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from one fake social media profile to another in a series of snatched conversations and cryptic status updates. Physical meetings had been rare.
    She brushed a purple strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a yellowing bruise at the side of her eye.
    “What happened to your face?”
    She put a hand up to touch it, and he saw her wince.
    “Nothing.”
    “It doesn’t look like nothing.”
    Julie flicked her hair forward, covering the wound in a spray of purple strands.
    “It is just a bruise.”
    “Was it your father? Did he hit you again? Because if he did—”
    “Leave it, Merovech.”
    “But, Julie, I can—”
    “I said, leave it.” She sat back with a huff. Merovech took a deep breath, trying to quell his own anger. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen her sporting a bruise on her arm or face.
    “You just say the word and I’ll have him taken—”
    Julie glared at him.
    “I do not want to talk about it,” she snapped. “Not tonight, not ever.”
    Merovech swallowed back his irritation. “Then what do you want to do?”
    She held his gaze for a few seconds, as if trying to decide something. Then she leant down and delved into her shoulder bag. When she popped back up, she held a SincPad.
    SincPads were all but ubiquitous. They’d been invented at the turn of the century, as the Commonwealth government pumped investment into the silicon fens of Cambridgeshire, supporting a burgeoning IT industry buoyed up by the work of such pioneers as Alan Turing, Clive Sinclair, and Tim Berners-Lee. And now, like skyliners, they came in all shapes and sizes, from palm-sized smart phones to giant, interactive wall displays. Everybody had one, in some shape or form. They were everywhere. The one Julie held had roughly the same dimensions as a refill pad of A4 paper, and she’d decorated its casing with stickers from a dozen political and environmental causes, all of which were now frayed and peeling. She tapped the screen to bring up a video player, and then placed the pad on the table between them.
    “You will not believe this,” she said.
    Merovech leaned forward on his elbows. The picture showed a monkey in a leather jacket, squatting on a chair. The creature had a patch over its left eye, a silver pistol on each hip, and thick fleece-lined boots at the ends of its hairy legs. It was in discussion with a young, redheaded girl in a blue uniform. Tinkly piano played in the background.
    Julie froze the playback. She pointed at the monkey.
    “Do you know who this is?”
    Merovech shook his head. The animal looked like something from a Manga cartoon.
    Julie leaned close.
    “His name is Ack-Ack Macaque. He is a character in an immersive MMORPG.”
    “A what?”
    “A Massive Multi-player Online Role-Playing Game.” She frowned. “You have really never heard of him?”
    Merovech shrugged. He didn’t play war games. They brought back too many memories.
    “Should I have done?”
    “Frankly, yes. The game is owned by Céleste Technologies. Does that ring any bells?”
    “My mother’s company?”
    “ Mais oui .” Julie gave a slow nod, as if talking to an idiot. “They have been running the game for about a year now. I cannot believe you have not heard of it.”
    Merovech crossed his arms.
    “If you remember, I spent most of last year in the Falkland Islands, doing my national service. We didn’t have much time for games.”
    Julie bit her lip. “The crash. Oh, Merovech, I forgot. I am so sorry.”
    He closed his eyes and, for a moment, found himself back in the blackness of the sinking chopper, scrabbling at his harness, reliving the underwater cries and struggles of his comrades, the creak of metal, and the heart-stopping cold of the seawater pouring through the open hatch. He shivered. Seven men had been dragged to a freezing death at the bottom of the South Atlantic. He’d been lucky to get out at all. He would have drowned had some unknown hands not pushed him through the hatch, against the flow of