The Tyi mall was in no way comparable to the central amusement district of the Spire. Crammed into a fraction of that area was a sleazy mixture of one-armed bandits, libidoriums, eateries and joy bars - a bio-electronic jungle, in which humans seemed to be more or less superfluous. But nowhere was there a window allowing a view out into space, a porthole allowing starlight in. The malls of the red-light stations were always plunged in permanent night, almost as if those running them were afraid a single shaft of sunlight would send the whole amusement complex crumbling to dust. Even if Ianos were to burn out as a nova or a black hole were to swallow up the planet, the Babylon pleasure-seekers would not notice the catastrophe until it swept away the station itself.
    But it was never entirely dark, even if you closed your eyes. Over the heads of the visitors, holographic advertising banners criss-crossed the streets and alleyways, filling them with shimmering light. Most of them passed over in silence, but their subliminal messages were clear, even to homo vulgaris: 'Consume!' they cried. 'Invest! Sublimate! Shine!'
    The range of goods on offer from the Tyi was extensive, going from standard models to implants with specifically military functions and luxury upgrades, which were beyond the reach of ordinary mortals. Anyone with sufficient capital would have natural bones replaced with duplicates made from more durable composite materials, or additional organs inserted, such as a reserve heart which would take over all primary functions if the original should become ill or injured. Very popular were oxygans, independent systems which enriched the blood with oxygen, thus allowing an individual to survive for up to two days without breathing.
    The holo-hoardings flickered with adverts for self-regulating blood circulation or dual breathing systems; artificial lachrymal sacs with antiseptic tear water; antidote glands to neutralize toxic gases, aerosols or contact poisons; synthetic blood that did not reach boiling point even under an extreme fall in pressure; additional bionic eyes to iron out optic illusions, anti-toxic skin, neuroports to control technical exosystems from the brain… Much in demand were endomodulators to stimulate emotions appropriate to any situation or divids for thought, emotion or consciousness back-ups.
    The stream of holograms created a hypnotic ballet of light stimuli, love tokens, pictograms and metaphors. They diverted the eye from the service structures sprouting from the walls and ceiling of the complex like fossilized boils: ugly leftovers from the time when the halls were still taken up with washeries for ore, gas tanks and towering stacks of plaxpacks.
    Couples wandered round the streets and alleyways of Babylon. Most visitors preferred a pleasure-clone as escort or remained with their own species. Only a few could be seen strolling across the mall arm in arm with a Sapiens or an android. There were further combinations, but no sensible Superior would risk breaking these tabus in public. Anyone who didn't fancy walking could use a slideboard or a hoverscoot, which could be driven by one or two persons. Here and there more cumbersome vehicles such as group taxis or service barques could be seen weaving their way through the labyrinth of streets.
    Out of the corner of his eye Jerome caught a flash of light and stopped for a moment. It came from a nearby food stand, where the cook was using thermo reflectors. Succumbing to a momentary pang of hunger, Jerome went across and bought a bowl of janus mussels. The vendor prepared the dish without a word, served it without looking at his customer, then turned away as if he were fully occupied. By now Jerome was hardly affected by the contempt with which most Superiors treated him. He had grown up under the restrictions of the Atebathos Edict and since earliest childhood had learnt to cope with such irritations - and there weren't many planets where they were more clearly felt than on a hybrid colony such as Nara.
    "Do you happen to know a place called the White Rabbit Bar?" he asked the man after he'd stood the stand for a while and eaten his snack.
    The vendor looked up and gave him an appraising look. Then an expression appeared on his face which made Jerome feel uneasy. "Hmm, I do happen to know it," he said. 'Fancy a bit of dirty stuff in the basement, do we?" He folded his instrument panel away. "If it wasn't for you chronically horny Sapiens, the club would've gone bust long ago. It's almost as if you get driven round the galaxy just to keep the astrobrothels in business."
    A frown appeared on Jerome's face, but the vendor didn't seem particularly impressed by his dark look. Instead he asked, "I expect you're part of the Nara meat delivery. Am I right?"
