Halcyon Years

by Alastair Reynolds

Genres: Space Exploration

Synopsis

A private investigator is hired to look into a mysterious, high-profile death aboard the starship Halcyon in this fresh new science fiction masterpiece from the "mastersinger of space opera" (The Times) and the creator of the beloved Revelation Space universe. Strap in for a gripping murder mystery.

Yuri Gagarin is a private investigator, who picks up small cases from his local community, runs into trouble with the local police, and generally ekes out a living as best he can. He's aboard the Halcyon - a starship, hurtling through space, carrying thousands of passengers with thousands more sleeping the journey away.

Only his usual investigative work - catching cheating spouses, and small time con artists - is about to take a turn. He's hired by a mysterious woman called Ruby Red to look into a death in one of Halcyon's most elite families . . . and then warned off the case again by a second mysterious woman called Ruby Blue. Caught between the two, he's about to be embroiled in a murder mystery in which - at any moment - he could be the latest victim.

Gripping, fast-paced fun, this is a classic noir mystery with a science fiction twist, which will keep you guessing and on the edge of your seat to the end.

A fresh new masterpiece, from the master of science fiction.

Release date: January 27, 2026

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 336

Sample

She came in out of the rain, mascara smudged. Her suitor entered the bar straight after her, shaking out his umbrella. Yuri watched them both from the stool where he had been perched for the last hour. He needed to be sure he had the right pair. The client had given him a photograph of the woman, but only a verbal description of the man.

The couple moved to the counter. The woman took a vacant stool, her back to Yuri. Tall, well-dressed, good figure. Red velvet gloves from one of the pricier Prowtown boutiques. The man was shorter, heavy around the waist, thinning crown in the bar-light. He matched the sketch: ex-baseball player, still burly after a five-stretch in Heavyside.

No doubt at all that this was the right pair.

Yuri dipped into his coat pocket, palmed the miniature camera and extracted it.

The husband needed one clear picture of the rendezvous: ammunition for a Belt City magistrate.

The woman shifted into profile as she whispered to the baseball slugger. The slugger passed her a shot-glass. She hooked a cigarette to her perfect lips, elbow on the counter. The man whispered.

It was the ideal framing, body language writing cheques all the way to a divorce settlement.

Yuri clicked off a shot, wound on.

Two more for luck.

A drunk stumbled from the washroom, jolting his chair. The camera tumbled from his fingers. Yuri jerked to catch it. The camera smashed to the polychrome-tiled floor.

The back sprung open. Film lolled out.

The cheaters directed two quick glances his way, then returned to their courtship. Yuri strained down to collect the camera.

The drunk was quicker. He made a stumbling swoop and snatched it off the floor.

In a too-loud voice: “This was yours?”

“It was, yes,” Yuri said, reaching to recover the camera from the drunk’s large, sweaty fist.

“It’s pretty. Was pretty, I mean.”

Yuri smiled obligingly. He pawed for the camera. The drunk snatched his hand away, teasingly.

“Please, we’ll say it was accident. No harm done.”

The drunk’s brow beetled.

“You’re saying I did it?” The drunk raised his trophy and his voice. “It’s a camera. This little runt had a camera on him.”

The couple at the counter studied him now. The woman looked guileless, not yet understanding. The slugger was sharper. He eased off his stool, squaring his shoulders.

Yuri stood. They were about the same height.

“Who are you?”

“I am nobody. I am just sitting here with beverage, enjoying evening.”

“What kind of mongrel accent is that?”

“I am Jack,” he offered. “Jack-in-box. You know, fresh out of hibernaculum. Hence accent.”

“Who were you taking pictures of?”

The man advanced.

The bar stilled.

They all felt it. A dull vibration rattled the glasses, waggled the ceiling lights on their chains. Drinkers froze with their shots poised between table and lip. Cars slowed in the rain. Alley cats arched their backs. Streetlights flickered. Neon ads blinked off and back on.

The vibration passed.

The bar whirred back into life like a gramophone starting up after a power-outage.

“Second one in five weeks,” the slugger said. “Before I went down it was one a year.”

Yuri nodded keenly. “Mrs. Vanamonde got stuck in elevator during last growler; tied up whole building for two hours.”

“Who the hell is Mrs. Vanamonde?” The slugger snapped his fingers at the drunk. “Hey, give me that.”

The drunk obeyed.

The slugger examined the damaged camera with the distant, rheumy interest of a pawnbroker.

“Not seen one this small before. Very neat. Must’ve cost.”

“It did.”

