Hanari is a grey world, just far enough from the bloated corpuscuelent red star that nourishes it to be wreathed in a nearly perpetual layer of cloud, a greenhouse effect gone into slow-motion overdrive. Corruscations of lightning birth brief patches of brightness, little bits of energy swallowed by the omnipresent gloom.

 Through one of the rare breaks in the cloud layer that turn the sunlight planetside from dirty to vermillion, there is a flash of light that isn't lightning. Then that gap is obscured by a cloud.

 A mushroom one.

 Technical Difficulties. Please Stand By.

 This too is replaced. An artificially good looking young man in a blue suit. The expression on his face is the sort of one people have when they wake up to discover the bloody head of their prized racing horse in the bed next to them.

 "Branson Vision appologises for this interruption to your viewing, and brings you the following grave announcement. A nutronic device has just been detonated in the city of ch'Rihan, where our main broadcast facility was located. There has been continent-wide disruption of communications, and the death toll is feared to be extensive."

 He looks off camera a moment, nods, looks back. "The following footage is being relayed live from a corporate military drone. We're cutting to it no-- Yama!"

 Replacing the presenter is a panarama of destruction. For as far as the eye can see, there is only burnt and twisted rubble, smoke casting a further pall over the scene. The image zooms out, and the zone of destruction grows. CGI starts to circle the periphery of the telecast: radiation meters, estimated megatonage, a measurement of scale, the radius of destruction.

 This last one levels out at 50 kilometres. The others continue to climb.

 "We have a major problem," Dark man announces to others in the ill lit conference room, smoke curling upwards from the end of his narcstick. It was a habit he'd given up ten years ago. He's almost gone through an entire packet so far. "Someone is acting against the corporation."

 "We'd never have guessed," Young man sledges from the end of the table in a tone tinged with hysteria. Dark man's eyes narrow imperceptibly.

 Grey man just nods for him to continue.

 "Genetics have reported their entire genebank has been irradiated. We have no basal material with which to clone the Adored beyond the models currently running around the planet." He lets that point sink in for a moment, for as long as it takes to have another toke.

 "The incident in ch'Rihan has been traced to Temporal department's acceleration facility. Before we lost contact, they managed to communicate that the tarranium core had achieved critical mass. Every single safety protocol had been sabotaged."

 Grey nods.

 A man opposite Young man swears, horror and relief in his voice: he'd been slated for promotion to managing director of Temporal next week. Following the... resignation... of the incumbent, looks like he'll get the promotion by the end of the day.

 "We've got an insurgent?" Young man demands. "What the cruk are we going to do?"

 "Maintain the corporate agenda," Grey man answers curtly, sharing a telling glance with Dark man. "Acquisitions will resample the remaining Adored immediately. All minders will have their contracts terminated in the usual fashion and replacements installed, in the event they have been compromised."

 "Already initiated," Dark man replies. "We're still follwing Li Duc's, but the termination order has been temporarily rescinded and Programming are on standby. Th--"

 "And if we don't pick him up before the concert?" Young man breaks in again. "Do you have any idea what this is going to do to us?"

 "Yes," Dark man says evenly. In the back of his mind is a broken body with a large puddle of blood seeping out around it. "The ch'Rihan incident has provided us with the perfect excuse should we need to cancel the event: Li wanted to go ahead with the concert but felt collecting his fans in a large grouping might present a danger to them so soon after what is obviously a terrorist incident. It can only have a positive effect on both PR and market share."

 "Excellent," Grey man nods, steepling his fingers. "Tell Security they have twenty four hours to identify and deal with this problem, or face contract termination."

 "That is gross," Doyle says disparagingly, shaking her head. "I can't believe you actually did something like that."

 "It's therapeutic," Benny corrects. "When I find out who put him there, I may well do the same to them." Then she shrugs. "Besides, having only just met over the assassin attempt on the clone of your boyfriend, whom you've since misplaced, you're not exactly in the best position to comment on how I relate to my ex husband."

 Doyle just makes a non-committal sound. "So, any ideas?"

 Unable to find her hip flask, Benny sighs. "Not a one. What ever we do, we have three days to do it in."

 "Why?"

 "Because I even though I may be a sucker for helping out people with unbelievable stories of woe and despair, I'm a sucker for helping out people with unbelievable stories of woe and despair with a ticket off this mudball in three days time when the shuttle line decides its third hand shuttle with absolutely no creature comforts and lousy movies has stopped rusting enough. I sound like an utter bitch."

 Doyle nods.

 "Cruk, I need a drink. Let's go: cogitating while moving usually proves useful for me."

 Doyle jabs a thumb towards the bed. "What about him? The maid will have a fit."

 Benny shrugs mischeviously. "It'll serve her right for cleaning up after me. Besides, it was probably her that took that stupid synthoid out of the luggage hold and stuck it there in the first place." She ushers Doyle out.

 "Did it come with the knife?"

 "Hell no. I just sleep with one under the pillow. Side effect of an eventful life you might call it."

 "And if that really had been your ex-husband you'd woken up next to?"

 "Would've been one heck of a laundry bill."

 It hasn't been working. He's so tense that when someone enters his office, her literally jumps a foot in the air before turning.

 "You! What the cruk are you doing h--"

 There is a wetly organic sound. The sort of sound the head makes when it is no longer attached to the body

 To Be Contined...