Zidarov adjusted his flak jacket under his coat. He had a dry, metallic taste in his mouth that he couldn’t shift. Maybe some hangover from last night. ‘Just in case you didn’t read everything in detail,’ he said, ‘only touch the Third Circle. I want a name for questioning – Yellowsnake. He’s Second Circle. Keep him alive. They may have another target in there, Adeard Terashova. He’s a civilian. Blond hair. Young. Don’t break his face, even if you want to. I know it’s a difficult concept. It’s all I ask. Other than that, have at it.’

Draj grunted, then thumbed at the others to clamber in. The sanctioners scaled the side-ladder and piled into the rear compartment, where low-level red lumens flickered on under the metal benches. The armoured doors swung closed, and the locks clamped. Draj walked around the far side of the cab and climbed in. Zidarov took his place beside him in the passenger seat.

The menials cleared out, and Draj gunned the engines, filling the depot with more smoke. The forward lumens blazed into life, throwing stark white pools against the far wall, and the entire chassis shook on its suspension.

Zidarov slipped a hand over a rail on the inside of the door. Riding in a Bulwark was never a comfortable experience, and Draj drove about as carefully as he drank. The flak jacket Zidarov wore was a heavier grade than usual, ready for whatever they might run into, and it was already making his chest ache.

Ahead, a pair of heavy blast doors rose up from the floor, grinding their way towards the high ceiling, exposing the pre-dawn exterior. The Bulwark rumbled down the slope, bumping over the threshold, then was out onto the transitway, picking up speed, picking up volume.

Draj wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He drove one-handed, keeping his left gauntlet close to the power maul at his belt. Every so often he’d cough, or snort, or hack something up. Enclosed within that mirrored helmet, it all echoed weirdly.

Zidarov sat back, gazing out of the narrow view-slit. The hab-blocks surged past as the Bulwark picked up speed. The city was strangely quiet just then, like a dormant machine, locked down, a smear of sodium lumens and bleak dark walls, bereft of the masses that swarmed the transitways once the sun was up. The air was thick, though, still taut with the promise of the storms to come.