Zidarov narrowed his eyes, letting the iris help him focus. He couldn’t get a perfectly clear shot, but stored a few static picts.

‘That one,’ he said. ‘Recognise him?’

Draj might have had a better chance at getting a clear view, having the advantage of his helmet’s advanced systems.

‘I see him,’ Draj said. ‘No clear image. He’s heading away.’

Zidarov kept looking. The man was clearly in charge. An overseer, maybe. Or perhaps he ran the whole operation. He carried a thin dataslate, and appeared to be studying the couches around him as he walked. He was dressed in civilian clothes – a dark cloth suit, an overcoat, all close-fitted. His skin was very pale.

‘You know, I think I recognise that face,’ Zidarov said.

‘I can’t get an ident for him on file,’ said Draj. ‘At least, not at this range.’

Zidarov blinked, and the iris returned to natural-range vision. ‘I’ll take another look back at the Bastion.’

The trio headed off into the murk, gradually merging into the steaming shadows.

‘Go after him?’ Draj asked.

Zidarov shook his head. ‘There’s dozens of guards down there. No cover. I don’t know how far back that chamber runs. Too risky.’

He pulled away from the edge, crouching back below the line of the railing. Draj dropped down to his haunches beside him.

‘We can take one of the guards,’ he urged. ‘Just one. Get them to the Bastion, run a chastener over them.’

‘If we disturb this thing before we know who funds it, who protects it, we’ve done nothing,’ Zidarov said. ‘We could take the whole place out, and it’ll only take a few days to get another up and running again. They’ve done it before. I need a name, if we’re to stop this. I need the name at the top.’

Draj didn’t say anything. After a few moments, he gave a curt nod.

They pulled back to the stairs, and crept back down the levels. As they went, Zidarov scanned the doors. Most were unlocked and unwatched, opening onto storage chambers. One of them was cluttered with spare parts for the machines, thrown into stacks up against the walls. Another housed empty vials, many of them cracked or defective. They smelled of the chems that had been in them, as well as the trace aroma of blood.

The second-floor landing had more doors, and these ones were locked. Zidarov repeated his scans, detecting no heat signatures on the other side. Draj opened the first, exposing an empty chamber. The second, though, held a desk, a few chairs, some plastek crates. In the corner was a bulky vox-transmitter, wired up to a snake’s wedding of cables.

‘Keep an eye out,’ said Zidarov, stowing his weapon.