    "Sorry?"
    "Arrived a few weeks ago in one of the colony ships. You Naranese have a terrible dialect."
    Jerome looked the man up and down for a few seconds, then quietly asked, "You lookin' for a fight?"
    "Not at all, not at all." The Tyi's look was wary. His left hand was under the counter and doubtless holding a weapon. When, however, Jerome showed no signs of aggression, he relaxed. "The nerve you have saying the name of that dive out loud, tells me you haven't a clue."
    "Goes with the job." Jerome opened his jacket a little so that the shoulder holster and the butt of the Raptor could be seen.
    The vendor held up his hands in conciliation, though he looked anything but surprised. "No offense meant," he said, "but here on Babylon the White Rabbit has a very dubious reputation. Hardly anyone wants to have anything to do with the perverts who patronize it. You're on the wrong track here anyway, it's over there in the Genide section, Level 47. Not exactly the best address, but what do I care?"
    Jerome looked up at an argus drone which was drifting across, fifteen feet above the road, at a noticeably slow speed.
    "The mall's a neutral zone, the vendor explained placatingly. "Holy ground in the sink of iniquity, as the Guardians put it." He popped something undefinable in his mouth and started to chew on it. "For a blue Nova I'll take you to the alleygate."
    "For what?"
     "Twenty Nova Kwanzas," the vendor explained.
    "I've only got Corons."
    "OK, then, twenty Corons, my last offer."
    "Aren't you confusing the exchange rate a bit?"
    "Still cheaper than being caught in the member's zone without a club license," the vendor retorted. "And there's hardly ever any checks at Alleygate 8. So, is it a deal? I was going to call it a day, anyway. A lousy day. They're all after cyce, might as well throw the rest of the stuff away. It's the new libido prosthesis on Babylon. Half synthetic, half organic, and it moves, even after you've chewed it and swallowed it. Gives you an atomic pylon and purges your digestive system at the same time. It probably cleans out the sewers as well once you've excreted it. Some say the Genides designed it, other the Jadds. Like a piece? On the house."
    "I'll pass, thanks."
    "Was afraid you would."


Less than twenty minutes later the vendor pulled up at Alleygate 8. Jerome had been in shuttle cockpits, had travelled on ore freighters and on hoverboards, but never on a mobile snack bar.
    "What're you called?" he asked after he'd paid the vendor and got down.
    'Moebius, but people call me Moe."
    "Then thanks for the shuttle service, Moe."
    "Don't mention it," he said as Jerome passed though the checkpoint unhindered. "Enjoy yourself with the mutant scum. If you're ever wandering round here without a navbot again or just need some hot shit to chew on, you know where to find me."
    He waited until Jerome had been swallowed up by the stream of commuters, then he briefly bent his head down. A thin metal strip appeared, the pointed end of which worked its way down from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. Moe spoke into the microphone: "He's coming over now. Bridge 8." For a while he stood by the gate, motionless, listening to the voice in his ear, then he said. "No, it still seems to be all there." A further pause followed during which Moe shook his head slightly. "I leave it to your alter egos to find that out," he said, "I regard my task as completed. I expect to receive the agreed sum within three hours, on the usual conditions." He looked up at an argus drone that started to move at that moment, then went to his parked snack bar. "Back to the depot," he commanded the AI of the hoverscoot.
     Yes, sir. Silently the vehicle turned and headed toward the centre of the mall.
    Moe watched it go until some flickering in the hologram array above attracted his attention. A good quarter of the advertising projections turned black and after a few seconds the Stellarvox emblem, together with the audio logo of the station, appeared on them, filling the whole screen. The female voice of the android newsreader could be heard:
     Here is Stellarvox Veritas with a special announcement. Currently the death toll following the attack on CEBULON, for which the Jadd Baran under their section commander Uriel Ananda are once more responsible, stands at 1478 Genides, 298 Sapiens, twelve Tyi and six Jadd Barans. In addition 139 androids and a still unknown number of NEX and CORELLION AIs were destroyed. It is now considered certain that Extremist sleepers, who had worked on CEBULON for months as mechanics and maintenance personnel on the flight decks, were activated. Before the cruiser was destroyed in the collision with the Spire, they managed to seize sixteen REAVERS and fly them out through the burst outer skin of CEBULON. This is an important gain for the Jadd Baran, giving them a powerful squadron of fighters for the second phase of their colonization of Triamon.
