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the city's massive number of derelicts, some poor chem-sodden wretch trying to stave off the cold night air by clustering around steam that billowed from the ducts. Vagrants were ten a cred and their life expectancy was short. Ferris was sobered by the realisation that this could be his fate, too, unless he got his ass out of the settlement.
    His strato-shuttle was still where he had left it and for the first time that night, Ferris felt a vague twinge of hope. The aircraft's holds were empty and he was lacking in supplies, but he had plenty of fuel - plenty of stolen Souther fuel, as Gog had pointed out - and despite the busted drive baffle, it wouldn't be a problem getting airborne. As he approached, he began to entertain the idea that he could get away clean. All Ferris needed now was somewhere to escape to.
    He was at the hatch when they emerged from the shadows; four stocky Mili-Fuzz enforcers with the standard armoured shoulder pads and hoods with face-guards. One had a pistol, but the other three held batons in ready stances. Ferris sagged against the hull, his knees turning to water. Of course they would have been waiting for him. Why would he ever have thought otherwise?
    "Hey," he began lamely. "I can explain..."
    "Really?" said the MP with the gun. "You can explain why a no-good thief like you has Souther military property on board his tub?" His face wore a crooked smile. "We'd like to hear that, wouldn't we, lads?"
    There was a chorus of nods. "Yeah," said the closest man, the anticipation of imminent ultra-violence in his eyes, "This punk can tell us all about it while we're giving him a beating."
    Ferris held up a hand. "Wait, you don't-"
    "Oh," said another MP, "did you see that? He's resisting arrest."
    The gunman nodded. "Take him."
    A studded truncheon came down on Ferris as he tried to wheel away; the impact struck his shoulder and threw him to the ground. With every bone in his arm singing in pain, he scrambled under the shuttle's landing gear.
    "Get him out of there!" someone shouted.
    A hand closed around his ankle and pulled; Ferris slid across the oil-stained ferrocrete and into the clutches of the MPs. Turning, something caught his eye - the hobo from the vents, standing close by. An arm emerged from the dark depths of the camu-cloak and rolled something small and cylindrical towards the Mili-Fuzz.
    The trooper with the pistol was shouting at the vagrant. "Get lost, rummy, else you want us to put you down too!" The object halted at his feet. "What the-"
    The sunflare grenade exploded with a fizzing shriek and everything was flooded with brilliant white. Ferris recoiled from the dazzling light, twin shards of pure agony lancing into his skull. He felt flat on the runway, flash-blinded, eyes alive with horrible pain.
    The MPs were yelling and cursing as well, and one of them kicked Ferris as he stumbled around, flailing with his baton. "What was that?" said a voice.
    "Someone's here!" That was the one with the pistol. "Aaagh! Damn it. I can't see!"
    "Quiet!" called the guy with the baton. "You hear something?"
    Ferris stayed very silent and very still, the grey-white haze filling his vision.
    "Hey, Fuzz. Over here." Ferris didn't recognise this new voice. He heard a noise like bone crunching and the heavy sound of a man collapsing.
    "Watch it!" shouted the gunman.
    "Rogue, on your nine." Another voice, quite close; then a crack.
    "Ugh! My knee! He broke my knee!" The sound of a choke, another falling body.
    "Lights out, creep." A third newcomer, gruff and nasty. "I'd spit on him if I had a mouth."
    "Two left."
    "I hear him!" shouted the MP with the gun. Two rapid snap-shots sizzled over Ferris's head. "You like that, huh?" Then the trooper made a surprised yelp and fell silent.
    The last MP said nothing, but Ferris heard his footsteps as he ran, boots skipping off the ferrocrete.
    "Where's that dink goin'?" said the gruff voice.
    "He's gonna run straight into that-"
    Ferris heard an echoing clang as