operations … it was impressive security, far more impressive than their contacts had led him to believe. He’d been promised leaks, insights into CSA investigative initiatives, data-trails. Someone, it seemed, had underestimated the strength of the emergency legislation that had come slamming down after the Parliament strike, and the civilian transparency it had removed from the CSA’s operations. And, it seemed, underestimated the iron grip that Director Ibrahim held over the entire organisation.

Damn Ibrahim. His fist clenched against his thigh in frustration. The man had ruthless tendencies, for a civilian. He’d kept the CSA entirely isolated from outside influences and possible security leaks, no easy feat in a city like Tanusha. Now there was no clue as to whether the GI’s alarming behaviour was somehow connected to CSA operations, or if they’d been infiltrated, or if it had been a League doublecross … he just didn’t know. He hated not knowing. It was his job to know. Everything.

Calm. He gazed out at the gleaming night and forced himself toward calm. Calm solved everything. Tape-teach, in early operational days, reinforced the fundamental importance of problem solving … calm, he thought, and the reflexes kicked in, old and familiar, and not entirely his own. An implanted reflex. One learned to trust them, with experience. One learned the disaster of not trusting them and resolved to do better.

The calm helped him to think. And he saw the situation clearly enough. The mission was safe. He’d done a difficult job exceedingly well, as his training dictated. And he was not upset about the mission outcome. More about the losses. And the casualties inflicted. Images in news reports. Devastation at the Parliament, bodies strewn about. At Centa Research. At the homes of several of the lesser contacts — loose ends and security vulnerabilities — bodies still cooling, yet to be reported missing. Civilians all. League-inclined, to be sure. But civilians nonetheless.

And there was no avoiding it. For what they had gained, and what was at stake … those lives lost seemed trivial by contrast, even his own, if that had been necessary. He sought no thanks for his work. The true heroes, he knew, rarely received the recognition they deserved. For the good of humanity, the Federation had to survive. Survival meant neutralising the GI threat. To neutralise it, one had first to understand it. The knowledge they had gained was now secure. The Tanushan operation would be wound up and operations shifted to regions of greater stability… all hell would assuredly break loose now in Tanusha, and further operations were no longer tenable in such an environment. But that, too, was part of the plan.

Shimakov exhaled hard, and gazed at the floor. His superiors in the Core had plans for everything. Plans within plans. Democracies were unstable. So too civilian societies in general. Tasked with their defence, knowledge and expertise needed security from such volatility. Guidance. The FIA provided such, safe from troublesome political meddlings. The greater good, so often lost in the pointless bickering of populist, localist politics.

If only, he thought, it needn’t cost so much.

Home. He wanted to go home. To comfortable offices in Ventura One Station and the grand view of Earth from his living-room windows. To his wife and child, whom he had not seen in months, and had not spoken to of this mission for previous months before. Justine, an A-Level Intel herself, had not questioned. But Cynthia had.

‘Why are you going away, Daddy?’

‘To make the world a better place, sweetie. A better place for little girls to grow up in. A place where there still are little girls, where mechanised monstrosities haven’t taken over because a group of people many lightyears away decided that real little girls were suddenly obsolete.’

Or, at least, he’d wanted to say that. Security wouldn’t allow it. But he believed it all the same, and believed it with a passion. His little Cynthia was waiting for him. He’d helped to make her future a brighter one. In just a few hours he was going home to see her again, and neither FIA nor League betrayals nor crazy, murderous GIs were going to stop him. He tapped his headset mike into life.

‘Liu. Status.’ Static crackle — the connection was down. Damn com-gear, it’d been shorting out the last few days … but it was necessary. With the CSA making progress with Tetsu encryption, network communication wasn’t always safe any more. He switched frequencies. ‘Perez, Liu’s com’s down again. Go check it for him.’

