Gridlinked by Neal Asher

the beetles liked light, he hoped the cops were having a bad time of it.
    'No further,' muttered Pelter, and pointed ahead.
    A few metres ahead of them stood the statue of a bearded gentleman clad in impact armour and holding some weapon horizontally across his stomach.
    'My grandfather. He served in the Prador war,' he explained.
    'Here?' asked Stanton.
    'Earth, I think. He left here a century ago.'
    So saying, Pelter turned back towards the statue and pressed one hand to the side of his head. It was obvious that he was new to using augs and internal control mechanisms. Stanton shook his head and thought he might tell him about it - sometime.
    Somewhere an engine started, and with a low grating noise the statue slid to one side. Exposed now was a square entrance and steps leading down. Pelter gestured and Stanton followed him below. It was dark, even for enhanced vision, especially when the statue slid back into place. Once it had stopped sliding, a greenish light flickered on. They were in what appeared to be a small wine cellar bounded by three walls racked with wine bottles and one wall of stone inset with an armoured door.
    'I didn't answer your question about getting him to come out to us,' said Pelter.
    'Are you going to answer it now?' Stanton asked.
    'Yes.' Pelter walked to one wall of wine bottles. He studied it for a moment, then stepped aside as a vertical section, four bottles wide, slid out. In a moment a set of shelves was revealed. From one shelf he removed two slim square cases. He ignored the various weapons and makings of explosive devices that occupied the other shelves, and held up just the pair of cases.
    'We had to come here for our new identities,' he explained.
    He lowered the cases and nodded towards the armoured door. This action initiated four loud thumps as locks disengaged. The door opened silently. Stanton thought it would be more appropriate for the door to creak.
    'Even Crane would have a problem wiui that door,' Pelter commented.
    Stanton looked inside the room beyond and wondered just how true that statement was.
    They called him Crane because he was so very tall. They called him Mr Crane because he was so very prone to dismembering people. However, even politeness did not work. Mr Crane would kill people as ordered by the holder of his control module, though occasionally he killed people for reasons that were inscrutably his own. John Stanton stared at him and felt the urge to just turn and go. Mr Crane was two and a half metres tall, so appeared slightly ridiculous sitting in a normal-sized camp chair. He was also utterly still. Over his attenuated frame he wore a coat that stretched right down to his much-patched, beloved lace-up boots. A hat wiui a wide droopy brim hid his features. Stanton noticed there was mould on the brim of that hat, just as there was on Mr Crane's overcoat. Not surprising, as it was damp down here.
    'How long's he been here?' he whispered.
    'Two years,' Pelter replied, and his hand moved up to the metal on the side of his head. This gesture now confirmed for Stanton the antecedents of the module Pelter had caused Sylac to implant in his skull.
    'It was that hit out on the island, wasn't it? You sent him there to kill one man… and how many was it he killed in the end?' he asked.
    Pelter said, 'Don't push it, John. You're a lot more dispensable than he is.'
    Stanton bit off any more comments and just watched them. What were they saying to each other, he wondered. What did their little electrical conversation entail?
    'Come on, Crane. Time to wake up,' Pelter said, aloud.
    Mr Crane stood up in one abrupt movement. Stanton took in the black glitter of eyes now open below the brim of the hat. Crane's head turned toward Pelter, and he took one long pace forward. Pelter stepped back, his hand pressing harder against the side of his head, and an expression of intense concentration on his face. Crane did not move further; instead he reached up and removed his hat to expose