Zidarov was almost back into contact when Draj managed to boost through a gap and ram the side of the groundcar. The two vehicles collided with a heavy smack, and Udmil’s driver lost control, slewing around on his axle towards the impact barrier. Draj went after him, ignoring the threat of collateral hits, charging through the bouncing rain in a haze of smoke.

They collided again, and this time the groundcar was shunted clean through the barrier, splintering metal bars and tumbling down the slope beyond. Draj followed it, clearly out of control, the enormous Bulwark bouncing and skidding on the scree.

Zidarov yanked his controls, braking hard and then thrusting for the gap. He almost slammed straight into another erratic driver, lumens flashing and alert-horn blaring, but managed to jink past and power for the barrier breach. He barely made it, sheering alongside the shattered edges before plunging down the long slope.

Then it was a fight to keep any kind of control. The scree was sodden, a virtual weir of gravel and water, and his tyres spun furiously, kicking up stone and foam. He had a vague impression of Draj’s Bulwark over on its side, leaking smoke, before he caught a glimpse of Udmil’s car at the very base of the run down, its front half crumpled and its doors open.

Then the Zalamar hit something unyielding, and the world upended itself. Zidarov was jerked hard against his restraints, but still smacked his head into the doorframe as the vehicle rolled. The groundcar tumbled three, then four times, before rocking to a halt at the base of the gravel-slide, thankfully right-side up.

Zidarov felt a hot trickle down the side of his face. His ribs screamed with pain, and a black fog crowded the edges of his vision. For a moment he couldn’t see anything at all, only a mask of churning grey. Then the steam from his overheated engines cleared, and he saw where he’d landed. Draj’s Bulwark was some way back, lodged at the base of a long gravel-gouge. Udmil’s groundcar, on its side, was just a few yards ahead of him. Someone had already got out of it – a man in a black overcoat, one of Udmil’s guards, staggering disorientatedly towards him.

Zidarov grabbed the Tzarina, unclipped the restraint harness and pushed hard against the dented driver’s door. It wouldn’t open, so he twisted in his seat, wedged two feet against it, and kicked. The damaged lock-unit resisted for a moment, then cracked, and the door flew wide open. Zidarov dragged himself through the gap, already feeling light-headed and nauseous. There was no sign of Draj. High above, the traffic roared by, oblivious of what was going on below the broken barriers.