Zidarov already felt sure he knew the more familiar name of that tower, but he turned back to the static pict of the bronze nameplate. It was mandatory for every hab-tower to carry its identification number prominently on its frontage. He zoomed in close, and under the engraved words Imperial Garden Complex VII he saw the reference, as plain as day: L/r: 34637.

Zidarov stored the data on a separate file, and closed down the terminal. He looked around him. No one seemed to be paying him any attention. A few probators were staring into their own terminals. Others were talking, absorbed in their conversations.

He felt a mix of emotions. Now he knew who was bankrolling the warehouse. Now he knew who was running bleeders and sending the material off-world. Now he knew who had taken Adeard Terashova, and who, in all likelihood, had killed him. And now he knew why.

He got up, yanking his coat from the stand.

‘Coming to find you, Gyorgu,’ he voxed, walking briskly from his desk and heading for the groundcar depot. ‘It’s time for that talk.’

It was in a bar, of course. There were times that Zidarov thought Brecht basically lived in bars. This one was slightly smarter than the last one they’d drunk in, and it was quiet, which was good. They sat at a table in a private booth. Two glasses stood on the surface between them – rezi for him, jeneza for Brecht. The atmosphere was clouded with cotin, and there was a hum of conversation from the tables further down the room. An old chandelier hung from the ceiling, foxed and furred with dust. It smelled musty, with traces of incense.

Brecht looked at him cautiously. ‘Run that all by me again.’

Zidarov sighed, and took a long swig. ‘This is how I see it,’ he said. ‘It is, basically, how I saw it from the start. Adeard Terashova got involved with the Vidora when he was down in Gargoza. He hooked up with Yellowsnake, started to get ideas above his station. Maybe he really did want to impress his father. That’s a sure-fire route to destruction, but he was young, and Mordach seems to be the only one of his family who didn’t actively hate him. The problem was that the business making the Vidora all that money was cell-draining, and that’s a dangerous game. Plenty of others want a piece of it, particularly now that the slate is bigger than it ever was. The stupid little shit was walking into a war, and he didn’t even know it.’

Brecht nodded. ‘Yes, I got all that. What I don’t understand is how you know it.’