Zidarov tracked him down to a supply station a few miles south. It had taken a few attempts to get him to take the call, but he had, in the end, because even Draj couldn’t resist a direct order from someone who, on the dataslate at least, was his command superior.

The sanctioner sergeant was waiting for him in the heart of the supply station, equipped ready for combat, bleeding hostility. He’d even put his helmet on, hiding that brutish face behind a blank screen of black armourglass.

‘His Hand,’ said Zidarov, warily.

Draj grunted.

He was sitting on a metal bench. The floor was metal, the ceiling was metal, and there were no windows. One wall was entirely taken up by cabinets containing sanctioners’ playthings – mauls, rechargers for mauls, maul-cleaners, extended mauls, holsters for extended mauls, the usual stuff. Ammo boxes filled another cabinet, all locked down, as well as replacement autoguns and laspistols. The next chamber down had ration-packs and clothing, the one beyond that armour-pieces. The entire place was small, hidden away, but it was capable of re-equipping several squads at short notice. Urgeyena was littered with them, sited to provide rapid support to the many squads out in the field. They were meant to be regularly replenished, though some were little more than handy storage for alcohol and contraband. This one clearly wasn’t short of useful material.

Zidarov sat opposite him. ‘What were the chances, eh? You and me, together again. The dream team.’

Draj snarled at him, and a gust of alcohol-laced breath came through the helmet’s vox-grille. ‘Get to the point.’

‘What are you even doing here, Draj? I thought your zones were all central?’

‘Someone had to sort your shit out.’

Zidarov guessed it was a mix of motives. Draj probably did want to score a few hits to pay back what had happened to Borodina. He also probably liked the idea of being in a place where he could act with virtual impunity. Even in Varangantua, enforcers rarely got to indulge their urges with total freedom – but up here, given what had happened, no one was going to ask him to go gently.

‘I never apologised for what went down, did I?’ said Zidarov.

‘You didn’t.’

‘Well, I’m not going to now, either. It was a sound lead, and we got unlucky. Still, it’s led me up here now, to see your cheerful face again, so it’s not all bad.’

Draj started to take apart his gun. He soon had a cloth in one hand, and started to get to work. ‘I don’t have long.’