The woman turned from what she’d been doing, glanced at the seal. ‘I can do that for you, probator. What’s the name?’

‘Zidarov,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘Alessinaxa. She came in on the last run from the Jeriad Training Facility. I want to know if she left on any other scheduled run.’

The operator ran a check. ‘No records of that, probator.’

‘Where’s the nearest alternative long-haul terminal?’

‘Out at Mergev.’

‘Could you get there without a groundcar?’

‘Not easily.’

Zidarov nodded. ‘Thanks. Here’s the subject’s ident. Circulate it, will you? If she turns up, I want to know.’

Then he left, got back to the Luxer, and inputted the loc-ref for the Mergev terminal. The operator had been right – it would be hard to get out there without transport. Still, Naxi was resourceful. If she’d decided to make her own way back to Jeriad, then that might have been a way to do it.

He pulled out of the yard, and headed west up to the spine-route. He put in another call to the training facility itself, asking again if she’d come back early, and was told, again, that she hadn’t. He pondered putting a missing persons register on the Bastion system. The irony of that was not lost on him.

Despite himself, he began to get uneasy. He cruised along the streets, looking out at the crowds, expecting at any moment to see her face among them. Whenever he caught a hostile gaze, he imagined it to be one of the off-worlder’s operatives, hunting for young blood, offering the world if only they’d come with them, up to the suborbitals, where there was something they really ought to see.

He passed through a semi-derelict zone, marred by the blackened outline of fire-damaged manufactoria. The transitway remained busy, but the side routes looked less clogged. He eased down a bit.

It was then that he noticed the tail for the first time. The groundcar three places back in the queue was matching him for speed, changing lanes whenever he did. He picked up speed again, going carefully, watching to see if it did the same. Sure enough, it mirrored his manoeuvres.

Zidarov glanced at the transitway network map on the Luxer’s console lens. Below the raised main routes, the lower-grade roads were the usual tangle of older streets. He pulled across again, switching back to the exit lane, made the turn and ran down the long ramp. The groundcar behind him followed, keeping its distance but not falling back. It was a smart vehicle, an expensive one, with a long nose and flared wheel arches. Somewhat flashy. The kind of thing a cartel operative might find appealing.