The next day, Zidarov went back to the Bastion. He climbed up through the levels, this time not to his own department, but two floors down, where the probators for the northern subsectors were holed up. It looked more or less the same as his own floor – ranks of sweaty cells covered in veriquaries and order dockets. Some occupants worked away at lenses, others were huddled in conversation; some just sat back in their chairs, snoozing or slurping caffeine.

The one he’d come to see was at her station, scrolling through a list of something or other that looked detailed. She was smartly dressed, almost military-smart. Her shoulder-length dark-red hair was tied back, and the clutter on her desk was less pronounced than the others. When she saw him coming, for a minute he thought she might salute him.

Ajril Borodina, less than three months out of central training, still full of vim and a desire to please. It would be interesting to see how long that lasted. The old hacks in the upper floor were probably placing slate-bets.

‘Thanks for seeing me, probator,’ he said, grabbing an empty chair and pulling it up.

‘Any time,’ Borodina replied, shutting down her terminal and swinging round to face him. Throne, she looked young. Physically tough, he could see, but also slight, yet to put on the hard carapace of scars that they all donned, sooner or later.

‘Analysis told me you’d been working with a Vidora cell, up at the suborbitals,’ he said. ‘That right?’

She nodded. ‘Castellan wanted some intelligence on them. She thinks they’re pushing the boundaries.’

He knew what that meant. All the protection cartels operated in a kind of uneasy parity with the others, held in check by a desire for no single party to get too powerful and overwhelm the others. It was an imperfect system, constantly tested. If one group got too pushy, stretching the unwritten rules, that got the attention of the Bastion – the sanctioners might intervene, then, show them who carried the biggest weapons, restore the happier state of low-level aggressions. It didn’t stop the more ambitious of them, as Borodina said, pushing at the edges. Slate was a powerful motivator, whatever level of society you operated at.

‘So what do you think?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Not enough verifiable data.’

Not enough verifiable data. Still instructor-talk.

‘But they’re active on your patch.’

‘And yours, I’m guessing.’

‘Assuredly.’ He pulled up the material he’d taken from Chaikos, and it glowed on his false-colour retinal overlay. ‘I was at an import station over the High Ridge. They’re giving it up to a Vidora agent – the usual arrangement. I’d like to know which cell. I’ve got a code name from him – Yellowsnake. Mean anything to you? I don’t have it on my sector files.’