Orbital velocity is typically achieved at the eight minute mark. They weren't even close.

Discrepency. What of the time-stamp from earlier? It was nested among redactions.

A difference of almost nine minutes.

You picture signals, fired from the thermosphere, spearing through noctilucent clouds as they fall toward Portofiro.

A little bell inside goes 'ding-ding'.

Wait. Something's not right. Didn't you see a number that went much higher?

Your jaw tightens, your molars grind against each other.

The rituals of a bureaucratic autopsy.

And girls who want boys to leave them alone.

All self-perpetuating cycles are a form of the hunt. Addiction, anxiety, conquest. The Chase, the Flight.

THE BUSINESSMAN THINKS HIMSELF A HUNTER. THIS IS NOT JUST COMMODITY FETISHISM BUT LABOUR FETISHISM, DELUSION IN THE EXTREME.

Here, the foundation of a house -- two middle-aged women inside, silent as they pack up furniture that belonged to their mother.

The offerings on the shrine altar are a mix of the old and the new -- though the recent additions are fewer in number.

Blasphemous.

Defiler. It sends a sick thrill through you.

Perfect spot.

Somewhere on a distant hill, a wild dog howls. In your nostrils, the rabbity scent of fear.

The glow of the candles' collected light reflecting on the awning, their warmth cutting through the cold.

The smell of beeswax.

Light years stand between you and the star -- your hunt will be long over by the time this invocation reaches it.

A pool of blood dries on a tile floor, on skin rapidly growing cold. The stain will linger, but the body itself will slip back into the shadows as if it was never there.

On the deck of a boat bound for the Illuminated Empire, a young woman contemplates throwing herself into the sea. The water is cold, dark, clear.

Rotanev: angel of predators and prey. Also dialectics and investment banking.

Smells like pine needles.

The huntress flips open her satchel with her left hand, holding the cliff face with her right. She plucks three large eggs from their nest.

Maybe one of these pine trees cushioned his fall...

He's dead.

Perhaps the mountain will keep a little of your voice. For company.

When you type in a sequence of characters it recognises as a command, the machine will react.

With any luck, it can show you the signal that goes directly to the prisoner's intercom.

You should be able to pull up a directory of all network terminals. Try 'DIRECTORY' or 'NETWORK'.

Ask it?

This is not the first time you've hacked into a phone terminal, though it is the first time you haven't been able to delegate the task to asset RADIAN.

RADIAN's fingers danced, each input a new incantation. The ember of his blunt pulsing with every keystroke. A sorcerer within his haze.

With the notable exception of the Miracle Line, which remains on a wired connection.

It could conceivably let you tap into the Miracle Line.

There is only one place in Portofiro that PA could be referring to -- Party Alley.

NETWORK should get you the list. Then it's just a matter of finding what you're looking for.

QUIT, definitely quit.

There -- close to the centre, amid the hundreds of black squares, there is a single asterisk, blinking slowly. It can only be the Renotel Artery's location.

The mess of black squares swims before your eyes. You have no idea.

Easy. The Pitol Tract -- an industrial wasteland devoid of people or signals.

When Nestor's space program was abandoned, so was the Tract.

Former Supreme Leader Nestor cleared out an entire neighborhood to build the hub of Portofiro's space program 30 years ago. When the program was abandoned, so was the Tract.

Ocean, probably?

Specifically the dual centres of Bootleg Bazaar and Party Alley, immediately surrounding you.

Locate the prisoner's intercom.

Beneath the city's murmurs, the soft rustle of read/write heads gliding across a disk.

The Renotel technician had such a device -- the Voskol Auto-Negotiator. Maybe he'll let you borrow it.

The Renotel technician had a device that did exactly that. Maybe he'll let you borrow it.

Checks