Nothing. ‘Perez?’ The room was suddenly cold. An endless second seemed to linger into eternity, his mind abruptly racing, hand reaching unthinkingly for his rifle as he rose from the chair. Crazy GIs. Ambushes. Things that would make a GI turn. GI loyalty being lock solid and almost mechanical, he’d been assured so frequently in preparation … and he knew, with a sudden, horrifying jolt, that he’d missed something, something right under his nose …

‘Alarm Red!‘ he yelled into the mike on general freq. ‘Everyone get the fuck up here now …!’ A burst of gunfire from the floor above, shuddering impacts and the sound of things breaking. Return fire, multiple, abrupt bursts, voices yelling over the intercom as he bashed through the office door and onto the main office floor, multiple layers of glass working partitions across a broad space of desks and work terminals … an explosion, and everything rattled.

‘Top floor!’ Shimakov roared into the pickup, rushing to a firing crouch behind a partition as an explosion shook the floor and rattled partition windows. ‘Get up here! Situation!’

‘Sir,’ came a panicky voice back over the speakers, ‘I think it’s just one person, it’s come in from the roof…’ indistinct scrabbling, ‘… that grenade might have got him, hang on …’ Silence for a short, heart-pounding moment. Shimakov knelt, braced his snub-rifle on the work desk, scanning through the maze of partitions, glass sheeting and office doorways.

‘Fu—!’ Explosion of shots and static, somewhere across the partitions, cutting off the horrified scream before it had even begun. N’Dulu fired, approximate targeting, fire ripping through temporary walls …

‘Cease fire!‘ Shimakov yelled, and N’Dulu paused, eyes wide and trembling. ‘No firing unless you have a clear target! Wong!’

‘Coming across! People, crossfire, stagger your shots, he’ll come through this way …’ Thunder of footsteps across the office space, figures moving fast, weapons ready.

‘Who’s in the way?!’

‘Have we got clear fire?! Where’s Andre …’ Roar of gunfire, partitions disintegrating.

‘Movement at C-3, check your grids!’ Shimakov braced and tracked, linkups illuminating the spot, flashing colour … someone else fired, spak! spak! of bullets ripping soft surfaces and things breaking.

‘Do you see him?’ Shimakov shouted, no need for com-gear now, everyone on line of sight past the partitions and office gear … more movement from behind as people arrived from downstairs …

‘There!’ someone shouted, then a hail of fire, entire partition sections disintegrating, splinters and smoke clouding the air … grenade explosion, entire desks flew skyward, fire and smoke blinded, and shots from a different angle through the smoke, fast, controlled bursts. Screams of agony and terror, a dark flash of movement that dove at impossible speed through the burning chaos, like a trick of the light… a body smacked through partitions in a hail of bloody fire, another cartwheeling in a spray of blood and tissue, limbs flailing.

Shimakov fired at the shadow’s vicinity, as gunfire ripped and screamed all about and the orderly nature of things disintegrated like a haystack in a tornado. Teurez was beside him at one moment, firing madly, then collapsing like a bloody rag as an impossible, horrible precision found her from the middle of that killing hell and ripped her open. A body that might have been Wong’s spun abruptly backward across a desktop and vanished from sight. N’Dulu thudded backward into a partition, slid bloodily down as something fast and dark, somewhere in that destructive madness, picked them off, one at a time in rapid succession. Someone ran and dove for new cover, another leapt a partition through the smoke and debris, people dodged and fought as best they could, trying desperately to survive the death that advanced upon them … Another flash of movement across the floor, and then another scream, and voices yelling and screaming in total panic amid the ear-shredding racket of gunfire.

Grenades lobbed and the entire neighbouring section of office space exploded, the shockwave crushing everything that was not already smashed and desks and chairs flew through the air like missiles, crashing down like rain. Shimakov raised up … and saw, in brain dazed slow-motion, a dark, human shape that ran through the burning fires, and hurdled the shattered wreckage, and fired with right-armed precision as it came on, one burst and Yelenova died, another burst and Chan punched backward … it came on, eyes like fire, killing as it came, hair astrew and dark against a background wall of flame. Like a vision of hell.

Shimakov spun and ran so fast he was past the next partition and flying down the corridor before he even knew he’d gone. Half crashed into Aziz running in from an adjoining corridor, grabbed him and staggered onward toward the stairwell.

