Bastion-U had a pyramid staffing structure. At the top, nomi­nally speaking, were the probators, tasked with the actual investigations. Many times more numerous were the sanctioners, charged with keeping order and providing armed backup. More numerous still were the analysers – the small army of functionaries who kept the administratum functions operating. Some of these were specialists, such as the forensic verispex staff; some were mute servitors who hauled vellum bundles from archive to archive. A large chunk of the department were data-miners and equipment scrutinisers, who spent their days poring through the mountains of information provided by the many auspexes used in the field. They were overworked, as a rule, prematurely aged, made spiteful and pernickety by their labours.

Still, their chambers were neater, and smelled better, than the norm. If you knew what you wanted, and could put up with the sarcasm, there were ways of getting it.

Zidarov made his way along the corridors until he found the chamber he needed. It was nondescript from the outside – just the standard door, nameplate, augur-lens. He depressed the summon-chime, and a few seconds later it slid open, revealing a man who looked like he’d died several weeks ago but had somehow forgotten to lie down.

‘Hello, Scribo,’ said Zidarov.

Revi Scribo grunted, and let him in. Zidarov had to pick his way to the desk, which was surrounded by a bizarre collection of veriquaries, half-opened auspex units, piles of wiring, printed circuit boards, some cracked picter lenses, six polished skulls, sealed equipment crates, and a lone felid that sat atop a pillar of teetering vellum bundles, flicking its tail.

Scribo himself was a small, skinny wretch, barely filling out his cream-coloured tabard. His hair was thinning, his cheeks wrinkled. He had long fingers and a squat nose, and moved jerkily, like a spider, through all the mess.

‘What do you need?’ Scribo asked, turning back to the splayed carcass of a remote sensor-box. Some of the stuff Scribo did should really have been turned over to the tech-priests. One day, Zidarov had always thought, the lexmechanics would burst in, and his little hobbies would all be over. Until then, though, he had his uses.

‘I need a personnel tracker,’ Zidarov told him, looking to find somewhere to sit, and failing. ‘Very small, very discreet. Assume the person has routine anti-scanner tech, probably augmetic. It needs to get past that, remain undetected, last for a few days.’

Scribo laughed dryly. ‘Oh. Easy, then.’

‘I know you’ve got them. I’ve seen them used. Come on, for all the times I helped you.’

The felid’s tail twitched again, and a pair of bottle-green eyes turned to stare at him. Scribo remained busy with his work. ‘You’ll need a warrant from a senioris, cleared by Castellan.’

‘Can’t do that.’

Scribo looked up. ‘Oh? I might want to know why.’