‘I don’t know,’ was all that Whistler could think to say. The filigree pattern of fine lines on her face glowed dimly in the falling darkness. Her delicate features were furrowed with concern, her icy eyes blue jewels in the gloom. Below them, the city was writhing in agony, booming and echoing like the belly of a ship foundering in stormy seas. Pods crawled through the blocked streets, accelerating madly wherever there was a clear stretch, sometimes crashing as their guidance systems failed or human operators became too hasty. Pulses of red and blue emanated from all around as the overstretched emergency services struggled to respond. The skyline was burning in the east and the air was thick with choking smoke. It had a sickening, plasticky taste that stuck in the throat. Sofi had stretched her shirt to cover her nose and mouth. Whistler copied her. It didn’t make much difference. ‘Spider and Roberts are still out there,’ said Sofi. ‘I know.’ Whistler was sitting on the concrete platform on which the base’s missile racks were mounted.
