Imperial Naval Intelligence Headquarters, Orsolya

Grainy facial profiles scrolled sideways across Richard Sorge's cogitator; each face associated with a convicted criminal. Sorge lifted his hand from the keyboard and rolled his wrist and made claws with his fingers. How many of them could rip another man's jaw off then? Sorge massaged the back of his hand and broke his stinging eyes away from the screen. Four knocks sounded on his door. "Come in, Lidia."

"Sir." Lidia Enault came in holding a dataslate.

Sorge rubbed at a weeping eye. "Tell me our people have dug up something OSEC hasn't."

"Sir, our people are still going through the evidence as far as I know." Lidia laid the dataslate on the edge of Sorge's desk. "Accounts have flagged an irregular INI expenditure."

"Bring it to Barakat tomorrow. I'm in the middle of something here."

"Sir, Lieutenant Commander Barakat is not my immediate superior. Plus, he's gone home."

"Gone ho—" Sorge pinched the shoulder buttons on his chrono, illuminating the numerals. "God-Emperor! I'm losing track." Sorge slid the dataslate over. "Alright, what is it?" Sorge swiped down a list of INI expenditures that went out the door every month. Costs for heating, lighting, gas, replacement parts for cogitators, food stocks for the mess, and tools. "Er, Lidia?"

"Sir?"

"Can you show me what it is you found exactly? I'll be here all night otherwise."

"Yes, sir." Lidia took the dataslate back from Sorge. "Under F-for-firearm, sir, you'll find an irregularity."

"Firearm?" Sorge's brows knitted together. "Can I…?"

"Sir."

"One Kondrat SR-7. Four-thousand four-hundred and forty-nine Rako."

"Sir, if you track sideways, it will show you the requester."

"15R-3F. Third floor, room fifteen. Anything significant? Anything I should know?"

"Sir, their light is still on."

"Well then…" Sorge locked his screen and pressed the master power button on his cogitator. His greatcoat over his arm, Sorge spun the loop on his keycard around his finger. "Let's have a look."

Light shone through a crack in the door of Room 15 on the unlit floor beneath Sorge's office. "Would you mind for a second?" Sorge passed Lidia his greatcoat and knocked on the door and leaned inside. "Good evening, Mister Vantorout."

Benedek Vantorout's head jumped from his desk and he lurched backwards in his chair. "Urgh, sir…?"

"Not heading off home tonight, Ben?"

"Um…" Ben swung a lamp attached to an articulated arm away. Paper hung over the edges of stacked trays on Ben's desk and ring-stains coated the surface. Shiny prints covered his cogitator's keyboard. "The—the Siluvi is in with the Techs. Had a bit of a crunch today."

"Oh?" Sorge pulled the only other seat in the tiny office around and sat down. "Well, as long as you're in one piece."

"Yessir." Ben dragged his hand down his stubbly jaw.

"Take out your service weapon." Sorge balanced his cap in his lap and linked his fingers around his knee. Ben's hands worked together and his eyes darted about his crowded desk. "Ben?"

"Sir, something—something happened."

Sorge took the dataslate from Lidia and turned it towards Ben.

"Sir, I…"

"Come with me. Bring that."

A lone kettle whistled inside the mess kitchen. Sorge faced Ben across a table in the mess. Their caps sat on either side of the dataslate. "An officer's sidearm is as important to him as the rings on his sleeves, and they are as important to him as the commission bestowed upon him by the Lord Commander of Segmentum Obscurus himself. You've had the Emperor's commission for five years now, was it? Lieutenant Vantorout, Imperial Naval Reserve?"

"Five years, one month, eleven days, sir."

"For the other ranks, mistakes are permissible. Simple punishment for the simple-minded. A commissioned officer understands the severity of his or her crime, and for it their punishment is eightfold of what an OR would receive." Sorge tapped his fingernails. "Well, Ben?"

"Sir… I understand the actions I took this morning. Had I acted as an officer, it would have resulted in a murder."

"An officer as opposed to what? Explain." Sorge beckoned Lidia forwards. "Thank you, Lidia. We're done for the night."

"Yes, sir. Goodnight to you both."

"Goodnight, Lidia."

"Goodnight, Petty Officer."

Sorge's eyes followed Lidia out of the mess over the brim of his mug. "Okay, Ben, tell me."

"A vagrant fell from a bridge and landed on my bonnet. Other homeless were chasing her. Looked like a lynch-mob, sir."

