'Nice place,' said Dorac. 'You don't get many visitors, I suppose?'

Agnes Lawson's office was a shambles. On first glancing in, Dorac would have been uncertain exactly what it was she did for a living if he hadn't known already. The desk was an eclectic mix of AI terminals, coffee cups, actual paper with writing on it—Dorac hadn't seen that in ages—and photographs, including one of Agnes and a man her own age with his arms around her. Her husband Peter, he assumed. The desk was faced on two sides by chairs, hers being the more comfortable and less decrepit-looking one. The walls were mostly bare, but the floor was littered with all manner of objects: a box of tools, cartons both sealed and spilling contents, a holovision with an empty pizza tray on top and, in one corner, a cabinet that housed an impressive display of replica hand guns.

'Don't get cocky,' she said. 'It's my place, not yours.'

She opened a drawer of the desk and extracted a bottle. Dorac glanced around and located a glass on top of a shelf. He brought it over to the desk. Agnes filled it with liquor, and poured another measure into a coffee cup. She took that one, and handed him the glass.

He looked at her carefully as he sat down. It had been a year since they'd last been in each other's presence, and then he'd been dying with three bullets in his back. Of course, they'd known each other before then—he'd been a passenger on the Euryalus, back when they had both been in the Elite Navy. She'd ferried him to the Slowboat Endeavour around Barnard's Star after which he'd fallen in with a group of terrorists. It was odd to be sitting with someone who'd once been his superior officer; just a year ago he would have had to stand to attention and do whatever was ordered of him. But here she was in civvies, still large-framed, still with that substantial bosom that had been the source of many ribald but discrete comments among the male crew of the Euryalus. Her dark hair was longer, and she wore nail polish and, out of uniform, appeared far more feminine than he remembered.

'How have you been?' she asked. A touch of a contact on her desk and the window disappeared as shutters closed over it, blocking off the view of Brooklyn. The room seemed smaller, closer, more personal.

Dorac took a swig of the liquor and let it burn in the back of his throat for a moment. It was good stuff, he judged, although flavoured more than the raw Sirian liquor he was used to. He took another healthy swallow.

'You know,' he said. 'Surviving.'

'It's good to see you.' Dorac knew a lie when he heard one. 'What are you doing these days?'

'I was more interested in what you're doing.' He glanced around the room once more. 'I thought you were in security. But this looks more like a discount warehouse.'

She lowered her empty glass. 'If you came eight light years to make jokes you can go back again. You foned me. I admit to being curious. The one thing I'm absolutely certain of, it's not for old time's sake.'

He smiled and accepted a refill. This one he took more slowly, leaning back in his chair to cross his legs. He wanted to light a cigarette, but old Navy discipline held him from doing that at least.

'Eight and a half lights years from Sirius to Earth,' he said. 'A long way. I spent a few days on a merchant ship, then another passenger service to Earth, and finally here. I was looking for you. You weren't easy to find.'

'Yes. I don't exactly advertise my whereabouts, although old Navy friends want to catch up sometimes. I had coffee with Jackie Szymanski last month, in fact. You remember her?'

'Sure. Short and dangerous.'

'She's a Petty Officer now. But Jackie's the only one of the old crew I've seen.' She took a sip of her drink and set the glass down on top of the AI. 'I'm surprised you've escaped detection this long.'

His two days on Earth had been a bit scary in case he'd been identified, but the new ID implant he wore, and a new fone secured from less-than-reputable sources, had worked long enough to avoid detection. He felt some resentment not carrying his clan or family names in his new ID, but the authorities on Earth would never have dreamed that a Sirian would walk around with any other name than their own.

'How do you know I won't turn you in?'

'Old Navy friend?'

'I can see your Sirian sense of humour is as fine-tuned as ever.'

He smiled and hoped it looked genuine. 'I wondered what you did after being kicked out of the Navy.'

Her hand had reached out to the bottle but it paused and withdrew a few centimetres.

'I wasn't kicked out! I resigned before they could do that.'

