JULIAN WOKE GROGGY AND confused. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was, or what had happened. Julian woke groggy and confused, and for a second he couldn't even remember his name. He lay prone on a swaying rope-litter carried by two men, and there was a piece of fur lying on top of him. A storm-torn sky darkened and spun dizzily above, intermixed with glimpses of leaping flame torches, penquins, and an array of peeling, curious faces. Julian woke groggy and confused -- what the fuck was going on? Then he remembered the awful race with Dean, the crevice and the slide -- a second descent into The Deep. People pushed and shoved, ignoring shouts to stand aside -- this is how it happened. Julian shifted his weight -- his arms were pinned beneath him -- and struggled to sit up.

The litter lurched alarmly, and molten agony seered through his right leg, dragging a surprised cry from his lips. A hand squeezed his shoulder, urging him down, and an eerily flat, emotionless voice advised: <<Sit!>>

Gasping, then setting his teeth as the pain worsened, Julian fought to focus on the man's face. Grey-blue eyes regarded him worriedly, fair brows furrowing. Twin penquin feathers protruded from his mess of blue-grey hair. He smelt of fish and electrical circuits.

<<Lo behold>> the penquin-man said <<the polar queen! Beautiful as the very heart of youth, but varmint all the same. Have you got anything to say for yourself, Upworlder Trash, before we terminate your life-cycle?>>

Julian struggled in his bindings, found his arms were chained behind his back. But, strangely, he was not in the slightest frightened. He was half frozen, dripping wet, soaked in blood and worse. A flash of nightmarish images set his stomach heaving as he felt those teeth -- tearing -- Goddess, the Pain! The Penquin Man said: <<I too was an Upworlder once. Crawling the cracks between walls of church, state, school and factory, all the paranoid monoliths. Cut off from the tribe by feral nostalgia I tunnelled after lost worlds, legendary cocoons. And I was ugly! That's my metaphor. If I were to kill you here they'd call it an act of terrorism - so let's take our pistols to bed and wake up the city at midnight like drunken bandits celebrating with a fusillade, the message of the taste of chaos.>>