‘Get the fuck out of here!’ he screamed at Aziz, who saw the wild terror in his eyes and followed. Pelted full speed up the stairs and onto the roof, then sprinting across the pad, Shimakov fumbling at his belt control as the car doors swung upward and the control lights activated. Near the building’s rear he saw a body … Levarche, the first dead, before Perez and Liu … the names assailed him, all dead, all dead so fast and so horribly, all his people …

He hit the driver’s seat so hard it hurt, hit the startup and prepped navcomp as the engines began their familiar building whine and Aziz hit the passenger seat, the doors beginning to close, so, so slowly…

‘Come on!’ he yelled at the car, at the numerics that flashed on the displays, green, stupid and uncomprehending of the mortal threat that loomed.

‘Look!’ shouted Aziz, pointing back across the pad, and Shimakov fumbled for his rifle, discovering in horror that he’d left it behind, forgotten in his mad escape. He looked through the side window and saw a figure coming toward them across the pad … limping, he realised in gasping relief. One of theirs.

‘Come on!’ yelled Aziz. The figure limped on, trying desperately for speed as the engines approached operational volume, halfway across now and getting nearer … going to make it, Shimakov thought desperately, wanting to wait for others but knowing it was impossible …

Stutter of gunfire beyond the windows, the limping figure collapsed like a bundle of wet rags, and Aziz cried out in anguish. Beyond, at the top of the stairwell, a chilling dark figure stood, weapon pointed their way. Shimakov stared, waiting for the hail of bullets that would rip through the cabin and kill them both … but nothing came. No violent death. Lights blinked green as the engines throbbed. The killer was out of ammo.

Shimakov hauled back on the controls, a throbbing whine as the lifters kicked in, and the cruiser began to rise. Aziz shouted warning, and from the corner of his eye, Shimakov saw a black streak headed their way, moving impossibly fast … braced his arms and thump!, hit their side and the cruiser rocked. A crash from the rear, a fist smashing through the reinforced window, the cruiser losing altitude as it rocked, another crash and the rear door caved in. In the seat alongside, Aziz hauled his rifle about to angle behind Shimakov’s seat.

Fired a long, thunderous burst through the wrecked door, the car shuddering as bullets tore through the side, earsplitting within the enclosed space … Shimakov caught a glimpse in the rearview of the killer swinging away one-handed, avoiding the worst of the fire as Aziz dared not shoot near the rear engine mountings … he renewed his efforts at the controls and then they were rising again.

Aziz ran out of ammunition and did a fast reload. Crash and lurch as another blow ripped through the door, and there was suddenly a hole. Weight tipped slightly as the killer reached in … Aziz finished loading and fired again, point-blank. Thunder of impacts and the car rocked … and free, suddenly, Aziz howling triumph, the killer nowhere to be seen, knocked flying by that final burst. The cruiser climbed higher and Shimakov spared a fast look around, searching for any trace of the death that stalked them. Saw nothing. No trace. Only an innocent, small, dark-metal object lying in the middle of the rear seat, and his exclamation of relief died a fast death upon his lips.

Ten metres up, and the grenade exploded. Doors blown outward amid an explosive scatter of wreckage, the cruiser staggered, frozen within an expanding halo of flaming debris. Then it fell, a short, inglorious plummet to the hard, unyielding pad below, slammed hard and broke. There followed an unmoving silence, where nothing moved but the crackling flames that licked about the ruined chassis. Smoke plumed into the gleaming night sky, a dark, ominous pyre. From far away came the haunting echo of sirens.

Sandy awoke. Things were burning. Nearby things. She could hear the crackle of flames and smell the acrid smoke. Light flickered and danced on her retinas, as she struggled for focus through a haze of uncentred thoughts.

Came clear, finally, upon the night sky. Smoke, a thick, rising plume. It drifted by stars, obscuring the view. Stars. She liked watching stars, the memory occurred to her dimly. Had enjoyed lying in the open, planetside, and watching the stars. In space, stars lost their romance. No. But they were different. Attainable. The unattainable was more romantic. She thought.

She felt, she realised, rather bad. Senses came clearer. Her stomach felt numb. It was a horrible numbness, the numbness of impacts. She remembered. Remembered getting hit, getting that grenade in the cruiser. Remembered impacts, and falling. Then nothing. But she’d known she’d get hit. Had known, and gone for the grenade anyway. Why? And then she remembered Mahud, and the world came crashing in once more.