    In a crisis meeting, called at short notice on the Flagship PSARA, Senator Lethorin speculated that the high number of victims among the Genides suggested collusion on the part of the Tyi with the Jadd Baran - a piece of deliberate provocation which, as expected, Ambassador Celeste sharply condemned and dismissed as wishful thinking and malicious troublemaking. In the meantime Admiral Amos Gira, who only a few weeks ago was appointed neutral chair of the Triamon Council, is trying to mediate between the opposing parties. In his first public statement Gira said that it was the aim of the Jadd Baran to poison the atmosphere of mutual trust which had been built up prior to the Council.
    There follows a report on the attack on CEBULON by Smetana 531, a founder-member of our station and our longstanding political correspondent.
    The picture changed and an old, almost antiquated-looking android appeared on the screen
     The attacks by the Jadd Baran in the Ianos system once more reveal how deep the gap between the Superiors and the Extremists remains and how fragile the peace is that people bought with their blood in the Second Species War, he said in solemn tones. A peace which exists on paper, but not inside people's heads.
    Leading political commentators have warned us that a conflict which has been going on for 300 years cannot be resolved within a few months.The opposing sides, with their rigid insistence on historically based demands and claims, are too far apart. Achieving colonial peace is a process that will take decades. According to a study by leading Tyi and Genide cultural historians the conflict is ninety-five per cent of a psychological nature. The Superiors are accusing each other of a desire for hegemony, competitiveness, envy and a collective image-neurosis. This hostility and mutual prejudice will only be overcome with the arrival of a new, enlightened generation, but where can that develop in a universe in which all species harbor such deep-rooted antipathies toward each other?
    Once again it is the Jadd Baran who have sparked things off. For months now hardliners among the Genides have been demanding stronger measures against the outlawed organization - but also an end to the policy of cozying up to the Tyi, which many see as weakness. Following the recent incidents, experts are concerned that a Third Species War may be brewing. If they are right, it could be the last war in the history of mankind.
    That was Smetana 531 on Stellarvox Veritas.
    Moe gave a contemptuous snort. "Mundi volunt decipi," he muttered as the screens switched back to advertising mode and the hologram array started to move again.


The front of the White Rabbit made a mockery of its name with a black façade of corroded metal plates. If it hadn't been for the flicker of the hologram over the entrance, suggesting degenerate life inside, you would have thought you were looking at a ruin used for fire practice.
    The bar was empty, all the chairs and tables still concealed in the walls or the floor. The only movement came from a cybernetic barkeeper behind the counter. He looked up briefly, croaked, "We're closed," and went back to his drudgery.
    "Don't worry," Jerome said, "I didn't touch the door."
    The droid paused for a moment, perplexed, but seemed to process the paradox quickly and continued to ignore the intruder. He was clearly convinced the disturbing presence would go away if it was not offered either a drink or music. The barkeeper had four arms, to allow him to work quickly and efficiently, but only one leg, which was more of a support than a mobile limb and ran along a guide-rail let into the floor. Jerome had never seen such antiquated droid model still in active service.
    Jerome stood in the barkeeper's way, trusting his owner had not deactivated the collision control. The droid stopped, rolled back a few feet then set off toward Jerome again.
    "Is the reason for your provocation of a business or personal nature?" he asked when the unwelcome visitor gave no sign of getting out of the way.
    "Both. I'd like to speak to the owner."
    "I'm sorry, but at the moment Mr. Rodin is indisposed."
    'This is the White Rabbit, isn't it?" Jerome said, looking round demonstratively. "There's a hologram jigging up and down over the entrance, though it does look more like a Nara water-pig with bulimia."