"I'm going to need some Sacra in this, aren't I…" Sorge unscrewed the cap of a pocket flask and tipped it over his mug. "You?"

Ben made a fist beside his untouched mug. "No, I tell a lie, I did act as an officer should. I could have done nothing. I could have driven past and forgotten everything. What's another homeless lynched to us after all?"

"You picked up a vagrant. And this vagrant relieved you of your sidearm."

"She was frightened, sir."

"She? I know you have trouble at home, Ben—"

"That's none of your business, sir."

"If it's affecting your ability to work then it very much will be my business. It may also become the Admiral's business if I don't receive straight fact."

"Sir, my mistake was not realising who it was I carried in to my car. Now, I swear I didn't realise it before she removed her scarf. I damn-near ran the car off the road. Honestly, I'd hoped she take the car and leave me alone."

"To the end, Ben."

"I drove her to their enclave in Avramides. One of their soldiers took my sidearm. That's it, sir."

Sorge took down the rest of his Sacra-laced tea. "The Kondrat comes out of your pocket."

"Sir, I—I can't pay."

"That's not your decision. Wait here." Sorge left his greatcoat and cap in the mess and went to a public out in the hall. "Come on, Innes, pick up." Sorge clamped the receiver between his ear and shoulder and turned around in the half-cubicle.

"Hello?"

"Innes, Richard."

"Richard? Are you still in the office?"

"Innes, I may have a lead."

"Oh, marvellous. Who?"

"We're on a public line."

"Ah. Do you want me to come down to the office?"

Sorge covered the receiver and leaned out of the cubicle. "Er, no. Belay that one for now, Innes."

"Mmm, good news for a change. See you in the morning then, Richard."

"Goodnight, Innes." Sorge hung the receiver up on its hook. Ben sat with his head bowed over the full mug. "Right, come on. I'll drive you home."

"Sir?"

"Come on, you'll be walking an hour and ten to the bus and another hour sitting on iron springs, if you don't have your pockets slashed and you're dragged in to a back-alley on the way there. Come on, Ben." Sorge clapped a hand on Ben's shoulder. "Last one out, get the lights."

Wipers slashed through raindrops gathering on the windscreen of Sorge's Siluvi S15. Ben's chin and his folded arms lay on his chest. Warm air poured from the car's onboard heaters.

"She's still fresh in your mind, isn't she?"

"Hm, sir?"

"Tell me. Describe her."

"Err… hm-hmm." Ben sat up and pressed the side of his fist to his mouth. "Excuse me."

"Getting sentimental, Ben?"

"N—n—no, sir. She… She was—she stunk. God-Emperor, she stunk. Coated in muck too."

"Distinguishing features?"

"Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Yellowish. Gold maybe? Er, sort of an oval-shaped face. Pronounced jaw. Hard to miss."

"Height, build, posture?"

"Err…" Ben scratched the back of his head. "Couldn't tell. I was driving. She was in the back seat."

"Something—something, Ben."

"…Fingers."

"Go on…"

"Missing the first two fingers on her right hand."

First two fingers. Sorge's thumb caressed the steering wheel. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her my name."

"What you do? Where you work?"

"Nothing else, sir. Swear on the grave of my mother."

"And her?"

"Nothing."

"Not one word?"

"Nothing, sir. I know—I understand what I did, sir, but I'm dead certain I did no wrong picking that woman up. I couldn't pass it by, sir."

"Well, I know I needn't tell you to keep this to yourself."

"No sir, you do not."

"There's a good lad." Sorge pulled up outside Ben's house. "I shouldn't worry about the Kondrat now."

"Sir, you don't have to—"

"You giving me an order?"

"Uh, n-not at all, sir."

"Goodnight, Lieutenant."

"Goodnight, sir." Ben opened the passenger door and got out. His gate clanged shut and the outside light switched off.

Goodnight to you, my lad. Sorge smacked his palm on the steering wheel. What a coincidence! It couldn't be, surely. How long ago was it?

Twenty-five minutes later, Sorge rapped on a gate locked over a red front door. Twenty past ten. Not a chance you've gone to bed yet.

Locks clicked and a chain slid across. "Come on in, Richard." Barakat drew the door back. "Wipe your feet."

