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  But the man, what's his name... Wladas, yes. What's he got to do with us?

  "Mark? What do we do?" Wladas stepped toward me. "They'll break the door down in a minute."

  "Wait," I waved him off.

  The gesture brought my headache back. My temples throbbed. Blood flushed my face, and I felt queasy. I winced, rubbed my temples, reached under the pillow for my gun and started to dress.

  The hammering of gun butts shook the whole building. I stepped over to the window swaying. Wladas grabbed my elbow and shoved me a mug.

  "This should help. Try it."

  My fingers shook. I upended the mug and reached to the window, setting one knee against the bed. A large backyard was bounded by a sandstone wall. A huge tank sat in the far corner - apparently, holding drinking water. Some pipework ran from the tank to the house. Next to it, a man with a shotgun guarded a water pump. Judging by his clothes, he was one of McLean's men. Two more waited by the side gate. On the other side of the wall, a Willis stood in the street - an ancient army jeep, a driver waiting in its seat. In the truck a gunner sat next to a machine gun mounted in its cradle. He leaned forward, his hairy arms crossed on the extension, puffing on a roll-up and squinting at the sun. All five men stared into the yard and did nothing. But those on Broadway kept yelling demanding to be let in. How many raiders were there?

  I turned and sunk onto the bed. My head had stopped spinning but was still pounding.

  "Mark," Wladas placed his hand on my shoulder. "Stop jumping up and down. Let me examine you."

  He squatted and showed me his open hands. Our eyes met.

  "May I? It's only to take your pulse and check for a papillary response."

  'Go ahead, then."

  He pulled back my eyelids, one after the other.

  "Got vertigo?"

  "Almost gone."

  "I want you to look up and follow my finger," Wladas started moving his index finger in front of my nose while holding my pulse. I could hear him counting to twenty. Then he stood up. "Papillary reflex almost normal, with a slightly quickened pulse. You show all the symptoms of memory release. So you were right about the chemicals, then."

  It sounded like a statement.

  "It's classified," I finally remembered his name and our conversation from the night before. The Feds had warned me about possible chemical withdrawals. They'd just started tampering with identity-modifying injections and I knew they could cause temporary amnesia and memory overlap. Side effects were not fully known. I had volunteered, as the situation had demanded. We needed an experienced operative to infiltrate Pangea and we couldn't sit and wait for Federal neurotechs to finish their field trials. The Agency director himself suggested my cover as an ex-army convict. He had summoned me into his office and spent three hours letting me in on the kind of secrets only a limited few would know. That's why I accepted his offer. I had no way back.

  "You're going to kill me now?" Wladas gave me a grim look. "You're here on a mission," he glanced at Wong. "You both are."

  "Wong? He's only a cover man," I answered. This Wladas wasn't stupid. It had taken him no time at all to put two and two together.

  "I..." he leaned forward. "You... you two are going back to Earth, right? I have a family, I... I will cooperate, I'll do what you ask me to. If only you'll take me along. I won't let you down, promise. I..."

  "Do shut up," I got off the bed, checked the shotgun and slung it over my shoulder.

  In view of the new developments, Wladas could be useful. My withdrawal could last another twenty-four hours or even more. Besides... I looked at Wong. He could be the best fighter in the world with his six-unit combat potential. But he wouldn't be much use against cyber troopers. We needed every pair of fists available.

  I turned to Wladas. The mission made provision for engaging some of the deportees in our operations, without revealing any details.

  "Wong? How much time do we have?"

  The Chinese took his hand from the gun and raised two fingers. A couple of minutes. Enough to rearrange my plans.

  "Keep an eye on the yard," I told Wladas.