    "I programmed the life-form rabbit precisely as it is described in the archives," the droid protested. "I can only make a 66.6 per cent estimate of whether the result is successful or not. My intention was to reconstruct it to the best of my ability. However, since the Triamon conflict my receptors have been defective and my new owner has not made enough money through me to pay for a repair…"
    "OK, OK, I understand,' said Jerome, interrupting this torrent of words. "Just tell me where I can find this Mr. Rodin."
    "If you would be good enough to look over there," the droid replied, pointing across the room. "Up that staircase, corridor 62, seventh door on the left, the eleventh on the right, then down the passage to the end. At the ultrasound showers take lift 9 down four floors to the nudist deck where a naked dreadnought will be waiting for you. Get undressed and give it your clothes, otherwise it will amputate your left leg. After it has let you through, follow the corridor for two hundred yards until you come to a small fountain. There you must do fifteen press-ups, at which a hatch will open. Climb the ladder up the maintenance shaft until you come to a corridor where you can hear birds chirruping. There you will find my owner in the room with door number 21. But be careful you don't get the wrong one. Opening and looking in costs ten Coron pro door. Is that all clear? Then will you please stop blocking my conductor so that I can get on with my work. Thank you, have a nice day."
    Jerome knocked the tray out of the barkeeper's hands and pulled him to him by his plastic tie. With his other hand he drew his gun and pressed the barrel against the android's forehead. "Is that all clear? No idea, funnyman, you tell me."
    Instead of an answer Jerome heard the loud crash of a door being flung open behind him, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gravity gun being loaded. "Hey," a voice which sounded exactly like the barkeeper's said, "one false move and you'll find out what it's like being kicked by a gingersnatch!"
    For a few seconds Jerome waited to see if there were any more suspicious noises but when everything remained quiet he asked, "Would you tell me why you're pointing a gun at me which no one is allowed to possess on neutral space stations?"
    "Because pumped-up psychos like you turn up here every day, OK? Now drop the pulser, otherwise your trip to Babylon will end up in the trash can."
    "Are you Rodin?"
    "Who's asking?"
    "SSD." Jerome let go of the droid, then turned his gun so that the rather excitable-sounding guy behind him could see the display and activated the audio license.
     I am a Raptor-PT, damage-category 5, production number CN88-1019, the gun stated, manufactured on Exon 408 by Sako Plasmolyt Ltd. as a certified close-range pulse-teaser; maximum pulse rate: 110 shots per minute. Authorized for use by Cobb, Jerome, SSD Supervisor, ID 98-114-JEOMA…
    "Couldn't you show your ID before smashing up the furniture, goddam it?"
    A soft buzzing noise told Jerome that Rodin had deactivated the gravgun. "Switch off the blasted scout," he said, "before it starts listing all the projectiles the thing's shot over the last ten years."
    "I could restrict it to the hits resulting in death."
    Jerome turned round slowly. The man behind him was half a head taller than him but too corpulent for a Genide. It was difficult to tell how old he was, since most of his face was disfigured by scars. Accidents happened in civilian life too, but in general the survivors didn't wear pilot's uniform. The man Jerome was facing must be a Triamon veteran. At first sight it looked as if Rodin had stuck the gravity gun casually under his arm, but on a closer look Jerome realized this was a mistake: the gravity gun was his arm!
    "You're a Tyi," he said in surprise. "Unusual for someone running a bar in the Genide section."
    "I'm neutral and peace-loving," Rodin replied.
    "Now how could I have missed that?" Jerome put his gun back in its holster. "Have you ever tried a PF-cortex implant? It gives you a much more relaxed attitude to life."
    The corners of Rodin's mouth went down in a derisive grin. "It's a good job you've got a yeoman license, otherwise you'd be sticking to the wall now, beaten tender - I have customers who regard a Sapiens chateaubriand with sauce bordelaise as a real delicacy."
    "Are you speaking from personal experience?" Jerome replied with a glance at his grotesque arm prosthesis.
