Zidarov wasn’t much better off. His heart was still hammering. A pool of sweat had collected at the small of his back.

He looked down at the trio of corpses. The bodyguards were just hired muscle, but Glav knew some things. It would have been better to bring him in. Still, it was Brecht’s case, and he’d been the one to end it.

He climbed up to the tanker’s cab, reached for the controls and stilled the engine. Then he clambered down, getting his breathing under control, and looked over at his fellow probator.

‘Worth the trouble?’ he asked.

Brecht nodded, covered in sweat. He was looking down at Glav’s body. ‘Guess so. One more out of commission.’

‘I thought you wanted to take him in?’

‘I did, but he was going to shoot you.’

‘I don’t think he’d have hit me.’

‘No, he was good. He’d have shot you.’

Zidarov holstered his pistol. ‘Thanks, then, I guess.’

‘My pleasure.’

In the distance, Zidarov heard the thud-thud of a Zurov turbine-gunship coming in. That would be carrying a hastily scrambled sanctioner squad from a response-garrison – six hardened troopers, stuffed with noctis-gear, blind grenades, autoguns, matt-black body armour – all expecting to have a live target to go after.

‘They’re going to be angry, aren’t they?’ Zidarov said.

‘Yes, they are.’

‘Then I guess I can leave you to talk it over.’

‘I guess you can.’

Zidarov started to walk away.

‘Listen, though – thanks,’ Brecht called after him. ‘I owe you.’

‘I’ll hold you to it.’

‘Any time.’

‘Yeah. Sooner than you think.’ He reached up for his shoulder, sore from where he’d wrenched it. ‘Right now, I’m going home.’

A few hours later, he woke up again. His body ached. He still smelled of chems.

It took him a moment or two to realise that he was back in his hab. He reached out, eyes still closed. The thick coverlet slipped down his forearm a little, and he walked with his ­fingers, searching.

Milija stirred, shuffling deeper into the mattress.

‘Go to the hells,’ she murmured.

He opened his eyes. His hand found her forearm.

It was still dark. A little grey light bled around the window frame where the shutters didn’t quite touch the sill. The chrono by the bed glowed with a red, semi-dormant lumen bead.

‘Morning,’ he said.

She grunted, half-lost in sleep, and shook his hand from her arm. ‘Where were you last night?’

‘Work.’

‘Hmm. Of course.’

He watched her for a little while, blinking his own sleep away. Then he drew a breath, and smelled the dorm-chamber – rough synthwool blankets, fresh polish on the rockcrete floor, the sweat of the night.

Home.