"Your place, I suppose." Sorge dragged his heels over a rough mat inside the porch and hung his cap and greatcoat on a hook. The only other affect hanging up were Barakat's own cap and greatcoat. "Is Varna not back yet?"

"You know she's not back yet, Richard. You know exactly where she is." Barakat sat himself down at the table in a tiled kitchen. Two mugs of tea stood ready on mats.

"I know where she is. I never said I knew what it was she was doing." Steam curled from the mugs. Sorge hooked a finger through the handle and sniffed.

"Are we—are we not good enough for our partners, Richard? Has the allure of the uniform worn bare, or do women only chase after the fighter pilots these days?"

"Could be that we're just boring, Innes. The plumage of middle-aged Naval Intelligence men can hardly compete with the young stars pulling all those Gs in the cockpit."

"Mm-hmph!" Barakat tipped the contents of his own flask in to his mug. "Tipple, Richard?"

"Ohh, I gave in to her already, Innes—heh!"

"Stoked your mood, I see."

"And we may have a very solid lead to go on."

Barakat set his mug down and leaned back on the legs of his chair. "Source?"

"Our Mister Vantorout."

"Vantorout from—from Third? Wh—how does that add up?"

"Do you have a bit of scrap paper, Innes? A pencil too?"

"I'll be interested to see this…" Barakat headed out of the kitchen and returned with a pad and a pencil. "Alright, do your worst."

Sorge explained to Barakat the story Ben had told, inbetween sketching a rough face on the pad. "So…" Sorge slid the pad over to Barakat once he had finished. "Our man – woman – under the spotlight."

Barakat's eyes narrowed and he leaned down to the sketch. "Bloody hell…"

"No human, Innes."

"A damned coincidence, Richard! How much have you had?"

"No human has the strength to do that to another."

"And you can—"

"—You can be damned sure that wasn't a lynch mob either. They were defending their territory from a serial killer, Innes!"

"Is OSEC aware of this?"

"Just Vantorout and I. Really, would you want anyone else knowing that you aided and abetted an enemy of the Imperium?"

"Richard!" Barakat stuck a finger up at the ceiling.

"Someone expecting you upstairs?"

"The walls."

"They're clean here, Innes. And thankful I am for this dead zone. Why, did you think I came over this late just for the tea?"

"I don't—I don't see why this couldn't have waited until we're back in the office, truth be told."

"We're not bringing it in to the office. It's just us and Vantorout. For now, at least."

"Trust him?"

"One word from me and he's down four-thousand-plus Rako for the service pistol he lost and up in the Admiral's office."

"Lost his service pistol!" Barakat's nose wrinkled. "How does an officer who has never even seen a rifle range lose his service weapon?"

"The slant-ears took it when he made contact. He won't say a word to anyone in the office."

"And at home?"

"With his other half? Pffft, not a slim chance. It's her property. Any word about the slant-ears from him and he's out on the street."

"Poor bastard." Barakat carried the two empty mugs to the sink. "And a bonnet to replace too."

"Oh, I'll leave him to deal with the fallout on that one."

"So, it's the wife or the Admiral." Barakat clicked his tongue. "Which bollocking would you take?"

"Hmph. Hmph-hmph." Sorge put his hands behind his head and tilted it back. "Thanks for the wet, Innes."

The sketch stared up at Sorge from the passenger seat on the way home. I know that face. Sorge balled his fist and struck his thigh. God-Emperor, I know that face.

Liquid filled Izuru's ears and stung her eyes. Her body drifted. Tubes ran up her nose and needles on the end of clear tubing poked out of her arms. Izuru's hand pressed against a transparent tank holding her and slid along the inside. She thumped at the glass, drew her hand back and hit it again.

A hand laid itself over Izuru's. Five little fingers to her three. Ilic? Korsarro? Izuru spread her fingers. Long, brown hair spilled over the child's shoulders on to white robes. Wide blue eyes stared up at Izuru. Her hand patted at the tank. Izuru tapped back and waved. Bubbles poured past Izuru's bare feet and rose inside the tank. Liquid drained and sucked her down. Mechadendrite arms plunged inside the tank. Claws dug in to Izuru's arms and carried her upwards in to blinding light. Bare metal cut in to Izuru's spine. Needles pierced the skin on her arms and thighs. Pointed-eared beings in white robes leaned over her. Masks covered their faces. Izuru's chest bucked and her neck twisted. A shiny, viscous liquid coated her body.