    "D'you think I enjoyed this shit?" Rodin tapped his forehead with the muzzle of the gun. "My hair-do's thanks to a badly programmed seeker mine. The squadron made jokes about it and admin. just said, Sorry, shit happens. Instead of compensation, I was give a 'workshop appointment' with a reduction for friendly fire. But instead of getting myself put back into working order, I left the service. And don't imagine I have a disability pension. I got myself patched up out of my own savings. At least I had enough left to buy myself a bar - this magnificent establishment." He raised his gun-arm. "It's over sixty years old but it's still more effective than fists and a big mouth."
    Jerome gave the arm prosthesis a dubious glance. "Do you have a robot to serve your customers so as to protect them from yourself?"
    "I've no prejudices," Rodin declared. "In the White Rabbit everyone's welcome. Bruce can confirm that."
    Jerome glanced at the electronic barkeeper, who was calmly reloading his tray. "Bruce, hmm…?"
    The droid swept past him without a word.
    "Nice name, honest," he called out after him.
    "Would you perhaps be good enough to tell me what you're doing here, Sapiens?" His face took on a grim expression. "Or do you just like brawling with robots?"
    "I have a blind date."
    "Oh, really? And can you see anyone here who's waiting for you? I don't open for three hours."
    Instead of getting involved in any further discussion, Jerome took the bundle of fur out of his jacket pocket, tore it in two and put one half in the Rodin's hand. "Then you can give the anyone this when you see him," he said, stalking off in the direction of the door. "Tell him you chucked me out. Your barkeeper'll confirm that. If Mr. Anyone should want the other half, he's welcome to collect it from Spire Supervisor Headquarters. And a very good day to you."
    When he was just a few yards from the exit, a section of wall was released and closed the opening with a thunderous clang.
    "Interesting." Jerome stroked the corroded surface. "So you do have a door."
    "It's a security bulkhead,' Rodin replied. "So no one I don't want can get in and no one who owes me money can get out. Again there was a sound like a gun being activated, though definitely not a gravity gun.
    "Are you aiming a gun at me again?" Jerome asked.
    "You're welcome to turn round, Sapiens, then I won't have to shoot you in the back."
    Jerome grimaced. However, there was a surprise in store for him when he looked over his shoulder. The barkeeper was leaning on the bar, arms crossed and in the wall behind him a dark opening about four yards square had appeared.
    "Your so-called blind date is waiting down below," Rodin said, handing the imitation fur back to him. "Apartment 7. Be careful on the stairs," he warned Jerome as he went into the room behind the door. "And next time state your business a bit quicker, I'm not here to amuse the customers."


After a few steps in the darkness, Jerome felt a banister on a staircase leading down to a corridor. The only light came from the luminous numbers on the sixteen doors, even on the left, odd on the right. Number seven was missing, which suggested to Jerome that the door was open.
    "Are there any lights down here?" he shouted, hoping Rodin would hear. "Or does a Tyi use infrered implants instead nowadays?" Instead of an answer, a dull thud was heard. The bar-owner had closed the door to the basement.
    Instead a deep, metallically distorted voice came from Apartment 7: "Light is not advisable. The sight of me could endanger your immortal soul."
    For a few seconds there was an unnatural silence in the corridor. Jerome had no idea whether the stranger was an artificial life form or a living being who had simply disguised his voice. He had never before heard a voice frequency with that modulation.
    "Who are you?" he asked, slipping a hand inside his jacket. "A shadow drone deserter? Andronic Guard? Jadd Baran?"
    "You don't need that," came the machine-like baritone from the darkness, as Jerome's hand gripped the butt. "I'm unarmed."
    Jerome looked up at the ceiling of the corridor to see if there were any cameras through which the stranger could be observing him. But it was too dark to see anything.
    "What guarantee do I have that you're not a weapon yourself?"
    "Just follow your natural common sense, Mr. Cobb - even if the Superiors maintain there's no such thing."
