Eisenhorn tried to tear himself away. Gobleka stabbed in with the needle. Eisenhorn got his hands up, trying to block. The injector’s needle wedged in the taut loops of the cuff-chain, centimetres from Eisenhorn’s throat.

Eisenhorn twisted his wrists, and the cuffs plucked the injector out of Gobleka’s hands. It went flying down the platform.

Gobleka broke off and turned to run for it. Eisenhorn moved after him, but was tackled from the side by Davinch. Together, they slammed into the cogitator bank. They grappled. Teeth gritted, hissing blood, Davinch clamped his hand around the back of Eisenhorn’s head and rammed his face into the edge of a cogitator’s casing. Eisenhorn stamped back into Davinch’s shin. As the man screamed in pain, Eisenhorn rotated, grabbed him by the front of his jacket and heaved him into the bank of screens. Another shattered, billowing sparks.

Eisenhorn had his weight on him. Davinch couldn’t pivot. He reached up and clawed at Eisenhorn’s throat. He got a grip and began to throttle, his fingers biting into Eisenhorn’s neck. Eisenhorn let himself be pulled down. He let go of the tattooed man’s jacket and allowed his hands to slide up the man’s chest, until he had a hand on either side of the man’s neck. The cuff-chain bit down into Davinch’s throat. Davinch started to splutter and choke, spitting gobs of blood. His legs milled wildly. He let go of Eisenhorn’s neck and began to pummel frantically.

Eisenhorn knew he didn’t have time to finish the kill. Gobleka was coming in again from behind. He grabbed Davinch by the shoulders, pulled the thrashing man around and smashed his head backwards through a cogitator screen.

Davinch slithered out of the unit in a shower of broken glass and tubing valves, and fell sideways onto the deck.

Eisenhorn turned to meet Gobleka. Gobleka circled, head low, tossing the injector from hand to hand like a knife, daring Eisenhorn with each hand. He dummied, then lunged, the injector in his right hand. Eisenhorn sidestepped and tried to sweep Gobleka into an over-extension with his cuffed hands. But Gobleka was surefooted, and he shoulder-barged Eisenhorn in the belly. He carried him backwards and drove his spine into the platform’s handrail.

Searing pain flared from the exit wound as it hit the rail. Eisenhorn gasped. Gobleka drove him again, then threw a low punch into his gut to agonise the entry wound as well. Eisenhorn stumbled sideways, flailing with his cuffed hands, trying to keep Gobleka at bay.

‘We’re done, you old bastard,’ said Gobleka, panting, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He hawked and spat on the deck. ‘All done now.’