"Gaied bionerath!" A hand landed on Izuru's shoulder and held her down. "Etharan, etharan, slidd-oraeos. Ea-eosar ue raibha oiche." Blackspots crawled across Izuru's vision. Her taught fingers slackened and her eyelids drooped. Warms sheets swathed Izuru. A pillowed swallowed her head. Shafts of light filtered through a dimmed window above her.

"Children…"

"Ota? Iem lavair embassy. Iam Catumen Setsiba Galah-Shah." A female reclining on a repulsor chair laid a tablet down and placed her bare feet on the carpeted floor. A wide, green sash held a set of white robes tightly at the waist. A thick, brown braid fell down her shoulder.

"C—cannot…" Izuru clasped her throat.

"Prithee, forgiveness, fair stranger." The female swivelled her chair and took a bowl filled with grey liquid from a stone step. "Drink."

Izuru slurped from the bowl. Soup stuck to her lips. "I could not understand you."

"Well, your Gothic makes up for it. I have never known one of us to forget our mother tongue."

"Where am I?" Izuru held the bowl out to the female. Her arm trembled and the bowl tilted.

"Planet Haven. The capital Orsolya, to grant it a name." The female's hands cupped the bowl and set it down. "Setsiba Galah-Shah, ambassador from the Craftworld Zalilea."

"Haven…" Izuru held the sheets to her throat. "A—A—Am I supposed to be here?"

"We expected our newest to be with us ten weeks ago. Did they send you alone?"

The hairs on Izuru's arms stood on end. "There were two of us."

Setsiba leaned forwards and touched Izuru's elbow. "A name?"

"Solene Yirryl."

"Welcome, Lady Yirryl."

"My… My uncle—" Izuru whimpered and stuffed the sheet against her mouth. She rolled on to her shoulder and dug her hands inside her armpits. The light above her grew weaker. Lamps on the end of curving arms left the room in semi-darkness. Long after the departure of the light, Izuru lifted her head from her sodden pillow and pushed the damp sheets away. Carpet tickled her bare feet. White clouds came from her nostrils. Izuru touched her ear and ran her fingers across the back of her skull. Her nails scratched short stubble. My hair. Izuru's heart yammered. She clapped her hands around her nose, sucked in air, and held it. Calm, calm, calm.

Naked, Izuru limped around the room, her hands over her elbows and her arms against her breasts. She stooped and pulled her right foot in. The tips of the fourth and fifth toe were gone. Only rounded stumps remained. Izuru bit on a knuckle and rocked. She mimed holding a Ranger Long Rifle and brought it up to her shoulder and curled her trigger finger. No. Gods, no. Izuru clutched her maimed hand and pressed it to her brow and fell in to a squat.

"Lady Yirryl?" A Zalilean knocked on the wooden doorframe. A folded, blue robe hung from one arm. Izuru scooted away from the Zalilean and crammed herself in a corner. "Oh, forgive my intrusion, my lady—" The Zalilean unfolded the robe and spread it. She kept her eyes on the carpet and held the robe out to Izuru. "We will not disturb you until you are ready to come down." Izuru snatched the robe and held it over her shoulders. The Zalilean backed away and left the bedchamber. Izuru wiped the soft wool over her sticky cheek and buried her nose in it.

An eye watched Izuru from around the doorframe, wide and blue. Izuru scrunched the robe up at her throat and stretched out her arm. "Hello." A low rasp rose in her throat. "Hmm—hmm." Izuru spluttered and clamped the back of her hand over her mouth. "Erm, sorry. I'm a little bit out of sorts." The eye slunk out of sight. "Child?" Izuru thrust her arms through the sleeves, belted the robe and hobbled out in to a bare, stone corridor. Wooden boards ran along the walls up to waist height. White crystals glittered inside closed brackets hanging from the mosaiced ceiling. Bronze stars and diamonds filled arches. "Child?" Izuru's elbows pressed against her ribs. She clasped her collar shut. The corridor tilted and Izuru's shoulder cracked against stone. "Uncle."

Blurs in white rushed up to Izuru and caught her by the arms. Izuru's feet left the floor. Her body sunk in to a mattress and a pillow closed around her head. "Izuru?"

"Uncle!" Izuru shot upright. Her hand closed over her heaving chest. The bedsheets stuck to her skin. Outside, the light grew from grey to deep orange. Sunlight edged up the walls of the bedchamber. Izuru perched sideways on her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees.

