The alarm went off after what felt like five minutes, though a glance at his chrono told him he’d got a couple of hours. After the customary period of not knowing where, why or who he was, reality painfully reasserted itself.

It was dusk. The raid had been planned for the deep of the night, to give the best chance of getting in and out undetected. The hab-unit was empty, and cold, and dark. Zidarov splashed some water on his face, then dressed, taking more care than usual over his flak-protection. In addition to the Tzarina, which he’d fitted with the silencer, he took his maul. Then the coat went on, and he was heading down to the groundcar depot.

The rain had now attained a permanent quality, a remorseless rhythm, just a part of the atmosphere they moved through. To live in Urgeyena during this part of the wet season was to be semi-aquatic, inhabiting a drowned world of grey liquid, low skies, constant and bone-deep dampness. The roads were like mini rivers, the backwash from the passing vehicles heavy and viscous.

Zidarov drove steadily up to the suborbitals, watching the sky darken away to black amid the downpour. Everything felt backwards, out of sorts. His sleep-wrenched body told him it was the morning, but his senses told him it was the end of the day. Even the faces, the places, all looked wrong, as if actors had taken over those on the sidewalks, in the groundcars, in the mag-trains. When he caught glimpses of them in the gloom, he saw Adeard Terashova glowering back at him, which was odd, because he’d never met Adeard Terashova. No one really had, not properly, except perhaps Elina. He was just a name, a cipher behind which other, real things were happening.

Zidarov reached down for his caffeine-flask, and took a swig. Enough mind-wandering – he needed to focus. Draj was not the kind of friendly presence it was wise to be flaky in front of.

They met at the sanctioners’ supply station. Draj had procured an unmarked groundcar to take them the rest of the way, one with trade house ident-plates and pass-seals letting it into the dockers’ yards. It smelled of stale sweat, and was mightily cramped inside.

Draj looked much as he always did. The black sanctioner armour was designed to be more or less invisible in poor lighting unless the lumens built into the helm and gunsights were activated. Even close up, Draj’s outline sunk quickly into the shadows, an effect produced by the extreme matt of the plates he was encased in.

‘So, be clear – what are the limits here?’ Draj asked, taking the controls of the little groundcar and backing it out of the depot. It swayed as it went over a deep pothole, and Zidarov clenched his jaw.

‘Just get in, see what’s there, get some picts. I want to find out who owns it.’

‘And stay hidden.’

‘If we can.’