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- Ричард Морган
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I
was
almost
there
when
a
door
five
metres
ahead
of
me
swung
open
.
I
froze
,
hand
on
the
grip
of
the
shard
gun
,
shoulders
to
the
wall
,
gaze
gripped
to
the
leading
edge
of
the
door
.
The
neurachem
thrummed
.
In
front
of
me
,
a
grey
furred
animal
that
was
either
half
-
grown
wolf
cub
or
dog
emerged
from
the
open
door
with
arthritic
slowness
.
I
kept
my
hand
on
the
shard
gun
and
eased
away
from
the
wall
,
watching
.
The
animal
was
not
much
over
knee
height
and
it
moved
on
all
fours
,
but
there
was
something
badly
wrong
with
the
structure
of
the
rear
legs
.
Something
wrenched
.
Its
ears
were
laid
back
and
a
minute
keening
came
from
its
throat
.
It
turned
its
head
towards
me
and
for
a
moment
my
hand
tightened
on
the
shard
gun
,
but
the
animal
only
looked
at
me
for
a
moment
and
the
mute
suffering
in
its
eyes
was
enough
to
tell
me
I
was
in
no
danger
.
Then
it
limped
painfully
along
the
corridor
to
a
room
farther
down
on
the
opposite
wall
and
paused
there
,
the
long
head
down
close
to
the
door
as
if
listening
.
With
a
dreamlike
sense
of
lost
control
,
I
followed
and
leaned
my
own
head
against
the
surface
of
the
door
.
The
soundproofing
was
good
,
but
no
match
for
the
Khumalo
neurachem
at
full
stretch
.
Somewhere
down
near
the
limits
of
hearing
,
noises
trickled
into
my
ear
like
stinging
insects
.
A
dull
,
rhythmic
thudding
sound
and
something
else
that
might
have
been
the
pleading
screams
of
someone
whose
strength
was
almost
gone
.
It
stopped
almost
as
soon
as
I
had
tuned
it
in
.
Below
me
,
the
dog
stopped
keening
at
the
same
moment
and
lay
down
on
the
ground
beside
the
door
.
When
I
stepped
away
,
it
looked
up
at
me
once
with
a
gaze
of
pure
distilled
pain
and
reproach
.
In
those
eyes
I
could
see
reflected
every
victim
that
had
ever
looked
at
me
in
the
last
three
decades
of
my
waking
life
.
Then
the
animal
turned
its
head
away
and
licked
apathetically
at
its
injured
rear
legs
.
For
a
split
second
,
something
geysered
through
the
cold
crust
of
the
betathanatine
.
I
went
back
to
the
door
the
animal
had
emerged
from
,
drawing
the
shard
gun
on
my
way
and
swung
through
,
holding
the
weapon
in
both
hands
before
me
.
The
room
beyond
was
spacious
and
pastel
-
coloured
with
quaint
two
-
dimensional
framed
pictures
on
the
walls
.
A
massive
four
poster
bed
with
translucent
drapes
occupied
the
centre
.
Seated
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
was
a
distinguished
-
looking
man
in
his
forties
,
naked
from
the
waist
down
.
Above
the
waist
,
he
appeared
to
be
wearing
formal
evening
dress
which
clashed
badly
with
the
heavy
-
duty
canvas
work
gloves
he
had
pulled
up
to
both
elbows
.
He
was
bent
over
,
cleaning
himself
between
the
legs
with
a
damp
white
cloth
.
As
I
advanced
into
the
room
,
he
glanced
up
.
"
Jack
?
You
finished
al
—
"
He
stared
at
the
gun
in
my
hands
without
comprehension
,
then
as
the
muzzle
came
to
within
half
a
metre
of
his
face
a
note
of
asperity
crept
into
his
voice
.
"
Listen
,
I
didn
’
t
dial
for
this
routine
.
"
"
On
the
house
,
"
I
said
dispassionately
,
and
watched
as
the
clutch
of
monomolecular
shards
tore
his
face
apart
.
His
hands
flew
up
from
between
his
legs
to
cover
the
wounds
and
he
flopped
over
sideways
on
the
bed
,
gut
-
deep
noises
grinding
out
of
him
as
he
died
.
