Before she wipes, Flick takes a moment to centre herself. Her phone rattles in the pocket round her ankles. She's practically naked; this stupid pant-suit doesn't unfasten like proper clothes and she's had to fight her way out of it. It lies, sprawled and twisted in front of her, attached to her ankles like a sloughed skin. She feels a bit pre-menstrual but that's just the Arbitration Mainframe configuring the nanites in her. Intuitive algorithms will be working to construct her next scenario. She did well in that last session, she knows it. Things will start to move now. It's time to poke at Arbitration to see what they're thinking and to do what she needs to cook up a batch of Xelothene. It's a crude way to create a two-way link with The Mainframe and will give her a hell of a hangover and an addiction she'll have to cold-turkey her way through. She wipes and kicks off the pant-suit and washes her hands. There's jeans and a t-shirt in the wardrobe.

She decides to make up the mixture first, in case of spills and steps out into the little corridor that separates the bathing area from the dressing area. She looks down the hallway at the far wall where the portal to the Substrate is. She's expecting Shem to make an appearance any second. Bra and knicks is probably best; it'll distract him.

She steps into the changing room and goes into the little lobby where the wardrobe and desk is and grabs her box of shopping from under the desk. The three doses of Boomboom have been delivered and sit on the desk in a little baggy. She's going to need a receptacle. She takes the box back into the bathroom and runs the hot tap into the bath. There's a little copper bin beneath the sink which will serve her purpose and she rinses it out under the tap then half fills it with steaming water. Into that she pours the salt, laden with nanites, some lome juice and vinebar, tilth, a whole packet of hornflour, gelatin, yast, half a bag of jugar, alef oil, parasprite and, finally, the three pills, crushed on the sink-edge with the base of arKhana's shaving mirror. She then covers the bin with gellophene and leaves the mixture to talk to itself.

''I always seem to catch you in your undies,'' says a voice from the portal behind her.

Flick starts, spins round.

''Not that I'm complaining mind.''

''Fuck me. You're a sight for sore eyes,'' says Flick, confused. ''Those guards'll let anybody in.''

''No,'' says Lizzy. ''They won't. These are my guards now.''

''Who the hell are you?''

Lizzy steps into the steaming bathroom and gives Flick a hug. She's dressed to kill in Castle Fatigues. ''Freelance. I'm working for a girl called Maginty. Pretty young thing.''

''The Project Manager.''

''That's the one.''

''And what are you going to do for me?''

''Whatever you need. Also, apparently, I know who The Chemist is.''

''You do? Who is it?''

''I've no idea.''

''Eh?''

''I've met a lot of people, chick. He's in my head but I couldn't pick him out in a line up.''

''Ah. I might have a fix for that. Do you have weapons?''

''Shit yeah. I got guns coming out of my ears.''

''Okay. That's a start. I hope she's paying you well.''

''Why's that then?''

''You're not going to like this next bit,'' says Flick. ''At all.''

''I'm not? Why? What's going to happen?''

''It's called a Xelothene mind-meld,'' says Flick, ''and it gets very intimate very quickly.''

''Mmh. Sounds like my kind of gig.''

Flick throws a towel at her new friend. ''Good,'' she says. ''Let's get high.'' She gets down on her knees before the copper bin, carefully removes the gellophene so that it can be replaced, then consults The Oracle. ''jeBruille Together!'' she cries, lifting her head out of the bin, tears of joy streaming down her face.

''You know Rodan!'' says Flick. Was that a pang of jealousy she just felt or did that come from Lizzy? Whatever, it's the first thread she follows, obviously. There's a lot of threads, a vast knot of them and she has to start somewhere.

