‘I don’t know. Vongella’s been locked up in the Bastion all day, and she’s had the Panthera on standby. I’d guess they’ve got something. Or wind of something. It’s got to happen soon. We’ll lose another sanctioner if they keep up raids at the rate they’ve been going.’

‘You know, I have to admire the woman’s commitment.’

‘That’s one word for it.’

‘See what you can find out. I’ll be back in an hour.’

‘You want to tag along, don’t you?’

‘It’d confirm some things I’ve started to think.’

‘You’d be about as welcome as a genestealer in a void-crate.’

Zidarov laughed. ‘No such thing as genestealers, Gyorgu.’

‘You say that, but I have this contact in the dockyard, and she told me–’

Zidarov cut the link. He depressed the control pedal a little more, going faster than was strictly safe. For the first time, he felt that he had something to go after, and it made him reckless.

As he drove, he activated the Luxer’s databanks. A spectral web of runes spread across the HUD, and the machine-spirit’s vox-interface hissed into life.

‘Medicae practitioners, rejuve specialism,’ he said, speaking into the console’s microphone, keeping more than half an eye on the road ahead. ‘Licensed to practise, clean records. Urgeyena urban-district.’

A long list of agents – names, clinics, loc-refs – ran down the screen, picked out in glowing green characters. The rainfall – patchy again, as if the heavens were unsure whether to truly let loose – streaked behind them.

‘Proximity to grade-eights – less than twenty miles.’

The list shortened.

‘Run them by me, ordered list. Audex summary, background on-screen.’

The machine-spirit’s avatar-voice – a mechanical, stilted simu­lacrum of a man’s – started to reel off data.

‘Fladir Borsch, Medicae-bay Best Health Centre. No known criminal record. Operated since–’

Zidarov drove on, listening to the data as it blurted awkwardly from the vox. More data flashed up on the HUD, some bits of it more useful than others. It made the journey pass quicker, if nothing else. By the time the Bastion reared up ahead of him, squatting in the drizzle like a huge, rain-wet cloak cast over the buildings beyond, he had an idea of what he wanted from it all.

‘Store loc-ref and immediate data for Subject Eight,’ he said, pulling off the main route and down an access ramp. ‘I’ll be paying him a visit once this is over.’