The man delved into the camera and removed the already ruined film strip. He balled the film in his fingers, tossed the camera aside and grabbed Yuri by his coat lapels. He rammed him hard against the washroom door. Yuri crashed through, the man following. Yuri pancaked onto a sticky floor. The slugger kneeled over him like a wrestler.

He punched Yuri in the jaw.

“That’s your first reminder to keep out of my business.” He punched him again, this time across the nose. “That’s the second.”

He ripped Yuri’s wallet from his jacket, found his licence. “Gagarin Investigative Services. Floor Five, Riverside Building, Dempsey Street, Belt City.”

Yuri said, “Drop by sometime.”

“Count on it, the moment you take any more interest in my private life.”

“It’s not—” Yuri spat tooth-grit and blood. “It’s not your private life that is concern, sir. Do you know she is married, with husband and two beautiful daughters?”

That earned him a third reminder.

“Gagarin Investigative Services,” he said, pressing a handkerchief to his nose. “How may I be—”

It was the client, the husband of the cheating wife. “You got ’em right, Gangrene? You got proof of infidelity?”

“There was…” Yuri paused, still foggy from the bar brawl. “There was… technical issue.”

“Technical issue?”

“I will need to revisit scene.”

“You’re dumb enough to think they’ll go back to the same joint? I heard about the brawl. Real nice work.”

“I will pursue all relevant leads. But is impossible to promise—”

“I tell you what I can promise,” the man interrupted sharply. “Finding some other dope to waste my money on. We’re done. Forget about invoicing me for last week’s work. You’ve screwed things up so badly, I should bill you.”

The line cut to the empty purr of the dialling tone.

Yuri set the handset back down on the receiver. He unscrewed the cap from his current bottle of Scotch, poured and drank half a glass, debated pouring another measure, strictly for medicinal purposes. He paused, catching himself in the office window, where the blinds were still up. His furtive, bruised reflection looked embarrassed by itself.

Perhaps, under the circumstances, coffee was the better proposition. He opened the tub, peered in optimistically.

Just scrapings left, and too early to go out for supplies.

The elevator sounded down the hallway. It arrived with a dying whine, trellis doors rattling open down the hallway, hard-soled shoes clacking ever-nearer on the tiles, regular as a metronome.

The hall lights stayed off. The gloom through the tinted glass of the office door gained qualities of form and presence; a slender figure just outside.

The visitor knocked.

A woman’s voice, muffled by the door, “Mister Gagarin?”

“Give me moment, please,” he called, rising from his chair.

“Never mind appearances, Mister Gagarin—I shall see you as you are. Close those blinds first, would you? The skytube will be brightening soon and I find the early morning light astringent.”

She was well-spoken, with an ageless voice; measured and with an effortless authority.

The kind of client who usually went elsewhere.

“Are you sure you would not rather do this later, Ms.…?”

“Now will do just fine, unless you have somewhere better to be at five in the morning.”

He opened the door. His visitor was a tall woman, and well-dressed. She wore a jacket of angular cut, a long narrow skirt, and a hat with a wide brim and a veil. Her face was shrouded behind it, like the moon slipping through trees. Shadows stuck to her like roosting birds.

He frowned slightly.

“Are you sure have right Gagarin?”

“Most certainly.” She stepped across the threshold but made no further approach. His desk lamp splashed a dim, green radiance across her. She raised a slender gloved hand, beckoning to his chair. “You were in Winter Garden earlier tonight, on a custody case. It went badly. You took the train there and back because your car isn’t working—and even if it was, you’re late with the tax. You’re out of coffee. Please, sit down.”

Yuri sat, swivelling the chair to face her properly. She was in blue, but it was a blue that aspired to black.

“You have right Gagarin.”

“Then perhaps some new business will perk you up. My name is Ruby. I have an assignment for you—an investigation into a pair of suspicious deaths.”

Yuri stubbed out his hopes. “Then I am sorry. I cannot investigate murders.”

“Why not?”

“It is work of police department. Go to them, not me.”

“Wouldn’t the work help?”

“It would. But rules are clear.”

“Then I’m pleased. I heard you were an honest man, but it never hurts to be sure.”

“Problem remains.”

“It doesn’t.” She scraped a tomb’s worth of dust from the top of a filing cabinet with one fingertip. “You don’t own much, but that means no one owns you. That’s why we’ll work together. There is no question of friction with the police—they don’t believe there’s any crime to be answered for. I disagree.” She snapped open her handbag—he had not noticed it until then, swaddled against the darkness of her coat—and extracted a pale rectangle. She stretched out to him, the rectangle pincered between a gloved forefinger and thumb. “This will open any necessary doors.”

