With dismay, I see the confusion on her face, the heightened colour, the racing of her pulse. ‘You should rest, General.’

‘No, I must review the consignments.’ Her eyes cast about the room blindly. ‘Where are they?’

Pity jabs at my insides, like a pin worked loose. ‘Here.’ I hand her a tattered almanac from beside the bed.

She takes it solemnly. Then, her face clears and she stares up at me in abrupt, terrible clarity.

‘Low?’ she whispers.

‘I know.’ The pain jabs at me again, as I fill the syringe with cognitive enhancer. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be alright.’

She’s quiet, after that. I let her be. In any case, the time to rest has passed. It’s as Esterházy promised; like insects that favour the coolness of the night, dusk brings ships to Angel Share.

Not many, but enough to make me anxious. Some seem to stop only to refuel, others to visit the ramshackle stores, which open their doors at sundown. Most come for Ma Esterházy’s. From the second-storey window, I watch them swagger or hurry up the dirt drag, towards the blue house. This is the beating heart of Angel Share, giving out as it does sex and drink and news and authorisation; relief and warning in equal measure.

Bebe and Thrip run the brothel between them, renting out rooms to freelance workers who arrive on the ships. Ma Esterházy sits in her office off the bar, dispensing stamps brought to her by the consignment runners. The cargoes themselves come from all over; meat and dairy from Brovos, oil from the great floating belch of the Delos refineries, scrap from Tin Town, airtights and water from Prosper… Among the tags, I even spot the austere white and blue symbol of the Congregations, though what anyone on Factus would want with the handcrafted prayer beads and religious pamphlets of my home planet I have no notion.

Falco is right; this is a dangerous place for us to be, and yet I feel small enough to be lost in all the activity. We soon find ourselves seated around Ma Esterházy’s private table, set in an alcove from where we can see the whole bar. Silas smiles when he sees me; he’s also cleaned himself up some, washed his hair and trimmed his beard and moustache into what is more or less a style. Falco looks more herself, scalp freshly shaved, wearing bright orange lip-paint that she must have found somewhere. Peg too is clean, hair brushed for once, frizzing thanks to the dry air. And yet, each time the door creaks on its hinges, I see the two of them tense.

I was expecting the usual Factus fare of protein steaks in old fat and grains hard as teeth from long-storage, but I’m mistaken. Esterházy obviously has access to wares that most do not, and has spared no expense for her guests.