Life was sweet, for those with the strength to grasp it. He'd thought it was his right, his by merit. He'd never known how fast the knife-edge of power could twist.

"Brannam Paldit?"

Old Mouldy — Mr Molden — had called him out of class with that deadpan voice of his, giving no clue. All done with the utmost discretion. All so correct.

Paldit had shoved his tablet back into the desk — one of the others would get the work finished off — and followed Old Mouldy down to his narrow office, swaggering to a seat across a chair as he waited for the instructor to ask him the favour. Some new kid asking the wrong question in class, maybe. Maybe a travel upgrade for Mouldy's sister's niece.

And then Molden had broken the news, in that same flat voice, with only the deadly little sparkle in his eyes to betray just how much pleasure he was taking in the recital; how the balance of power had swung, in an instant, from the strapping youth to the dried up, grey-haired old man. Paldit had never known, until that moment, just how much Molden hated him.

He'd read the newsflash again for himself, the printout still warm on the flimsy pseudopaper. His hand had been trembling enough to betray him, and the blurring letters were hard to read.

'GOVERNOR PALDIT DENOUNCED BY DEPUTY. EVIDENCE OF MASSIVE PECULATION IN PHAROS SYSTEM. PALDIT ESTATES UNDER OFFICIAL SEAL. TRIAL DATE SET 02/05.'

His first conscious thought had been "Father, you fool." But the instinctive reaction that preceded it had been that of a much younger child: "All gone..."

All gone. All his own possessions, all the treasures on display in his father's office. He could imagine what was going on out there even as he read. He'd seen it all before, when Governor Beloss had lost her seat, and his father had moved to take her place. 'Under official seal' meant open wide, for the Civil Administration to take what it liked. For the deputy who'd found a chink in the Governor's armour to reward himself.

Brannam had been eleven years old. The youngest Beloss girl couldn't have been above seven. He'd stood on the edge of the lawns that were to be his, hands on hips, practising proprietorship, and watched the workmen carting out his predecessors' junk, stacking it high in preparation for grav-compaction. The little girl had come running out, howling, beating at the men, to try to retrieve some shabby favourite toy.

She hadn't understood her mother's suicide and disgrace, all the machinations that had brought Paldit up and Beloss down. All she'd understood was that her home was being pulled apart piece by piece for its face-value, all her beloved treasures discarded like the rubbish they were.

Father, of all people, should have known enough to cut his deputy in on the take. By the sound of it, he hadn't even had the guts — or the wits — to follow Beloss' example and blow his brains out.

Brannam Paldit had gone back to class in a state of shock, fending off the queries of the others with automatic hints and whispers. All gone. No more trips out to Pharos. No more little luxuries shipped from home. No more home, unless Mother's people could cram him into an apartment somewhere.

Father had put him down for the Space Academy almost at birth; spared no expense. Brannam, who'd planned out for himself a safer and more lucrative career over in AgTech, had never quite got round to letting the old man know he didn't mean to go in for combat flying after all... not when he got flashy toys like the latest full-size flight sim unit out of it. Lev Fisher fancied himself as a hot-shot pilot. Paldit had planned to take him back to Pharos this winter, show the Earther just what off-world tech could do. No chance of that now. The treasured sim unit would be gone like the rest.

He hadn't realised, even then, the whole implications of what his father had done to him. What would happen once the others found out.

He should have run while he had the chance, he told himself, throat raw and gasping. Quit the school and taken up that AgTech place a few months early. It hadn't even been bravado that brought him down to breakfast the next morning as if nothing had happened. He'd made his father's mistake. It hadn't even occurred to him that his deputy might still be nursing ambitions of his own...

Yesterday, Paldit had been somebody. Master of all he surveyed, leader of the pack. Now, with his father's power in ruins, he was any man's meat — and the first to work that out could take his place. Fisher, as ever, had been quick off the mark.

"Paldit, we know you're in there." Beefy's voice, calling the hunt down. They were gathering at the head of the lift-shaft. He'd jammed the lift. They wouldn't get down here unless they climbed the shaft, as he had. It wouldn't stop them for long.

