They'd taken his chrono, earlier. Time passed, marked only by the harsh note of the school buzzer overhead. After a while he knew he should move; but it was hard to leave the illusory safety of the barricaded room. Stiffened muscles screamed. A few more minutes, he told himself. A few more minutes, and he'd have his strength back...

The triple blast of the buzzer cut through his daze, startling him to his feet despite the bruises. Third sitting for the canteen — and his own empty belly confirmed it. The afternoon meal was all but over. Spherical Geo had been finished for hours. What was Fisher up to? Why hadn't they come back, to finish off what they'd started?

Not pity. He knew Lev Fisher better than that. Remembered what they'd done last year to little Flaky... remembered muffled laughter as the others left.

All stiffness forgotten, Paldit flung himself at his improvised barricade, tearing apart the boxes, jerking the jammed crossbar free. He yanked at the handles with all his might. The doors wouldn't move.

Big Beefy had pulled down the locking bar by hand. They'd shut him in, down in the basement with no-one to hear... just like they'd done with the Flake.

Oh, they'd come back for Flaky, twelve hours later, when he finally went quiet. Dragged him out like a wet rag at the end of Beefy's arm, laughing at the fresh marks on his hands and face where he'd beaten against the door, grinning at the way he'd messed himself. Tough medicine. They hadn't had any more trouble out of the little squirt.

How long was Fisher going to leave him here? Panic set in. How long before he was missed? How long would the instructors trouble to search? He had to get out — he had to get out —

His fingernails were torn from clawing before he admitted defeat, whimpering a little in his throat. "Fisher, I know you're listening — I know you can hear me —"

Threats. Promises. Begging. Abasement. Raw howls at the last, a trapped animal.

Nothing from beyond. Not even a snigger. No-one to hear. No-one at all. He lost track of time around that point. It was much later that the lights dimmed.

Night cycle. It was the first coherent thought he'd had in some time. Moments after, the second thought was that he could hear voices.

Fisher — no. Whispering, when Fisher had nothing to hide. A moment's outbreak, quickly hushed, was high-pitched and childish. Some of the younger boys, creeping round after lights-out.

Paldit tried to yell, felt his voice crack and managed a hoarse bellow. "Hey — you — juniors — get over here! Get this door open, or it'll be the worse for you! You know who I am —"

"We know who you are." The smaller boy's quiet voice was very close on the far side of the door. "We know they're after you, Paldit. The whole school knows."

They'd come to gloat. It was the Flake.

Paldit hardly knew what he'd said in the next few minutes. Knew he'd been weeping, pleading, a torrent of speech that drowned out whatever the other boy's words might have been.

"No!" Flaky had abandoned caution, was yelling in his turn. "It's not like that. We've come to get you out!"

'We'? Stunned at last into silence, Paldit pressed his face against the door, listening as the younger boy marshalled his group. Little Flaky had learnt to keep his head down last year, all right. It seemed that wasn't the only thing he'd learnt.

There had to be a dozen of them at least out there, skinny nine- and ten-year-olds barely half his weight. Working all together, they could pull him down — him and Fisher both, or any other two or three of Fisher's group.

And maybe, just maybe, there were enough of the juniors to force up that locking bar Beefy had slammed so casually down.

Paldit listened to them trying. Listened to the grating sounds, the thud as the bar slipped and crashed back home. Listened to the unbelievable sweet click as the bar split and lifted back into its sockets, and the door trembled and swung towards him as the lock slid free.

He managed a few steps back as the door opened. The other boy's eyes met his as an equal, unafraid. For the first time, Paldit was aware of the tear-stains on his own face. It didn't seem to matter. He swallowed. "Flaky —"

The old nickname didn't fit. Never had, if Paldit was honest. Even a year ago, white and retching as Beefy held him up, the kid hadn't flaked out.

"Roj," the Flake said quietly, with what might have been a smile. "Roj will do. Roj Blake."

And somehow he was reaching down gravely to shake the kid's hand, ten years old to seventeen, and none of those watching seemed to find anything odd in it at all.