"Um…" A Zalilean knocked on the doorframe. "Did you sleep well, Lady Yirryl?" Izuru shook her head. Her chin touched her knee. "Will you join us for morning prayers? Isha favours the devout." Izuru closed her eyes and hid her face behind her knees. The Zalilean's footsteps died away. Lady Yirryl. Lady Solene Yirryl. Izuru brought her right hand up to her eyes and curled her fingers. I am Solene Yirryl.

Later in the morning, Zalileans sat around a green, star-shaped table with eight points. Izuru hooked her fingers through one of the diamonds filling an arch overlooking the table on the floor below and rested her brow on the cool metal. At the tip of the uppermost point sat the ambassador. "May the Unremembered welcome our newest." The ambassador smiled up at Izuru. "Will you join us, friend?" A Zalilean vacated her repulsor-chair at the ambassador's left. A human shawl covered her shoulders. Izuru's eyes followed the bright blue wool. "You are welcome here." The ambassador laid her hand on the back of the chair. "And delighted we are to receive you. Allow me to introduce our company."

The repulsor-chair wobbled beneath Izuru. Her fingers dug in to the arms. Her shoulders hunched. Zalileans spoke one by one, all of it flying past Izuru's ears.

"Lady Yirryl?"

"Hm?" Izuru's head twitched. She scratched at stubble above her ear.

"I hope you can forgive us for your hair. Lice held dominion and we judged it better to start afresh."

"I see."

"Is there anything you wish to know about present company?" Eyes fell on Izuru. A kettle whistled a few rooms away. "Now then, today we—"

"Your daughter is very beautiful."

"…My daughter? You—you must be mistaken, lady, I have not sired."

"Younglings are prohibited from entering the embassy," another Zalilean said. "Such scant a number are they, we forbid them from leaving their place of residence. What future have we without them?"

"I saw her."

"Lady Yirryl has yet to receive her orientation. Her body is still recovering, gentlebeings. Please, withhold questions for now. If you would like to turn your eyes to our first highlighted topic, we can commence this morning's meeting."

Hands clenched beneath the table's edge, Izuru fixed her stare on her distorted reflection in a tall glass. Her pale crown shone in the light. Dark grey ringed her eyes. Deep red lines stood out on her cheeks and brow.

"Lady Yirryl?" Vacant chairs sat around the table. Only Setsiba remained. "Lady Yirryl…?"

"Oh, um, I'm—I'm sorry." Izuru flexed her right hand. "…Hurts."

"I am sorry we could not save your fingers and toes." Setsiba leaned forwards on her elbows and interlocked her fingers. "We are… You could say in a prison of our own making. A single boundary wall is all that separates us from the human mob in Orsolya. Surrounded. An unremembered island in the storm."

"Zalilea?"

"A proud little nation of seven million, something the great enemy took issue with. Now, as far as I am aware, the population of the Craftworld Zalilea number four-hundred and seventy-nine." Setsiba offered Izuru her hand. "Zalilean or not, you are welcome here."

Izuru's hands stayed in her lap. "You would offer sanctuary to a liar and a thief?"

"Refugee, beggar, charlatan. Those who sit at this table own nought but the clothes on their back. You saw the human garment my colleague wears. I myself was the eighty-third in line for leadership of Zalilea."

"A Seer?"

"A tutor. I schooled the young." Setsiba's walked her fingers across the table. "Night tutoring too. What does your robe conceal?"

"Murder."

Setsiba's smile faded. Her hand withdrew. "Acting in the defence of one's Craftworld is not murder."

"I am loyal to none."

"To whose banner do you swear yourself?"

"To none."

Setsiba moved a glass pitcher over and refilled her glass. "Will you tell me your real name? Yirryl is your uncle's name. It is your uncle's name. Why hide behind his shadow? It cannot absolve you of your sins."

"My sins are mine to bear."

Setsiba raised her hands. "I am not accusing you of anything. As guest, you are protected from all evils. Warriors, we are not. Our hands construct, they guide with gentleness, with patience. I beseech, extend courtesy to a tutor of the young and speak your name."

Izuru squeezed her thumb inside her fingers. Her teeth grated together. "Protected from all evil…"

"Yes."

"But the evil I bring with me."

"Does it stain your good name so much that you take the name of another dear to you. Is it really a good idea to turn your back on the wrongs you wrought and cower in their shadow. How would your own blood view their progenitor?"

