The names were in code, of course. Once back in his cell at the Bastion, he used the classified records to match them against known Vidora agents. It was perfectly usual for an operation like Gargoza to pay for protection, and even operators like the Terashovas went along with the scam if it made life easier. In a place like High Ridge, crawling with competing guilds and cargo-raiders, it was more trouble than it was worth to fend them all off – better to let one of the capable cartels cream a slice off and take care of the messy business of breaking skulls.

Still, the Vidora. One of the nastier organised outfits. Urgeyena had more than a dozen recognised cartels, all grappling and grasping for a slice of the action, but the Vidora had been around longer than most. They had elaborate initiation rites, a tight culture of saying nothing, and a definite eagerness about directed violence. Nothing Zidarov knew about Adeard made him think that an arrangement with them was likely to end well. It was something to look into. It was something to be wary of.

After a dreary session of name-matching, he called it a day, and headed back to the groundcar depot. It was dark long before he got home. At the dog-end of the dry season, it was rare to get more than six hours of dull sunlight, and so the lights of the hab-towers flickered into life, one by one, during the drive back to his sector.

It remained hot for longer. Once out of the environment-controlled cab, he felt the seaminess of the air, with its salt-edged tang from the processors grinding away corewards. It would rain soon, surely. The season was meant to have ended a month back, and still the city felt gasping. He’d been told once that these things were regulated, that there were weather satellites strung out in low orbit designed to keep things in sync. If that were true, then they weren’t working very well.

Zidarov climbed up to his hab, feeling the weight of the long day bear down on him. As he reached the door to his unit, he heard music coming from the other side of it, and the smell of something cooking.

He pushed the lock home, punched in the code, and leant against the door to kick-start the slide-drive. Inside, Milija was waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting at the table. A bottle of rezi and two glasses were set out. She was already eating. As he entered, she got up and pulled another bowl from the microheater. She placed it on the table as he took his coat off, then came to kiss him.

‘How was your day?’ she asked.

‘You first,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder before sitting down.