When she steps back into the cell Flick is stunned by what The Mainframe has prepared for her. After consulting The Oracle, she went to put on some jeans but they'd been taken, replaced by what she's now wearing. It feels even more insidious than the Sinstrap. Everything is orientated around the way the garment attaches to the neck. It's called Wrench-hose because, apart from being designed to Paradigm-inspired, industrial-chic principles, you fit the collar first which attaches to your neck like a spanner round a nut. From there, everything else connects to it through a series of hooks: the sleeves first, which are these sort of three-quarter length things that don't really let you flex your arms, followed by suspenders and stockings which are slightly too short and make you have to pull your head back against your legs every time you take a step, then there's all these flaps and flutes that take an age to put together but do, ultimately, leave no patch of skin uncovered. Although it's possible to put the thing on by yourself, it takes two to remove it, which is why it's known as a courting dress and is generally only worn to certain types of parties. It is also worn with excessively high heels, which Flick struggles with at the best of times but with a headfull of Xelothene it's like walking on rubber stilts. And what makes it even more awkward is that she finds herself half-trotting, half-stumbling into what seems to be an episode from her own life, although she wouldn't be seen dead in Wrench-hose during the time that is being alluded to.

The led-gel walls have resolved to a second interior, one beyond the boundaries of the cell which has taken on the role of ante-room, or side bedroom, given the layout. The side and back walls show this further interior as if beyond a wide archway so that the whole is open plan. Within the led-gel the space is functional. There is a long workbench visible at the far end and a wall laden with tools. Other areas are in shadow, with the intervening spaces revealing glimpses of old projects, scavenged parts and works in progress lying about like the aftermath of some robot apocalypse.

The scenario seems to be that Rux has stumbled into her father's workshops from the upper levels of their house in Lilleth where her mother is holding one of her social gatherings. She's not so sure that criticising her mother is where she needs to be going with this but she's in the hands of The Mainframe now. Perhaps the intention isn't satire. With the way she's dressed it looks like she's supposed to be in on it, to show solidarity with her mum.

Once she's stepped into the room, a guard follows her in from backstage and tidies their dinner things away.

''Thank-you Dorian,'' she says. She turns to arKhana, who has once again retreated to his bed. ''Thought I might find you down here,'' she says, flirtily.

The Davy-bird flies from one niche to another, closer to arKhana's side of the room. Flick notes the camera angles and sees, instinctively, where she needs to be standing. When she gets to that point a pool of light fades up in one of the shaded areas behind them.
Flick starts. ''There's somebody in here,'' she says, nervously.

arKhana sits up so that he can reach out to her. He begins unfastening one of the panels in her Wrench-hose. ''It's your old man,'' he says. ''He's well out of it. He won't be bothering us.''

''What do you mean?''

''He's gone into that machine of his.''

Flick moves around the bed and the Davy-bird adjusts its position. Another pool of light becomes apparent within the led-gel construct. This reveals a version of The Pupator, close enough to reality to be unsettling, with her father lying down inside it.

arKhana adjusts his position and starts unfastening a second panel. ''Don't worry, he's fast asleep.''

''Asleep?''

''He asked me to activate the anaesthetist's collar. Went out like a light.''

Flick is surprised, again, by just how good at this arKhana is. She is genuinely starting to panic. ''What level did you set it at? Did you check?''

arKhana looks non-plussed. ''He's been experimenting with doses all week. Why should he go all the way tonight, of all nights? It's your mum's birthday for jeBruille's sake!''

Flick remembers telling him the story, many years ago. In some hotel room on an evening bleak as this; stoned and lonely. She starts to cry.

arKhana stops unfastening her clothes and takes her hand. ''Don't fret so much. If he'd gone all the way the Nitrogen pumps would have kicked in by now.''

The machine in the led-gel construct suddenly springs into life. It rattles like a washer on a concrete floor, hisses like a punctured vat, steam fluting out of it. The ocular scoops lean over her father's head and cover his eyes.

''Oh fuck,'' says arKhana. ''What happens now?''

Rux didn't tell him that part. How her mother had come running down the stairs, knowing, somehow, that this was happening. How badly she'd taken it.

''Why would he do it right now?'' Rux asked, blaming her almost, for some imagined row they'd had that might have tipped him over the edge.

But she knew why. It wasn't pain but joy that drove him. He didn't want this to be about weeping, it was to be a celebration. He was going to meet his betters.

''Rux,'' says arKhana, nervous.

Flick looks at him.

''What happens now?''

''He dies,'' says Flick, not unkindly.

And in that moment The Mainframe improvises. The Pupator's Alderman Flasks start filling with a deep blue colour. Blue smoke issues from the valves but doesn't disperse when it enters the room. Instead, it gathers into shape and as each shape resolves the blue leaches away.

