The chime woke him from less than an hour’s sleep. It was like being pulled out of a well of oil by the hair, gasping for breath. When he tried to open his eyes, they didn’t obey.

The chime went off again, and he smacked his big hand into it. His lids dragged apart at last, and he pulled his body up from the covers.

It was still completely dark outside. Zidarov took a moment to remember that he was in Naxi’s old bed, and that he had to creep out of the hab quietly. It had been a hot night, and getting any sleep at all in that narrow cot had been nigh impossible. Still, better that than risk waking Milija when he’d finally got in.

He rubbed his face, massaging the stubbly skin hard, then slapped his cheek a couple of times. His gear was all laid out, just as normal. He stumbled out to the hygiene-chamber and did what he could to scrape the night from his body, before returning to the bedroom and reaching for his flak jacket, boots, coat, Tzarina. Then he was stomping out to the elevators again, clicking the locks behind him as quietly as he could. Once outside, his breath steamed in the pre-dawn chill as he headed for the Luxer.

The traffic was light on the way to the Bastion, and he engaged both drives. He felt punchy, sticky-headed. Adrenaline would kick in, he hoped, once things hit their stride, but for the time being he could have used more sleep, or maybe a jolt of caffeine, or maybe some food.

When he arrived, he didn’t pull into his usual berth, but parked closer to the underground depot used by the sanctioners. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and made his way down a long ramp into the echoing cavern where the Bulwarks were stowed. The place was poorly lit. Riot-wagons and bull bar-hung groundcars stood against the undressed rockcrete like bovines in a pen, black-green, blocky, enormous. Draj’s squad was prepping one of the Bulwarks at the far end of the chamber, and its smokestacks were already pumping. A gang of main­tenance menials, two of them servitors with machine tools grafted in place of hands, clattered and hammered around it, prodding the open service hatches and taking readings. Its wheels almost came up to Zidarov’s waist.

Draj was already suited, his face lost behind the blunt grille of his helmet. The five members of his squad were kicking their heels outside the open personnel compartment, similarly kitted out in black armour plates, noctis-sights, autoguns with las-targeters, smoke grenades.

‘His Hand, sergeant,’ Zidarov said, cupping his hands against the cold. ‘Any caffeine?’

Draj grunted. ‘Yeah,’ he said, slapping his stomach. ‘In here. An hour ago.’

A couple of his goons chuckled, then got on with checking the spare boxes of rounds.