  I gave it some thought and decided against entrusting him with any weapons. I couldn't verify what he'd said about his supposed family and homesickness. Thoughts were crowding my mind. Rita, the hotel owner. She must have ratted on us to McLean. I needed to see him anyway, but had planned to do it the same night and under different circumstances. Firstly, I had to meet my contact. McLean was a big fish, a player in the great game between Pangea and the Federal Security Agency. Or should I say, between the Feds and General Varlamov, the ex rebel. He'd been in charge of the Fort at the time of the coup and had had time to disappear with a handful of his supporters. The Feds had sent a squad of our best men to bring Varlamov back. None of them had returned. The general had lain low somewhere in the mountains. According to our sources, he'd used Professor Neumann for his own interests, but what those interests were, we had no idea. About two dozen men had followed Varlamov, three of which were cyber troopers. You wouldn't want to meddle with those guys. Their bodies were crammed full of combat implants, their skeletons reinforced with Teflon, titanium and bypass resistors, their neural chains modified, their brains shortwired to those of tactical autonomous combatants.

  Cyber troopers were radio-controlled and supervised by the general himself. Nasty boys, worse than Pangean tigers, unless you're a cyber yourself. Or unless you happen to have a clever neurotech at hand. He'd still need special radio equipment to connect himself to their brains in order to scorch their neural chains or at least disrupt their communications. But that would be asking for too much, wouldn't it?

  The racket downstairs stopped. Wong raised his shotgun and walked out into the hallway. So. My mission was to find Professor Neumann. The Chinese was the muscle man protecting the information carrier. The carrier being myself. Apart from me, the only other person who knew of the mission was the FSA director. He had supervised my identity modification personally, afraid of eventual leaks in his own office where General Varlamov could keep a mole or two. I was forbidden to engage in action unless in dire need, leaving all the dirty work to Wong. I winced. My head was splitting.

  "The raiders seem to be on the move," Wladas said without taking his eyes from the window. "The driver has got out. They've picked up their guns. They're getting ready."

  "Wong," I told the Chinese, "we're going out. Don't shoot."

  I needed to see McLean because he was the unofficial baron of New Pang and had agreed to help the FSA. He had his informers everywhere on the Continent feeding him intelligence on the confederation of settlers who'd fled the coast during the pandemic. McLean had been the only one - apart from the clones - who'd at the time ignored the invitation to join the confederation of loggers, farmers and oil riggers. He didn't give a shit about the confederation and its laws. All he cared about was turning the city into an empire of his own. And as for the clones...

  The room swam. I tried hard to remember something about the clone settlers in the mountains at the Continent's eastern edge. I couldn't. My heart pounded as I remembered the army school - an unwanted, non-existent memory, part of my cover story. I forced clone thoughts away and tried to relax and think of something else.

  Wong stole down the hallway and disappeared past the wall.

  "Follow him," I glanced over the room and walked out behind him.

  We were the only people in the hallway. I could hear Rita's angry voice downstairs, playing a pretend game. She must have grassed us up to Tex (which was was McLean's cover name according to the Information that had just gone off in my head again) and now she was doing a decent job of sounding innocent. Now my contact would lie low, and I'd have to play it by ear when I met McLean. The worst thing was, I had no idea what exactly McLean knew about Professor Neumann.

  I rummaged through my memory for the basic facts. Neumann, who'd moved to Pangea over thirty years ago, wanted to get to the truth behind the Continent's anomalies. The place hadn't yet
been a prison at that time. The government had funded his research until it became clear they couldn't expect a quick return for their money. And when rioting had gained momentum followed by the Coup of the Seven Generals, they became too busy to continue financing. Six of the conspirators had been shot; the seventh, General Varlamov, had escaped. Two years later our Continent informers became active sending contradictory messages. The FSA analysts had come to the conclusion that the insurgent general had more on his agenda than just taking control of Pangea. It looked like he'd gotten hold of something capable of changing the course of world history. Neumann had helped him, apparently. The FSA then decided to use McLean by warning him about the planned attack on New Pang. Varlamov and his clones had to-

  I stumbled and grabbed at the wall. Wladas turned to support me.

  Once again, my thoughts turned to jelly. The clones seemed to be the stumbling block. It was probably better not to concentrate on them for a while. The FSA specialists had warned me of the possibility of a glitch when memories merged blocking certain areas. The contact might help but now I had to forget about him too, at least for a while.