Fisher laughed, somewhere up above. "Come out and play, Paldit. Here, Ditty-ditty-ditty... here ditty-ditty..."

The summons was taken up by a dozen throats in a howl of derision, and for a moment, half-choked by the mockery, Paldit almost turned at bay. But they'd caught up with him once already. He couldn't run much longer. His only chance was down here in the basement, where he could hide. Somewhere.

Boots rang in the access shaft, and Paldit caught his breath and stumbled on. He didn't know who'd let the news slip. Old Mouldy could have told the whole class there and then if he'd wanted. But he'd done it by the book, as ever, always so discreet. No, Mouldy would have played the facts close to his chest, waited to use the leverage. There'd be no more favours to be milked from Paldit, not now. Molden must be cursing his luck.

It didn't matter, in the end, who'd found out. The end was the same. The pack that had hunted so long at his heel was baying close on his track - and once they'd pulled him down, it would only be the start. Bran Paldit was fair game now for all those who'd ever hated him; all those who'd ever wanted to strike back.

He staggered to a halt, bent double to catch his breath, as bruises protested with every move. Had to stop. Had to find somewhere they'd never guess...

The room was bare and white. A dead-end. Big doors. A spatter of dried blood, scuffed on the floor. They'd brought Flaky down here, that third time last year. Where no-one could hear him yell.

The brat had lived up to his name when they'd finally let him out. Ashen-pale and dangling in Beefy's grasp, the only colour beneath the matted hair had been the caked blood from his lip and nose. But they could have done worse, a dozen youths against one nine-year-old. Paldit remembered the crunch as the bar in his hand had thudded home against the boy's face; remembered pulling the blow. The Flake had been small fry, not worth damaging, not permanently. But Fisher and the rest wouldn't be holding back this time. Not with him.

A half-sob of panic. He had to get out of here... but it was too late.

Voices at the foot of the lift-shaft. Paldit froze, edging the door shut. Maybe they wouldn't come this way. Maybe it was the last place they'd think of looking.

He took the risk and darted across to get the other door moving, heaving the last of his strength against its ponderous weight. The sounds of the others' footsteps echoed confusingly in the passageway outside. He couldn't tell whether or not they'd picked up his trail.

Both doors were shut now. He looked around wildly and found the bar he'd remembered, jamming it crosswise behind the doors. A few empty boxes. That wouldn't stop them more than two minutes.

And then there was nothing more he could do, but sit and wait in helpless silence. Willing them to go by.

"Paldit."

Right outside the door. His stomach lurched. He tried not to breathe.

"Now that wasn't too clever, was it, Ditty-boy? Straight back to your good old haunts, with a trail in the dust twenty spacials wide..." Fisher sniggered, and the door creaked as if someone had leaned on it experimentally. Paldit's mouth had gone dry. He couldn't have spoken if he'd tried.

"You made me eat dirt, Ditty-boy. I sucked up to you for five years just to get back half the place that was mine. Maybe you'd like a taste of what your grand Governor-father is getting..." Fisher sniggered again in anticipation, and it was taken up by all the rest. The door quivered. Caught between the instinct to fling his own shoulders to brace that frail barrier and to back away before it fell, Paldit was frozen, trapped like a rat on the point of a soldier's knife.

"C'mon, Beefy -"

The buzzer for classes sounded, far above.

Spherical Geometry, Paldit thought, in a tiny automatic part of his mind. Astro-navigation swot-stuff. Space Academy requirement. He could have cut that class with impunity for an hour's fun down in the basement... but Fisher couldn't. Beefy Rangin couldn't. The flicker of hope was almost more painful than the cringing certainty that had preceded it. It all depended on how badly they wanted to take him down...

A murmur of voices outside. Dismissive laughter. A clang. They were going.

Behind closed doors, as his knees gave way, Brannam Paldit slid down to a crouch in the angle of the wall, and wept.