Yuri rose and took the card, then held it to the green lamp. His own name was on it, a mugshot, some officialese.

“Department of Works?”

“My employers. I work for them and now you’re working for me.”

“How did you get picture?”

“Via the Department of Motor Vehicles: the same way I know about your late payment on the tax. Instead, let’s discuss the specifics of the enquiry. Do you keep up with the newspapers?”

“Mostly funnies.”

“Five weeks ago, there was a death in the DelRosso family—their youngest daughter, just as she was about to come of age. The day before yesterday, the Urry family was afflicted by a comparable loss. Their youngest son, also on the cusp of adult responsibility. That particular death has most certainly not made the papers.”

Yuri made an anxious face.

“They are wealthiest families.”

“Yes—with power and influence going back almost as far as Departure Day. It’s no secret that they’re not on good terms, but so far we’ve avoided outright warfare. I’m concerned that the latter death might be a reprisal for the first.”

“If they have grudges to settle…” Yuri said.

“… then it’s not just those two families who would be affected. Indeed. There’s a circle of close loyal associates around each clan—second tier families they like to call ‘orbitals.’ Through their web of business interests, they control nearly all the essential maintenance tasks necessary for the safe functioning of Halcyon. We can’t risk any interference with that. Not when we’re so close to our destination.”

“I am not man for this job. I have no experience of rich people.” He started to hand back the card.

“I’m afraid you’re exactly the man. You’ll investigate.”

“I will?”

“Juliana DelRosso died in Gladeview clinic, a week after some curious misadventure outside the ship. My sources close to the clinic say she was expected to make a recovery after suffering only mild radiation burns. Randall Urry died in an accident on the Urry’s private shooting range.”

“I would not know where to begin.”

“You’ll find a way.” She took out a plump envelope. “Press-clippings of the major players, from the society glossies. The DelRossos spend more time in those pages than the Urrys, but none of them have escaped the lens. All-City Hall records and photographs as well—enough to get you up to speed. I have another card for you.”

He took it. It contained a name and a telephone number, but no address.

“Ms. Ruby Blue?”

“Call me when you have something of note. Think of that number as a hotline: it will reach me at all hours. As for your money, I’ve already wired additional funds into your account. Draw on it as needed—all reasonable expenses will be met.”

“Can you help with tax on car?”

“I can do better than that.”

He opened his current case diary to the relevant page and filed the envelope and the two cards.

“I am still not sure…”

“There is one man you should speak to. He’s a policeman, a detective in Bluff City. Lemuel Litz.”

“Why him?”

“They sent him to talk to the DelRossos and the Urrys. His job was to find nothing, and that’s what he found. You should press him.”

“What is his precinct house?”

“Your best bet is to catch him with his guard down, preferably with a drink or two inside. There’s a bar in Bluff City he favours: The Black Cat. Maybe you know it.”

He mimed taking down a note. “Black Cat, Bluff City.”

“Don’t delay, Mister Gagarin. You’re on my time now.” She examined the framed picture he kept on the shelf above the filing cabinet. “You look very fine in that outfit. You were an aviator? There isn’t much call for it here, is there?”

“Not aviator. Space explorer. Cosmonaut.”

“How interesting.”

“That was long time ago. Lot of bridges under the water since then. Whole other life.”

She settled the picture back down onto the shelf, positioning it respectfully. “I know the feeling, Mister Gagarin.”

“Did you hear it again last night? I did.”

Milvus The Mouse had seen Yuri approaching with his usual tray of take-out coffees and donuts.

“The storm, Milvus? Yes, was very bad one. I was in Winter Garden.”

“I heard the voices.”

Yuri balanced the coffee and donuts on the edge of the little fold-out table Milvus had set up for himself. They were on the corner of Dempsey and Maxwell, only a block from Yuri’s office and within convenient sight of the frontage. Dempsey Street was two rows of tall redbrick buildings facing each other, but Maxwell Street only had buildings on one side. On the other was a sidewalk and a set of iron railings, then a drop down to the concrete-walled river that shouldered through this part of Belt City. The river ran deep and muddy today, but only because of last night’s rain. Other times, it was little more than a greasy trickle.

Milvus liked the riverside location because the dry periods allowed frequent opportunities for scavenging. He was always on the lookout for junk, scraps, detritus—anything that could be shoehorned into one or more of his elaborate theories about the nature of Halcyon. He liked to catch them before the next good rain washed them into Endless River and out to the filtration works.