Izuru pushed herself away from the chair and left the table. Upstairs, Izuru slammed the bed-chamber door behind her and collapsed on the bed and wrapped the pillow around her head.

Orsolya Outskirts, 18:49

Solar panels filling barren plains in the thousands caught the last of the day's sunlight and shone in Setsiba's eyes. A wavering dial ghosted the red on the Vetruvi's engine temperature gauge. Setsiba's Lho-stick hissed. Smoke poured from her AdMech hood and flew out of the open windows. Overhead signs flashed at the cruising Vetruvi. Curfew 20:00 – 06:00. Violators will be prosecuted. Looters will be shot.

Shipping containers lay half-buried in landfill sites patrolled by human-operated mechs. Refuse showered the gaping maws of haulers hovering above the landfill. A mech stomped past a wire-topped fence running alongside the road leading out of Orsolya, each footfall sending a buzz through the Vetruvi. First, second, third turnoff on the right. Setsiba flicked her indicator down and pulled the Vetruvi off the main road and along a single track running between rusted skeletons of human motor vehicles stacked seven and eight high. Dirty air rose from the Vetruvi's tyres. Setsiba wound her windows up and guided the Vetruvi in a tight circle around a pair of vehicles arranged in a crude arch and parked alongside a tall, square, four-wheeled drive. SHI-55479GX. Setsiba crushed the note in her fist and ripped it in to scraps. She pressed two large cheek-guards together and tipped the peak of the cap she wore beneath her hood down; baring only her eyes. Twisted iron groaned. Dust whipped through the dim passages between shipping containers. Each container bore a five-digit number followed by two letters printed in flaking white paint.

Five-five-six. Setsiba brushed dust from a container's serial and moved on. Five-five-four-seven-nine. The container's locking bar sat outside its bracket. Setsiba pulled the dry rod back and nudged the thick door open with her foot. The hem of her cloak dragged at the edges of the container on her way inside. Setsiba drew the door to. Squashed boxes coated in dust piled the inside of the container. Square cartons, their bodies slashed, had collapsed on top of each other. Setsiba clambered over and across the junk to the far end of the container. Her gloved hands ran over the sealed door and around the edges. Not a chance with this one backed up against another. Setsiba pinched her nostrils shut. Gods, that dust. She screwed up her eyes and swallowed. Dust.

A carton, free of dust, sat upon a squashed box, also free of dust. Setsiba dug her toecap beneath the box and lifted it aside. A painted wheel lock protruded from a circular hatch. Setsiba dipped her head and sniffed. Human.

Setsiba's elbows scraped rough ferrocrete. Her heels grated on thin rungs leading down a shaft. At the base, right-angled hooks led along a tunnel lit by bare bulbs. On one side were steps, the other a smooth slope. Music drifted up to Setsiba. Light shone from a half-open blast door. Setsiba caught a whiff of cooking meat. Her stomach murmured.

Pale yellow paint coated the walls inside an underground complex. Setsiba entered an empty mess hall wide enough to seat hundreds. Through a hatch separating the mess from the kitchen, a hissing pot sat on a stove. A growing whine drew Setsiba over to the kitchen. Boiling water jumped from beneath the clattering pot lid and splattered the hob. Five. The dial snapped sideways and the pot settled. A splash drew Setsiba out of the kitchen. Reflections wavered on a stone wall painted white. A flexi-disk rotated inside a silver box on the edge of a rectangular pool. Two prosthetic legs stood inside a pair of heavy, brown walking shoes. A bald head broke the surface.

"At Shimago's expense, I hope." Setsiba clicked the stop button.

"You'd hope." Water streamed from the human's crown and down a thick, broken nose. Muscled arms rested on the edge of the pool. "This bunker came out of the planetary government's pocket, and the Navy is all the better for it, Ambassador."

"Shame. I see that name all too frequently now. Billboards, magazines. They even sing Shimago's praises over the vox-net."

"You listen?" The bald human hoisted his body out of the water and dragged himself on to his back. Smooth, rounded stumps ended just above the knees. The human swivelled and reached for his prosthetics.

"Is it Ikram today, human?"

"We can make it Ikram today if you wish, Ambassador." Ikram tightened the clasps on his legs and got up.

"Not your real name."

Ikram's flint eyes crinkled. "Never. If you'll excuse me. I have food coming up to the boil."