  The Chinese walked down a flight of stairs. The voices subsided. I heard a rustle, followed by the clacking of gun bolts.

  "Wong," I called out. "Step back."

  He didn't seem to hear me. He squinted, his index finger squeezing the trigger.

  "Don't," I ordered. "Come back here. Now!"

  His eyes glistened. He started moving back up the steps. Another step. And another. Only then did he lower the gun.

  "Wait here," I took the shotgun from my shoulder, handed it to Wong and walked downstairs.

  Bright light hit my eyes. The sun hung over the roofs opposite. Four long shadows stretched from the front door down the hallway. I had to avoid confrontation at any cost: that would mean the end of the mission. I had no idea how many men surrounded the hotel nor how many were already inside. Neither what weapons they used.

  "Please don't shoot! I have a proposal for Mr. McLean!" I spread my arms wide. "Who can I talk to?"

  A burly gorilla-like raider stepped forward blocking the light. Behind him in the hallway three men clutched their guns. Beside them, a scared Rita clung to the wall, a raider grasping her arm.

  "Let the woman go. We're coming out. Wong, Wladas, come down!"

  The gorilla approached, removed my handgun from my holster, turned me face to the wall and pulled the Colt from behind my belt.

  "Well, well, well," a voice spoke from the front door. "What do we have here? Or should I say, who do we have?"

  A man in a brown Stetson entered the hallway, broad-shouldered and taller than the gorilla raider. A deep scar crossed his furrowed long face. A black patch covered his left eye. His right eye, gray and unfriendly, shifted to my men descending the steps.

  "Your Russian is good, McLean," I said.

  The gorilla gave me a shove in the back and swore under his breath, then headed toward Wong and Wladas. McLean waited while his man searched them and removed their guns. Then he walked over to me, pushed his Stetson back and whispered in my ear,

  "Actually, I half-expected you yesterday, mister..."

  "Mark," I turned to him.

  "Your skin is too white," he looked away at my men and whispered again, "Haven't been in the sun lately. How did you expect to-"

  "I'm Mark Posner," I spoke in a firm voice. "Tell your men to let the woman go and leave the building. We don't need to attract attention."

  McLean pivoted toward his men and barked a command. As they cleared out, he rearranged his hat again and said,

  "Please, Mr. Posner," he made a welcoming gesture. "After you."

  Was he always such a poser? Or was he just nervous? I walked past Rita and turned my head to the open bar door. Claudie and a hunched old man with a beard sat at the table - probably, the Uncle Vanya that Claudie had mentioned last night. Next to her stood another man, unshaven and squat. For some reason, I decided he had to be French with his black hair, a square chin and black eyes glistening over a Gallic nose. He reminded me of someone. Who could that be? Obeying McLean's command, the man started for the door.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Tex walked behind me. My men followed, overseen by the gorilla raider bristling with guns. Frenchie trailed behind. Idiots. McLean was a cretin. Wong and I could disarm them at our leisure, and then the conversation would take a very different turn. Their buddies outside wouldn't even know what had hit them. Shame we had to keep up appearances otherwise I'd be only too happy to give Tex the third degree.

  We walked out onto the street. It was crowded with people, armed and unfriendly. On both sides of the hotel, the road was blocked with truckfuls of people, their machine guns pointing in our direction. Engines purred; heated air curled over truck hoods. The truck we'd hijacked from Famba's men the night before had already been driven into the shade at the house opposite.

  I stopped a few feet past the front door squinting at the sun. It was bright and too white.

  "These are my boys, Mr. Posner," I heard behind my back. "They'd love to know what happened to Famba, Kathy, Muller, Kurt, Baxter and Red Johnny."

  "They'll live," I turned to McLean. "Nobody's hurt. Might be here by midday."

  "Fine," Tex rearranged his hat and slipped on an enormous pair of sunshades. "We'll wait till midday. In the meantime, Mr. Posner, be my guest. We'll talk about your proposal."