His was one of a long line of tables, stands and stools, where card-sharps, artists and shoe-shine robots plied their daily trade. Milvus always made sure to have two chairs either side of the table.

“Please, don’t mention voices, Milvus. I thought we agreed.” Yuri sat down opposite his friend and the chequer board spread out on the table. “I have problem for you.”

Milvus sipped at his coffee. “Too sweet again. What problem?”

Yuri passed Milvus the broken camera. Milvus turned it over in his fingers, grubby where they emerged from fingerless gloves. He made small ruminative noises, opened his mud-coloured coat and vanished the camera into it. He glanced around like a nervous pickpocket and tugged his grey cap tighter onto his scalp.

“Can you fix?”

“You insult me by asking.” Milvus gestured expansively at the board. “Shall we play?”

“Yes.”

Although he was in the middle of something, some conundrum of his own devising, Milvus re-configured the chequer board to its opening arrangement, sweeping the black and white discs to their allotted squares. “My opening, I think.”

“Of course.”

They played a few early moves. Yuri had to concentrate. Not to win, but to lose against Milvus in a way that flattered him.

Something had happened to Milvus once; some dark event that had left him gripped by manias, obsessions, futile and dangerous quests. He heard voices in the storm. He saw faces in the skytube. He claimed to find patterns in the growlers.

Yuri kept away from all that.

Milvus was useful, despite his manias. He saw a lot from his riverside vantage, with its clear views down both Dempsey and Maxwell. He relayed rumours and observations. Yuri plied him with coffee and donuts, occasional warm dinners when he was able. He had once invited Milvus to sleep on his couch but that had been a very bad mistake.

The game progressed, Milvus tut-tutting as Yuri executed one calculatedly bad move after another.

“I hope your business is better than your chequers. How is it?”

“Quieter than quiet night in Prowtown.”

“The usual, then. You should consider a different line of work.”

“There is something. I had very odd visit from client at five o’clock this morning. Have you heard of someone called Ruby Blue?”

“Ruby Blue what?”

“Just Ruby Blue. Says she is with Department of Works.”

“I wouldn’t trust her, then. They’re all in on it.”

“In on what?”

“Everything.”

Yuri smiled. “But you say that about all people, Milvus.”

“Because it’s true, is why.” He glanced behind him, dropping his voice to the nervy register of the confidential informant. “I think I’ll look down the river later, once the waters subside.”

Against his better judgement Yuri asked, “What are you looking for?”

“I’ll know it when I find it.” He took out a small but thick notebook with a tattered navy-blue cover, bulging with many extra pieces of paper. He extracted the barest stub of a pencil from the notebook’s spine, pinching it between his fingers like a cigarette butt. “Did you make a note of the time of the growler? I was asleep, or I’d have my own record.”

“They will publish time in newspapers.”

“Newspapers,” Milvus scoffed. “If you ever get a chance to go outside, like the cosmonaut you say you were, pay attention to the stars. Make a map of them, or better still, take a photograph. I’d be very interested in that.”

“If I go outside, you will be first to hear of it.”

Milvus slipped away the notebook. “You need to work on your record-keeping. A little detail like the growler could have been very important to your case.”

“I do not see how.”

“That’s because you have no imagination.” Milvus jabbed a piece down. “Ha! Triumph. You took your attention off that whole side of the board.”

Yuri prayed for forgiveness. “You are the master.”

“I am. Not that it’s much of a victory. Have you seen that three-legged dog around much?”

“Yes, I feed him scraps.”

“That dog falls over when it tries to mark the fireplug. It forgets that it has three legs, it can’t even hold that fact in its head, and yet it could still beat you.” Milvus plucked a hair from the tip of his nose. “What’s the angle?”

Yuri was used to the swerves and hairpins of any conversation with Milvus but sometimes even he was left adrift.

“Angle?”

“The reason the Department of Works sent a client your way?”

“Oh, just ordinary double murder enquiry.”

“You?” Milvus wheezed his amusement. “They skipped a line in the phone book.”

“No, they got detective they wanted. Is not exactly double murder enquiry, either. Just two suspicious accidental deaths connected to Urry and DelRosso families. Perhaps coincidence, perhaps not.”

“You said the Urrys and DelRossos?”

“I did.”

Milvus brooded. “You want a word of advice? Keep away from those ghouls. They’ll have you for mincemeat.”

“I have accepted case.”

“Then I hoped you’ve booked a nice little plot in a memorial garden.”

