Zidarov broke out a carb-bar. He kept one hand on the control column, ready to engage. He felt on edge, just as he had done before the first raid. Sitting around, waiting – that was the worst part of actions like this. He wasn’t a sanctioner any more. It didn’t feel like he had either the mental or the physical toughness for this kind of work. At some stage, he’d have to give it all up, take a job as a records scribe or an archive clerk. That would feel like a kind of death, an acceptance that age was coming for him with a vengeance now, but it would come for him sooner or later, all the same.

As he sat in the dark, the rain running down his windscreen, he found himself mouthing the words again.

‘The serpent rises,’ he whispered, watching the droplets wriggle. ‘Praise be, for the serpent rises.’

More time passed. He half-watched the traffic around him skidding in the wet. Everyone had their heads down, shoulders up, draped in heavy shawls and hoods. No one paid any attention to their surroundings. They just put one foot in front of the other, trying to get somewhere dry, somewhere warm. Even the missionary gave up eventually, packing up his vox-emitters and his holy databooks, and limping back to his seminary to dry off. The night sunk into its nadir, and the wind howled.

The flood-lumens at the tower were switched off, plunging the entire side of the square into blackness. The only pinpricks of light now were from the many hundreds of narrow windows, and one by one, they too were extinguished.

Hours went by. He struggled to stay awake. Draj occasionally sent terse comms, demanding to know if anything was moving. The answer was the same every time.

Until, suddenly, his iris gave a reading.

Zidarov sat up straight. He rubbed his eyes, and glanced at the chrono. It was almost dawn, though the cloud cover masked the gradual lightening of the sky. The rain was still scything, accompanied now by distant thrums of thunder.

At first, it seemed as if nothing had changed. The tower was still only partially lit, and no new groundcars stood in front of it. But then, he saw it again – the sleek black six-wheeler, purring through the downpour before coming to rest before the tower’s entrance lobby.

‘Target acquired,’ Zidarov hissed into the vox, before gently starting his primary engine.

The flood-lumens came on again, and the great doors opened. As Zidarov watched, a second groundcar drew up behind the first. This was black too, with a similar profile.