'I know. Sirian humour, remember. So I did a little investigating and found out you were working for some security firm, poking your nose into stuff that's none of your business: guns, drugs, dangerous stuff like that.' He felt more relaxed now and leaned further back in the chair. It gave an ominous crack as his weight shifted; he leaned forwards again. 'The thing is, I looked for you because I want your help. I want to hire you.'

'No.'

'That was quick.'

'I don't work for friends.'

He snorted. 'So we are friends.'

Agnes pressed the desk contact again and the window opened. Outside the tall glass and ceramic buildings of New York sat under a blazing noonday sun.

'We're here in the heart of Elite control,' said Agnes. 'See that building there? One of the Syndicate administration towers.' Dorac looked: a soaring steel structure that spread out at the top to a wide platform. A Message Stick mast rose from the top. 'And that building there.' She indicated a circular plaza surrounded by office blocks. 'Syndicate Combined. Top security. You wouldn't know but I had to work for that lot when I was out chasing you across the galaxy, trying to arrest you. My point is, this is one of the most important places in the universe. And yet it has its crime, it has people trying to hurt other people. Despite all the armed guards and more AI than there is in the rest of the galaxy put together, there's still crime out there. Guns, drugs. That's where we come in.'

'We?'

'The firm. You obviously found out I work for Hewson Grange Investigations. And I do have an assistant, but she's on another case at the moment.'

He chuckled. 'I really do have something for you, though. And given our past, I thought you might be interested.'

'It's something here in New York?'

He leaned forward on the desk and she did the same. 'It's to do with the Elite,' he said. 'And before that puts you off—'

'Why should it?'

Almost he reached for a cigarette. He rubbed his beard instead to give his hand something to do. 'Anyway, I suppose you heard about the assassination of the Nuncio on Eridu.'

Her eyes didn't betray any excitement, or even much interest. She said, 'Of course. The Sirians have been blamed. The place is almost in lockdown. I'm surprised you could leave.'

'I think the Elite had something to do with it.'

He sat back. Agnes rose and stepped around to the door of her office and stood beside it. 'You can leave right now,' she said. 'In fact, I'd advise you to. I don't have a clue what you're taking about, but it's as dangerous as fuck to go saying stuff like that, and even more dangerous to start looking into it.'

'I knew I could depend on you, Agnes.'

'Damn it, Dorac, I'm Elite. You do know that, don't you? Peter and I have several thousand shares in the Syndicate.'

'Is that a lot?'

'Get out.'

He rose and joined her at the door. Agnes pressed the contact and it slid open. Across the corridor was a firm of accountants, where a girl behind a reception desk was visible through the glass door. She looked up as Agnes's door opened; Dorac smiled and waggled his fingers at her. The startled look on the girl's face was priceless.

'Agnes, you're about the lousiest Elite I've ever encountered,' he said. 'What I mean is,' he added, when he saw her shoulders square up, 'you're one of the good guys, not like those stupid trillionaire bastards who think they own the galaxy.'

'They do.'

'Yeah, but...Look, I need your help. My people are being hounded by the Elite—the bastard ones—and blamed for the Nuncio's death. I don't know, maybe Sirian terrorists did kill him, but I don't think so. A friend of mine...Maddy Hawthorn, you remember her?'

'Vaguely. Now she was a terrorist.'

'She gave me reason to believe that the Elite may well have been involved in the assassination to some extent. Call it a gut feeling on her part. I don't know. But I want to find out.'

'Dorac, you're basically asking me not only to betray my own kind, but to also stick my nose into a pit of snakes so dangerous they could burn me and everyone I know.'

'That's a mixed metaphor.'

'Shut up. If the Elite had anything to do with it, the other side of the galaxy is probably a good place to be.'

'So, you'll help?'

She pressed the contact and the door opened again. 'Get the hell out of my office. And don't come back.'

He nodded and went out. Just as he reached the front door of the building she called out.

'Dorac!'

He turned. 'What?'

'What's your fone number?'