“Thank you very much, Milvus.” Yuri took his still-warm coffee and donut and stood from the table. “You are invaluable boost to morale.”

Milvus nodded graciously. “It’s the least I can do. Same time tomorrow?”

Yuri could not stay cross with his friend for long. “Of course.”

Milvus looked askance, back toward Dempsey Street. “You’ve been late with your taxes again.”

“How would you know?”

Milvus returned his focus to the board. “Why else would they be towing your car?”

The tow-truck operator jagged a thumb in the direction of the beat-up mustard-yellow coupe with the dead battery now hitched onto the back of the delivery vehicle, in place of the much newer and shinier model that had just been off-loaded.

“You got a problem? You can have that piece of junk back if you really insist.”

“No, I am fine with new car. I just did not—”

The operator thrust a clipboard and pen into Yuri’s chest. “Sign here. The sooner I’m out of this part of town, the better.”

Yuri hovered the pen.

“This is definitely not costing me anything? I have new car, tax and insurance taken care of, no strings attached?”

“I was just told to deliver and collect. The ownership’s your headache, Jack.”

Yuri signed with a slightly shaky hand and accepted the keys to the new vehicle.

The tow-truck pulled away, dragging his former ride with it.

Still in a state of mild bewilderment, he stared at the clean, new, open-topped roadster that was supposedly his. He goggled at its waxy sparkle, the mirror-bright chrome, the pristine 355 plates. It was a gorgeous machine. He could work a year of solid cases and never make the downpayment on a current-model Dynaflow.

He dared not breathe on it.

He binned the take-out, opened the driver’s-side door and climbed in, easing into the seat. He brushed his fingertips along the wheel, the controls and dials. Almost without thought he engaged power, watching as the dials glowed and whirled.

He waited for the traffic to ease, then slipped out into the procession. He purred to the corner of Dempsey and Maxwell and took the bend like the car was on rails. He shrugged helplessly at Milvus as he passed by his spot on the riverside.

Milvus, looking up from his game, tracked him sternly as he drove by.

They’ll have you for mincemeat, Yuri heard again.

But his mood was too good to be dented. He had a new car and the determination to enjoy the experience. He had to fight not to speed in the city streets: Ruby Blue had squared his overdue tax, but her generosity might baulk at a traffic violation.

He headed west out of Belt City, taking the Dynaflow to its humming limit. Countryside blurred past: parklands, forests, quilts of multicoloured agriculture, the odd little hamlet or factory served by a side-road. By the time he crossed Endless River, the car had become as much a part of him as any pressure suit or capsule.

He smiled, grinning as the wind ruffled his hair.

He arrived in Bluff City, still far too early for the rendezvous Ruby Blue wanted him to make with Lemuel Litz. He found a cafe for lunch, washing down a ham and mustard sandwich with coffee and soda. He read the morning papers scattered across the table, lingering over the crime pages, the obituaries and funnies. He found a mention of last night’s growler, with the time it had happened. He smiled at Hoppy the Hippo’s latest strip.

Nothing in the papers about any tragedy within the Urry family, but that was how it worked. The families were tight with the press.

He finished his lunch, then strolled another few blocks to scope out The Black Cat. A pair of cops came out as he watched, belts sagging under their paunches. He eyed some parking possibilities then returned to the Dynaflow.

He headed out of town, through the gap that gave Bluff City its nickname. The streets steepened and zig-zagged. He was climbing the taper now, where the whole core narrowed to the forward endcap. His old car’s ailing battery would have flatlined on the climb, but the Dynaflow gobbled up the gradient like it was a challenge. Yuri guided the car around hairpins and switchbacks. As the ground dropped away on either side of the road, it almost felt like flying again.

He outclimbed the labouring funicular, on the Bluff City-Prowtown interurban. He passed adverts for indigestion remedies, low-tar cigarettes, shaving cream and socks. Highway signs warned drivers of reduced adhesion. His belly tingled with the lessening weight. The car lightened on its springs, becoming bouncier. He eased off the throttle.

He skirted Prowtown, bedecked with hospitals, memorial gardens, funeral homes and chematoria. In Prowtown you were either dead or thinking about being dead. No immediate business there and that suited him just fine.

He halted at a scenic lookout. Cars were parked up, sightseers pressed against barriers, waiting their turns at coin-operated telescopes. Vendors were doing various kinds of overpriced business. Seagulls gyred in drowsy thermals, surveilling for scraps. Above the lookout, on the rising ground on the other side of the road, gingerbread tourist hotels snared young couples, honeymooners and cheating businessmen.

