David moved carefully towards him, one hand extended. ''Give me the god rod, Private Gibbs. Please.''

''Don't come any closer.'' Gibbs twisted the lance's power regulator to narrow beam setting. His thumb quivered over the trigger.

''Killing me isn't going to help,'' David said. ''We need each other. We need to do this together. We can make it, I promise.''

''With all due respect, sir, I don't believe you. And anyway, it's not you I'm planning to kill.''

''Gibbs…''

''I'm not going to spend days dying out here. Not when there's a better way.''

''Gibbs! No!''

Gibbs flipped the ba lance to vertical, lodging its falcon-head nozzle under his chin. He pressed the trigger.

A flash of gold.

A mist of crimson.

A headless corpse crumpled to the ground.

One month ago, Private Gibbs had turned twenty years old.

Alone, westward, David Westwynter walked on.

And on.

Knowing that with every step, there would be just more desert. Over the next rise, and the next — just more desert.

4. Steven

One of David's earliest memories was of his brother being born.

Not the birth itself. He was kept well out of the way while that happened, bundled off to his grandparents' for a night and a day.

But on returning home, he was keenly aware that everything had changed in the house. His father looked even more tired and preoccupied than he normally did, while the housekeeper, Mrs Plomley, was all grins and bosomy welcome, as though David had been away for weeks, not twenty-four hours. New toys — big primary-coloured plastic ones — littered the main hallway. In the library the butler, Jepps, was busy unwrapping more gifts for the new arrival and making a careful note of the donors' names.

Then there was the baby itself, lying in the basinet by his mother's bedside, curled like a caterpillar on a leaf.