    When Jerome stood in the doorway of Apartment 7, it became a touch brighter. It seemed to be a spacious suite whose walls and ceiling were hung with heavy material. The floor was covered in deep carpets and the furniture was also designed to absorb as much sound as possible. Beside a set of wide, heavy easy chairs arranged round a knee-high table was the central feature of the room: a bed almost as big as the landing pad for an Oberon shuttle.
    In the middle of the room, a few yards from the doorway, stood a figure that was a good two heads taller than Jerome. It was wearing a kind of armless coat with a stiff tubular hood that was aimed at the door like the mouth of a cannon.
    "Do come in, Mr. Cobb," the stranger said. "And close the door." When he spoke, Jerome realized that the sound came from two loudspeaker-type devices fitted on his shoulders. "Forgive the unpleasant conditions, but brightness beyond 12 lux hurts me."
    "You could wear a protective suit."
    "Unfortunately my anatomy is not suited to such luxuries." Jerome tried to make out what was inside the hood - a face, the glint of eyes, an android's face mask - but the blackness was absolute. The figure must be concealing its face behind a lumen-shade to protect its skin, or at least its eyes.
    "Who are you?" Jerome asked. "Or to be more precise: what are you?"
    "A product of the Genidea Project, created to explore and open up Epsilon Eridani 3, a planet in the Sadria system that at the time could only support life to a limited extent."
    "The Bara Kaitos Colony…" Jerome thought for a moment, then objected: "But that was over 300 years ago!"
    "Correct, Mr. Cobb. Our creation was a long-term investment." The stranger cautiously sat down in one of the chairs. His upper body remained stiff and taut, as if he were holding something concealed under his coat that he didn't was to be revealed by a suspicious bulge; an unwieldy gun, perhaps, or a hairless mutant pooch such as Jerome had noticed in the Spire mall. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
    "Coercion seems a better word to me," Jerome replied. "To take part in this meeting I have to break my probation conditions. What are you called?"
    "I have no name, Mr. Cobb. May I ask you for the reno?"
    Jerome hesitated for a moment then fished the scraps of fur out of his pocket and placed them on the table. With he other hand he drew his gun, but kept it lowered. "Now you fulfill your part of the agreement."
    A scrawny hand appeared under the hem of the coat and checked the dog scalp. "A beast with seven heads, that will be crowned with seven horns, will descend from heaven," came from the two loudspeakers. "And its tail will bring a third part of the stars and hurl them over the living. Woe to those who still wander the Earth, for the Beast will will descend in great anger to wage war against men and all the children of men. Sitting in proud splendor on its back will be a lamia, riding it and guiding it, and her name will be 'Babylon the Great, the Mother of all Abominations on Earth."
    "Sorry, but I can see absolutely no connection between that prophecy and the murders in the Pathineum," Jerome confessed.
    "It's a parable," the stranger explained. "It's an aid to understanding."
    "Yes, to understanding that I'm obviously wasting my time here." Jerome also sat down, placed his gun on the table and wearily rubbed his eyes with one hand. "With all due respect, so far you've been no help at all, simply an anonymous figure spouting portentous stuff that hides its face and disguises its voice. What guarantee do I have that I'm talking to a serious informant and not the presenter of a reality-TV quiz show? You could be almost anything: an android with a Gilgamesh syndrome, three trained apes sitting on each others' shoulders or a skeleton with a scythe. I just don't know." Jerome bent forward to lend weight to what he was saying. "If you really do have something to tell me, then stop hiding in that hood and talking in riddles," he demanded. "I want to know who or what I'm dealing with. Show me your face."
    From the stranger's loudspeakers came something that sounded like a profound sigh. "All right then, Mr. Cobb, I accept your request. But don't say I didn't warn you…"
    Inside the clothing, that had so far been hanging down tautly, things started to move. The coat opened and a pair of gaunt arms came out - to be immediately followed by a second pair; their appearance made Jerome hold his breath for a moment. Finally the stranger took the hem of his hood in the fingers of all four hands, as if he were afraid of tearing the fabric, and slowly drew it back…

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