He exited the Dynaflow, closed the door like it was made of porcelain, sauntered to one of the vendors, purchased an ice-cream.

He walked to a clear spot next to the barrier.

Four in the afternoon. It had been a warm summer but now, late in October, the cooler days were stealing in, the skytube going through its usual autumnal pattern. How many had he seen now, since coming out of Sleepy Hollow? Fourteen, fifteen? More than a dozen, less than twenty.

The blue was already shading into pink, laying a rose-coloured stain over the landscape. A breeze whispered in from Midlake, Belt City and the other middle territories. The onlookers became epic and bronzed. Even the ugly people got to be beautiful for half an hour.

Yuri took out a pocket map, the kind that could be rolled into a tube. He peered down it, twisting the tube until its orientation lined up with the view before him. Fifty kilometres of curled-up landscape stretched away, the skytube arrowing down its length. Cities, towns, hamlets, woods, parks and farmland quilted the visible surface. Roads and rail lines subdivided the quilt. There were lakes, big rivers, small rivers, tributaries, canals. He saw two-thirds of the internal world. The rest was hidden behind the skytube, but he knew it well enough.

Somewhere in the haze and blur at the end of Halcyon was the Urry estate, too far away to make out. The map only showed anonymous woodland. Everyone knew where the private estates were located, though—and the quiet, well-maintained roads that led to them.

He guessed he’d be paying a visit to the Urrys pretty soon. The DelRossos, too.

He could see their yacht now, glinting distinctly as he looked down from this elevated lookout point. The multi-decked pleasure craft looked like a wedding-cake in a wind-tunnel. It was moored at the private dock on the shore of the ornamental lake that occupied a large swathe of the DelRosso estate, connected to Endless River by a navigable channel. From Endless River, the DelRossos could reach the much larger Midlake and the linked shorelines of Belt City, Prowshore and Sternshore. Yuri had seen the yacht often enough, moored-up around town, doing business. The DelRossos went to the same casinos, restaurants and cocktail bars as the common rabble. They hosted city functions and charitable balls. The waterways allowed no access to the rear half of Halcyon, but that was Urry territory anyway.

Yuri’s ice-cream was melting. He chased down one of the drips, wincing as another landed on his tie, then began to turn from the view.

He stopped, noticing something.

Off to his right—north of the viewing point—a series of white, semicircular buildings jutted out from a steep part of the slope, layered on top of each other and projecting by irregular degrees like a pile of clean, white crockery; almost like an inverted, land-borne reflection of the yacht.

Yuri glanced back at the map, realising that he was looking at a private hospital.

Gladeview clinic, almost certainly.

The private establishment where Juliana DelRosso had spent her final days.

He looked at his watch. Still too early for Litz, but maybe not too late to swing by Gladeview.

“Two stones with one bird,” he said to himself.

It took a while to find the entrance. He followed the road to begin with, but that was a dead loss. He turned around, descended instead. He was almost back down in the hinterlands of Gaptown when he spotted the unadvertised turn-off.

He swung the Dynaflow onto the side-road. Quickly, it buried itself in a tunnel of trees, descending rather than climbing. It ducked under the main road and rose again. The road kinked and hair-pinned, flinging itself around dangerous curves with steep drop-offs. Branches scratched against the Dynaflow’s bodywork.

Yuri sucked through his teeth.

He drove and drove. Five, six kilometres of twisting ascent, easily. He knew he was on the right track when an unmarked cream-coloured ambulance met him coming down and he had to squeeze into a passing point. He waved a hand. The ambulance man stared impassively, fixed and wooden as a marionette.

Yuri continued. He met no other traffic. The skytube was redder now, a rolled-up sheet of lava suspended over the trees. Black shadows inked the road.

He fumbled for the lights.

The clinic was hidden until the last hairpin. A pale gatehouse swung into view, barrier down.

A private guard with peach-fuzz cheeks emerged from the gatehouse.

“You’ve an appointment, sir?”

Yuri dug out his accreditation. “Department of Works. Snap visit.”

The guard examined the paperwork. “What’s your interest with Gladeview, you mind if I ask?”

“Drainage.”

“Drainage?”

“Lot of rain scheduled for coming week. Coming down like dogs and cats. Necessary to cycle perforation vents and water filters.” Yuri smiled. “I must inspect all arrangements, both vertical and side-entry gulleys.”

“All right, drain man,” the guard said, something in him giving. “I’ll call to let them know you’re on your up. Hope you packed some ove