She lay on her back for a moment longer, listening to the rise and fall of sirens somewhere beyond the crackling flames and the pinging of heated metal. Then she rolled over. That felt bad. That felt very, very bad. With great, concentrated effort she got slowly to her hands and knees. Her midriff refused to cooperate. She felt weak all over. And could feel, as she got her hands properly beneath her, the pulling restriction of puncture wounds across her stomach and lower chest. The sticky feeling was blood. Looking down on the pad beneath her, it was entirely red.

With an even greater effort she pushed up to her knees. And then sank slowly down to her haunches. Sat there, kneeling on the landing pad amid the burning wreckage of the fallen cruiser. There were pieces of it everywhere, littering the pad. A blackened corpse, sprawled over the front dash of the aircar. Two of them, still burning. Humans. Straights. They died so easily. Skin burned, and flesh tore. So fragile. No wonder they created machines of such strength and power. Technology, to overcome their weaknesses. Herself.

As she turned her head slowly she could see another body sprawled face down on the pad. She’d shot him in the back. It had been so easy. And so good, in her fury, and her grief. She’d been mad. Mad like it had often terrified her to think about. They’d cut her up. They’d killed Mahud, the last hope she’d had of salvaging something from all those years, from that entire, former life. Murdered him, like all those innocent civilians. They’d made her so horribly, grievously angry. And this was the result.

A cool wind swept the pad, blowing smoke. A howling of distant, airborne engines. The sirens were closer. Death was everywhere. She could smell it on the wind. Could feel it in the air. Horror and destruction. She looked back toward the fallen body. Turned herself in its direction and started crawling.

She did not want this life. It disagreed with everything she’d wanted to be. With every one of her dreams and aspirations. She’d wanted to be beyond all of this, she’d wanted it so very badly. And this was what came of her very best efforts. No matter what she did, or what she tried, she was a killer. Where she went, death followed. And her concern for those about her, her love for them, became a killing rage, when they died, and wreaked vengeance on all. There was no escape from it — it was all that she was. It had been there from her inception. It was the founding thought that had given her life, her entire reason for existence. She could not fight fate. She could not fight God. The stench of blood and burning flesh filled her nostrils, and this … this, was her life.

Well, she wanted none of it. She wanted it stopped. She wanted an end to the pain.

The dead man’s rifle lay by his outstretched fingertips. She ignored it and reached for the pistol at the back of his waistband. It was a big, powerful calibre, plenty effective from close range. She sat down heavily beside him, her brother in death, clicked off the safety, and thought about it. Thought of skull thicknesses, and trajectories, and possible approaches that might or might not work … there was a roaring now in the air and a buffeting of howling wind across the pad, but in her dazed, pain-filled mind, nothing could deter her from her purpose. She’d been so determined to do something good in her life, when she’d come to the Federation. Well, now she would.

Base of the skull, she thought to herself, visualising. It was weakest there, where an external trajectory was unlikely to go. She knelt upright with a great effort against the roaring wind, turned the pistol about in her hands, and put the muzzle into her mouth.

‘Sandy!’ A distant voice above the thundering gale. ‘Sandy, for God’s sake! Put it down!’ Angled it back, pointing upward, not wanting a ricochet that left the job unfinished … ‘Sandy, pat the gun down! now!’

A popping sound, and something smacked into her side. The jolt was minimal, little more than a distraction. She refocused, gripping the handle more firmly … and felt her fingers slipping. Then her vision began to go. Blackness gathered and she tried one last, desperate time to squeeze at the trigger, but her balance was going, the pistol fell from unresponsive hands and the only thing that remained as she thudded limply to the ground was the roaring in her ears.

Dim sounds registered. Echoed faintly. It sounded like a long way away. Everything did. Like looking down a long, long tunnel, blackness all around, and a faint prick of light in the distance … growing larger, and brighter, and then she was blinking, blurred light assaulting her vision and making her wince, blinking hard.

Smells. A harsh, familiar smell. It triggered memories. And then, suddenly, it became clearer, with a growing rush of fear and pain. Vision cleared further and she could see the white, antiseptic floor beneath her, and that horrid chemical smell in her nostrils. Working sounds around her. Voices. The beep of monitoring equipment. Numbness all over, impenetrable in her present state. She struggled for her voice as the fear got worse.