  Now I could get a good look at him. Well-tanned, he wore a brown coat with a pale shirt and a dusty pair of cowboy boots over oilcloth pants. The only thing missing was a pair of spurs. McLean lay his hand onto the silver buckle of his wide leather belt. The hem of his coat swung to one side revealing a narrow holster with the handle of what looked like an expensive and seriously rare handgun.

  How could it have got here on Pangea?

  "I can see you're a connoisseur," McLean noticed my interest. He took out the gun, pushed the trigger guard with his middle finger, broke the long nickel-plated barrel and shook out a rifle cartridge. "Have a look."

  He snapped the barrel shut and handed me the unloaded gun handle first.

  "Go ahead, don't be shy."

  I inspected the gun. It looked very much like a Contender, but... you could tell it was a homespun job. The cocking mechanism was too tight and the weight distribution a bit off. The handle also needed some work as it lay a bit awkward in hand. Still, it must fit Tex' broad claws.

  "Local job?" I looked up.

  McLean nodded, took the gun and walked to one of the trucks. Someone shoved me in the shoulder advising me to move my ass and get into the truck. I looked back. Wong was smiling as he walked with his hands folded peacefully, apparently oblivious of the others. Wladas' eyes shifted. He was pale, his head and T-shirt soaking wet with sweat.

  Once we got into the truck, McLean leaned sideways against the back of the cab waiting for everyone to settle on the benches. My men took their places opposite me, Gorilla and Frenchie at our sides. One of the gunners raised and locked the tailgate. The other turned his back to us and pointed his gun forward.

  McLean slapped the cab roof, "Off we go!" He stretched his arm toward the bay far beyond.

  "I thought you might want to do a bit of sightseeing, Mr. Posner. Unless you'd rather I call you..."

  "Mark is good enough," I rose and stood up holding onto the tailgate.

  The truck moved down Broadway. The city lay before us. Its size and ambition surprised me, considering this was here on Pangea unknown to man until thirty years ago, with next to no technology. Houses cascaded toward the ocean, their roofs orange to our left and blue to our right. Further by the bay, the roofs were red and green. It really helped to find one's way amid the city blocks. On every roof stood a cumbersome rainwater vessel of some description. All the houses' walls were rendered with white clay.

  Deportees hadn't wasted their time here.

  "Enjoy what you see," McLean said, pleased. "We'll take you across the city to the other side of th
e bay. We're going to show you the port and the seaweed farms - everything we've done in these past years! Very soon New Pang will have its own plumbing. Can you imagine? I'm building it. And I have no intention of leaving it to anyone!"

  Tex shoved a cigar between his teeth. His fist crunched. His face darkened, his jaws moved. What a strange reaction. Shame I couldn't see his eyes. It looked as if he was scared shitless even as he spoke so he tried to replace fear with anger.

  "How long will it take?" I asked.

  Out of his inner pocket, McLean produced a gold-plated timepiece on a chain and flipped the lid open. "A half-hour. Why, are you in a hurry?"

  I shook my head. "Not me, no."

  Good. Enough time to think. I glanced back. Hotel guests and passersby had started gathering by the hotel. One of them could be my contact. Rita stood by the front door, together with Claudie and Uncle Vanya. The latter hugged Claudie's shoulders, his head cocked to one side, urging her. The girl sniffled and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. The owner watched us leave. Some of the guests tried to ask her questions, curious about the details. Rita didn't notice them. She stood there watching the trucks disappear along Broadway.

  Chapter Seven

  Comrades in Misery

  "A cigar? A drink?" McLean snapped his fingers at the steward busy by the serving table near the verandah door. Then he turned away while staring at the ocean.

  The harbor spread below the cliffs that housed the baron of New Pang. He lit up, sat back in a wicker armchair by a rattan screen and rested his feet on a stool carved from a whole piece of wood.

  The steward - a mute crew-cut man of about thirty - placed two full tumblers onto a tray, added a cigar and a lighter and brought the tray to me.

  I motioned the cigar away, took the tumbler and tasted the amber drink. Jesus, this man had real Bourbon!