‘Lost, citizen?’ said the lead guard. They had to be polite, up here – Zidarov could easily have been someone very important, despite appearances. Few ordinary mortals would ever have got this far.

He opened up his holo-seal for a second time. ‘I have an appointment with Ser Terashova. Probator Zidarov, Bastion-U.’

The guard looked doubtful. Zidarov noticed then that one of his hands was an augmetic replacement. It was covered in a glove, but metal glinted at the wrist. It looked nasty. He wondered what it could do.

‘He’s in closed council,’ metal-hand said. ‘He won’t be seeing anyone.’

‘He’ll see me,’ said Zidarov. ‘Just let him know I’m here. Agusto Zidarov. Missing persons.’

For a moment, it looked like metal-hand would hold out. But then he inclined his helmet, and something was clearly sent over a private comm-circuit. A moment later, and the guards stood down.

‘This way please, probator.’

Metal-hand led him under the archway and down the corri­dor beyond. The carpet was astonishing – a pile that felt as thick as a side of grox-meat, one that his boots just sank into, reaching up all the way over his soles. They reached a pair of double doors at the end, and metal-hand activated a chime. The doors swung open to reveal a chamber that could have comfortably housed a couple of the Bastion’s turbine-gunships. The furniture was extensive: settles, armchairs, low tables bearing bowls of fruit – which looked very much like it might be non-synthetic – all sitting on top of more thick-pile rugs scattered across a semi-reflective wooden floor. Near the far end was a curved conference table with seats for twenty. Six figures sat around it – three physically present, three ghostly hololithic projections.

There was no mistaking the chairman. Zidarov recognised Mordach Terashova from the picts Udmil had given him. He was a big man, a tall man, with a long black beard that spilled halfway down his chest. His skin was white like the fat on uncooked meat. He wore a blue-black half-coat over a black shirt. Every finger on his hand had a ring on it.

As Zidarov neared the table, Mordach said something to those gathered around him. The hololiths flickered out of existence. The three physical attendees rose, bowed, then withdrew through doors set in the far wall. Metal-hand withdrew in turn, walking all the way back across the chamber and closing the double doors behind him on his way out. After that Zidarov and Mordach were alone, in a room that could have hosted a few hundred and still not looked cramped.

Mordach went over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of opalwine.

‘Drink, probator?’ he asked.

He was on duty, so no. ‘A rezi, if you have it,’ Zidarov said.

Mordach reached for a crystal tumbler, clattered some ice into it, then poured the rezi from a squat bottle. Zidarov took it, and they chinked glasses.