Flick can see where this is going: ''The thing about Dreamtime,'' she says. ''The thing about Dreamtime is, mathematically speaking, it is basically a modifier. Like a plus sign. It's necessary for the Wyrmal Equation to work but it's more than just a single piece of information. It's an equation in itself, a whole sequence of processes that amends one universe and, in so doing, prepares the opportunity for a second to exist. Like Being. Being itself produces Nothingness simply by virtue of its existence.''

arKhana turns to face the led-gel construct to watch the wings coalesce, turning from blue to white to something murkier, like tattered laundry. ''And you can live there?''

Flick too moves towards the construct and the Davy zooms in. ''You can become part of the information it contains. It's how you move from one universe to another. You have to be transformed into the stuff of the other universe.''

''And that's where he went?'' says arKhana. Legs appear, wearing leather, and a torso in a cut-off leather jacket.

''Yes. That's the part of the equation we didn't understand. The part that signifies the transition. But I found it. I spoke to people while I was away. Scientists. Holy men.''

''You think you can retrieve him?''

''I know it,'' says Flick. ''Oh I don't mind so much if Mum doesn't forgive me. I deserve it. The bottom line is, I just want my dad back.''

The last part of the angel to manifest is her face. A sphere of blue, contained beneath the wood-coloured antlers shrinks to two points and the features in the face squeeze in around them. Tanned cheeks. A dimpled chin. Full, dark lips. The eyes blaze blue, those last points not fading but seeming to emanate all of the blue that has gone. Like it has condensed into a purer form.

''I am Lumen-circe, Angel of Remorse.'' The angel twitches her tail, holds out a hand. ''Come, your sins are acknowledged. Let Penitence begin: the path to the Upper Cornice is cleared, and your final reckoning awaits.''

Flick moves towards the led-gel wall. The Xelothene in her system is interacting with the Arbitration nanites such that she thinks it entirely possible to be able to walk through the wall and enter her father's workshops on the other side. The angel stretches out her arm, in a pointing gesture, the tip of her bony finger at head height, just the other side of the led-gel surface. Flick leans into it so that her forehead touches the surface, so that Lumen-circe touches her forehead, as if to remove a stain there. This will play very well for the conservative element of the electorate.

Flick steps into the workshop, drawn by physical contact with the angel. ''Is it really you?''

She looks behind her at the surface she's just walked through. She sees herself collapsed on the floor, unconscious, too much tit visible in the Wrench-hose. It'll get her a few more Likes, she supposes.

''Bit of a risk giving out your name like that. Is this playing?''

''No,'' says Lumen-circe. ''This is a private space.''

''Are you coming out?''

''Shortly.''

''All of you?''

Flick, dressed in the same jeans she was wearing the last time she met Lumen-circe, steps over to The Pupator. Her father lies inside, the outer caps of the ocular scoops cover his eyes like coins.

''The Xelothene was a clever move,'' says the Arbiter.

''It's a bit unruly but it'll do.''

''There's another connection here.''

''A friend. Lizzy beTrice. She's riding shotgun.''

''I've cut her off,'' says the Arbiter. ''Temporarily.''

''I know, I can feel it. It doesn't matter, I've got the information I needed. What about the others? Rhômen-pietre, Chimen-sûn? They're not with you?''

''Not at this moment. You have a name for me?''

''It's one of a pair of brothers. There were three originally, kiJonsde - friends of our family - one of them disappeared during the war.''

Lumen-circe remains silent.

''Look, I can find out which one it is but it's going to take time and that's in short supply right now. I need to get to him. I need to make sure Kersten's okay.''

''Chimen-sûn shares your concern.''

''So give me the location Lumen-circe, please.''

''We need to be sure that you're fully committed to what happens next.''

''I don't know what happens next but I have to follow it through.''

''We will expect a sacrifice of blood,'' says the angel, sententiously. ''There will be no coming back. It will require purity of mind and singularity of purpose.''

Flick rolls her eyes. ''I'll give it my full attention. Promise. It's not really in my interests to do anything else is it?''

The angel thinks it through.