‘Help me,’ she managed to whisper hoarsely. Coughed once, a stronger, vocal sound.

‘Cassandra,’ said a nearby voice, unfamiliar, and something else that she lost as fear grew to panic, and she realised herself face down in an operating surgery again, awoken from one nightmare to be dropped headlong into another even worse, strapped, drugged and immobilised while doctors cut her open again and she could do nothing at all…

‘Oh God,’ she managed to say in stronger, shuddering voice. ‘Oh God, help me. Don’t …’ Her voice cracked, sobs of pure fright. ‘… don’t cut me, please don’t cut me …’ And then there was a man talking to her, but she didn’t know him, and didn’t want to hear him, she just wanted out of this horrible life, out and gone for good, she couldn’t take this, she just couldn’t stand it…

‘Just stop it!’ she screamed at them, voice approaching normal as her control reasserted. ‘Leave me alone, you bastards! Oh God, someone get me out of here! Someone … please!’ She broke off, sobbing, face down and helpless, locked into place beneath the knives and probes, unable even to look about and see, her head locked into a metal brace and staring immovably at the floor …

‘Sandy!’ A familiar voice, and then someone moving at her side, filling her peripheral vision through the tears. ‘Sandy, it’s me, it’s Vanessa.’

Worried sounding, and then a face, crouched alongside and peering at her, frightened concern in her eyes. Touched her face with gentle fingers. Desperately worried. The sobs continued, uncontrollable.

‘Sandy, it’s okay.’ Leaning close, warm breath upon her face. ‘You’ve been hit, Sandy, it’s not bad … you took some slugs in the stomach and a few in the chest, some of them went through and others were stopped dead by those damn armour-muscles of yours … the ones that went through did a bit of damage but these guys’ve patched most of it. It’s just that the ones that went through are lodged in your back and causing problems — that’s what they’re doing now, they’re just getting them out. You hear me? It’s nothing serious, they’re just taking out a few slugs.’

Looking and sounding very worried. The fingers stopped stroking her face and moved to her hair above the head-brace. Warm and comforting. The sobbing receded slightly. Sanity returned. The panic began to fade. She felt weak, drained.

‘They’ve made a couple of incisions in your back,’ Vanessa continued talking to her, hand stroking her hair, ‘they’ve pulled back some skin and they’re going after the slugs … it’s just that it’s a bit unfamiliar to them, Sandy. They’re pretty sure about the basics, but they wanted you awake in case you started feeling something in your legs or shoulders. That whole spinal region is much more different from humans than the rest of you. They just wanted to be sure they didn’t do any damage. Okay?’

Pulled back some skin. She recalled what that meant, what a GI’s dermal tissue behaved like, that it could be pulled away from muscle, peeled back in sheets for convenient access … oh God, that was what she looked like now, with Vanessa here and watching … new panic rose. A new fear.

‘Don’t look at me,’ she croaked. Crouching down further to see her face, Vanessa looked worried all over again. ‘Please. Please don’t look.’

Understanding dawned in Vanessa’s eyes. Sadness.

‘Oh Sandy,’ she sighed. Leaned further forward, and kissed her gently on the cheek. Rested her forehead there, a gentle pressure. Hair tickled softly at her ear. ‘Sandy, I quite honestly don’t give a shit. Actually, it makes me a hell of a lot less squeamish than the organic stuff I’ve seen. You’re much more convenient, not so much of that messy, gooey stuff.’ A pause. ‘Shit, I shouldn’t be talking about that, should I? Just ignore me, I’ve been on duty so long my brain’s dissolving.’

Pulled back to look at her again. New tears were gathering in Sandy’s eyes, but for a different reason. Vanessa smiled sadly at her and wiped them away before they could gather and spill.

