He still had the guilt sitting on him, the nagging voice in his head that told him last night had been a mistake, again, and that he needed to stop doing it. The whole thing was as old as time, as old as men and women had been on Alecto, but that didn’t make it safe. He had his family to think of. He had everything he’d built. It didn’t make him happy, though he kept hoping it would. It made him wretched.

The Bulwark bounced across a high kerb, barely slowing, thundering along like a big, confused beast. Draj hadn’t activated the deafening sirens or the lumens across the top of the cab, which surprised Zidarov, because that would have pissed off every sleeping citizen within ten miles of them, but he didn’t say anything about it.

‘Cell-drainers,’ Draj said, eventually.

Zidarov looked up at him, surprised to be addressed. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘Filthy bastards,’ Draj said.

‘Yes, they are,’ Zidarov said back.

Draj thought about it for a while. ‘I’d hook them up to their own machines. I’d watch them the whole time. I’d make them drink it back in.’

‘That’s very inventive of you, sergeant,’ said Zidarov. ‘Run it by Vongella. You never know.’

They were reaching the destination. Draj stopped talking, and started concentrating. Zidarov couldn’t smell much alcohol coming through his helmet’s vox-guard, so maybe he was actually taking this seriously.

He got the first pang of anticipation. He patted the pair of spare magazines strapped under his chest, just to make sure he’d remembered to include them. He checked he’d got the manacles at his belt, clipped the jawsnapper over his knuckles, then activated the flare-response dampeners in his iris. The sanctioners liked to set off blind grenades as they entered, just to add to the overall effect, and if you weren’t careful you could find yourself on your knees with your eyes streaming and your head ringing. He heard echoing clangs from the rear compartment as the sanctioners geared up to burst out.

‘Hold on,’ grunted Draj, swinging the riot-wagon round a corner and heading straight for a narrow opening between two larger buildings. On either side of them, the hab-blocks rose into the red-black of the night sky, decrepit even in the darkness, their outlines broken by bone-like escape gantries. The gap looked very small. He thought he saw bodies running, just silhouettes, and had no idea if they were regular civilians or part of the cell they’d come to smash.

Zidarov held on, as instructed. He vaguely recognised the profile of a couple of the taller blocks, the ones he’d spied on in daylight, before the Bulwark smashed hard through a low ­barrier slung across the tiny access route.