"Mort was dead when we colonised it."

"But what about the Carrien? Head office appears to be non-committal on the subject of where they came from. Are they actually the native population of Mort?"

"Only as native as any recent arrival."

"So what are they? Are they from Karma? Or another alien race?"

"They are simply the product of SLA Industry"

"Excuse me, Intruder... SLA 'Industry'?"

"The product of SLA Industries: SLA Industry."

"So you're saying Karma made them?"

"In part. Berenyi LA, Calaharvey, Dr. Drak's and the guy who sells hotdogs on the corner of Funky and Lukhri all played a part in their creation."

"You mean in pollution? Producing mutants of humans who lived in the areas that are now the Cannibal Sectors?"

"No. Nine hundred years is hardly enough for as dramatic a genetic shift as that."

"So who are the ancestors of the Carrien? If they aren't biogenetics, humans or natives... who are they? 'Were they', rather."

"No, they were natives."

"But how could you then say that Mort was dead? There must have been living inhabitants!"

"Absolutely. But they were dead. Let me tell you a story. When I was young, I fought in wars for a living. One day, I was cowering in a foxhole with one of my friends, hearing a barage of white-hot anti-armour shells flying overhead. Suddenly the firing stopped. For a second we looked at each other, hoping for a break in the fighting. Then we heard this evil tearing noise: the sound of a manhunter missile bearing down on our heat-shadows at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. My friend hardly paused: he jumped out of the foxhole, and the missile slammed into him before his feet had hit the ground. I pushed myself right into the hole, shutting down all my armour's ancilliary systems to reduce my sensor cross-section. A platoon of our enemies charged overhead, on their way to the city we were defending. Once they were gone, I powered up again, and went find my friend's body. By some miracle, he was not dead. His armour was smashed into fragments, his body was torn apart, and he was bleeding profusely. His skull was broken, and I could see brain fluid pouring onto his shoulder. Maybe another person would have shot him then and there; a mercy killing. But I could only think that he had surrendered his life for me. I picked up as much of him as I could and called in for extraction. For eight hours I held him together with drugs and tourniquets while he slipped in and out of a coma. When were extracted, I was seperated from him. I found him again a few weeks later. His brain was inside a control pillar on a drop-ship. He was controlling the forward weapons array. He vaguely remembered me, more as a dream than a friend I think. We exchanged a few words; dumb pleasantries. I choked up and had to leave. As I walked away, i found myself wishing I had shot him then and there in the field, saving him from the ignominy of what he was now. But later I realised that was wrong. Now he was still playing a role. With those twin vulcans on the ship, he would be able to save many more lives. His death was guaranteed; anyone seeing him lying there in a mess of blood and shrapnel would have said he was dead. But he could live on in a way. And that's how it was with the native population of Mort."

"They were dying? Attacked in the wars?"

"They were never involved in the Conflict Wars. But a ship from one of the Great Armies had stopped off in orbit around Mort to effect repairs and one of their enemies mistook the life signs on the surface as a military presence. They released shell-storms from orbit, and nuked the densely populated areas. When Mr. Slayer found the planet, the population had a half life of seven months. That means that the population halved in size every seven months. Radiation poisoning, ruined resources, polluted atmosphere."

"...dead."

"Yes. I doubt any of them would recognise a Carrien nowadays. But that's where their stock came from."

"If it's not insensitive, Intruder, I don't entirely understand how that relates to your story."

"Before colonising Mort, Slayer could have finished them off. A few more bombs would have done it. Hell, waiting twelve months would have done it. But instead, he deployed enough zonal filters to give them somewhere to live. He enticed them to live near his new city, keeping them in the outskirts. They became, and still are, the top of the food chain. Natural pest control. They keep the populations of all the nasty creatures that find their way into big cities in check. They are vital to SLA for that reason. Without them, we would be awash with rats, spiders and worms. The barrier walls are surprisingly poor at stopping that sort of small creature."

"So the natives live on. But not as themselves."

"And SLA remains."