‘Not that it’s a pretty sight, mind you,’ she continued. ‘But then it’s not supposed to be a pretty sight, is it? I mean, if you think I’m going to get scared off because you don’t look pretty with your skin missing … well, that’d be pretty shallow of me, wouldn’t it? I might be small, but I don’t reckon I’m shallow… although mind you, I’m the best person for crouching down like this because I’m the only one who can get low enough to look you in the face. Oh here, this won’t do,’ wiping away more tears, ‘veteran combat soldier crying like this. Can’t let the rookies in SWAT see this, you’ll never live it down. Hurt your promotion chances too, you never see Ibrahim crying. Mind you, I never see him fucking either, so I don’t know if that’s much of a bright spot on his part…’

It nearly got a smile, and Vanessa’s eyes lit up as the lips twitched.

‘A-hah! Signs of recovery. You’re gonna be fine, just patch everything back together, get you laid a few dozen times by an assortment of handsome hunks of my choosing and you’ll be right as rain in no time. You know that…’

‘Ricey,’ Sandy croaked.

‘U-huh?’ Waiting patiently.

‘You talk too much.’ Weakly.

Vanessa grinned. ‘Well at least you’re back to stating the obvious, that’s a good start.’ And paused, smiling. ‘So how are you feeling now? Better?’

‘Better than what?’ Sandy retorted weakly. Terror subsided, her voice was no longer so strong. The drugs did that, loosening muscles and vocal cords alike, deadening responses.

‘Well okay, forget better. Are you feeling slightly, mildly, averagely or totally fucked?’

Sandy thought about it for a long moment. Wanted to take a deep breath, but the life support made it unnecessary — she was getting enough air through some damn machine she was hooked up to. And she remembered her diaphragm wasn’t in such good shape.

‘Totally fucked when I woke up. Then you came along, and now it’s only average.’ Eyes locked on Vanessa’s. Vanessa was smiling, emotion in her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ Sandy whispered.

‘What for?’ Vanessa said dismissively, and kissed her again, twisting her head about so that this time, it got her firmly on the lips. Sandy blinked. Vanessa pulled away, looking sheepish. ‘Might not get another chance,’ she explained.

Sandy managed a weak smile, and Vanessa looked pleased all over again.

‘You’re a scoundrel,’ Sandy murmured at her. ‘Try it again and I’ll bite your jaw off.’

‘Homophobia,’ Vanessa replied, smiling calmly. ‘See, you’re not perfect after all. You need to be bisexual to be perfect, we appreciate everyone.’

‘Okay then.’ Sandy managed with an effort. ‘Try it again. You never know, I might like it better the second time.’

‘Tease,’ Vanessa scolded. ‘That’s a very mean thing to say to me — you know I’ll fall head over heels.’

Sandy didn’t reply. Humour was too much of an effort, now of all times. Conversation was. She only knew that where there had been blackest despair, there was now … hope. Not a bright hope. That remained a long way off, like a distant dream. But she no longer felt so empty, and there was something good, something worth looking forward to. Again.

‘Sandy?’ said a new, male voice into the silence. Someone crouched on her other side, looking at her. ‘I’m Doctor Li. Li Jianjun. Are you in pain?’

‘No,’ she whispered. Wanting to turn her head, but not unable to. ‘No, I can’t feel much. Just some tingling. The buffers cut off any really bad pain. I feel reflex pain normally, but nothing longer.’

‘Okay.’ Doctor Li nodded, taking that in. ‘Okay Sandy, now the Lieutenant’s told you what we’re doing … I’m sorry you woke up so suddenly. That was our fault, we didn’t know how fast it would happen when we brought you back. We overestimated.’ We, Sandy guessed, meant the other doctors. She thought there were at least four, and probably others advising.

‘Now everyone here is biotech, Sandy,’ said Doctor Li, as if reading her mind. ‘In fact, we’ve got probably the best biotech surgeons on the planet here in this room right now. You’ll forgive us if we find it all more than a little fascinating … but we’re not here to study you, Sandy, we’re just going to patch you up. The damage isn’t great. You should make a full recovery. Now, if you have any questions at any time, about anything, just ask. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she whispered. Doctor Li gave her a gentle, reassuring pat on the head and regained his feet. ‘Ricey?’

‘Right here.’ Leaning in close again, with the doctor resuming work.

‘Don’t leave me.’

Vanessa smiled, hand in her hair again, a soft, comforting presence.

‘Not a chance. No chance at all.’