"I shouldn't worry about that. I noticed it and…"

"Ah! Well, credit to you." Ikram took a towel from a shelf and hung it around his neck. "The swim is free, by the way."

"Information costs."

"Hmph." Ikram clacked along the side of the pool, his boots dangling by their laces. "It's there if you wish. I'll be in the commons area."

Setsiba listened to the diminishing clack of the human's feet. She kneeled and swirled her hand in the clear water. Planetary government hoarding all this water below ground while we drink recycled urine. Setsiba peeled apart her cheek-guards, set her cap on the tiles, and undid her belt.

Glossy wood panels covered the walls of a dining area. Small bulbs hung from the curving ceiling painted a dull pink. Setsiba, her hair bound in a towel, sat at a long table opposite Ikram and ate from a bowl of broth. Ikram twiddled two long sticks in his fingers and tipped the bowl up and drank the last of the broth. "Rude of me. I never asked if you liked wheat noodles or not."

"Mm—" A noodle dropped from Setsiba's mouth. She dipped her head and wiped her chin. "Does a guest refuse their host's food?"

"I wouldn't have minded."

"No, they are delicious." Setsiba guided her sticks through the last of the broth clinging to the bottom of the bowl. "My compliments to the Imperial Navy."

"Compliment taken." Broken, wonky teeth showed. "Ambassador."

"Very – very – watery, I will say." Setsiba dabbed at the corners of her mouth. "I trust our agreement is unchanged."

"Unchanged for now…" Ikram sucked in a cheek. "Well, when I say…"

Setsiba edged her chair back and leaned forwards. "Yes…?"

"One of our—one of Grukan's sources was murdered in Lutu—Lutufeyo district—three days ago. Evidence points to one of yours as the perpetrator."

"Evidence? Can you say for certain one of my people had a hand in the crime?"

"Traces of a crystalline substance found on the body. One of yours, no doubt about it."

"I might offer assistance. What are you bringing in exchange?"

"Your continued upkeep. That little walled compound you enjoy endures because of these liaisons. I give, you give. The Orsolyans would see you evicted and strung up given the opportunity. You and I keep that wall standing, and your people safe."

Setsiba rested her jaw against her fist. Ikram's fingers drummed. "I know of no curfew-violators in my enclave. Our warriors watch the portals day and night. Nor do I know of any personal vendettas. We are not beings inclined to violence, Ikram. Not every xenos jumps at the opportunity to slaughter humans."

Ikram's hairless brow raised. "You are certain it wasn't any of yours?"

"Without conducting my own investigation, I am leadless. Have patience, Ikram, there is no word in our mother tongue for scapegoat."

"Grukan needs that information."

"He will have it." Setsiba laid a sweating palm on the table. "I am also after information on one of my own. This one a foreigner. Ten weeks ago, we were due an arrival coming from a very long way away. I believe your people intercepted their ship and interned them. I very much wish closure on the affair."

"Ten weeks…" Ikram's thumb drew a circle. "Could this be connected to the murders somehow?"

Murders? There were more than one! Setsiba pinched her thigh through her robe. "Possibly."

"Just knowledge? I will need to speak to Grukan then. See if he can dig up any gen on prisoners acquired within the last three months."

"You will be speaking to him anyway in an hour or two."

"Aha, yeah."

"You will send him my regards?"

"Of course."

"And your culinary skills. Tell Grukan I hold them in very high regard."

"Hmph. More than my old lady ever gave me."

"Old lady?"

"The missus, the other half."

"And where… Where would I find a provisioner specialising in these wheat noodles?"

"Perhaps a shipment could be arranged."

"As stated here." Setsiba unfolded a piece of lined paper. "Everything we need for this month."

Ikram frowned at the note and looked down his nose at it. "Blast it." Ikram took a pair of wire glasses out of a pocket on his shirt breast.

"…You served?"

Ikram slid the glasses up the uneven bridge. "Not what you'd think. The legs were during service. The face was during a bout."

"Bout?"

"Old-style boxing. Er, Grukan won't agree to firearms." Ikram slid the note over.

"Well, we—"

"You have security."

"When our wall comes down, I want every one of us armed and ready to fight."

"You are not beings inclined to violence."

"There is a difference between defending our families and seeking slaughter."

"Look, I can guarantee a violent solution won't be anything but a detriment to your enclave. Let Grukan sort it out with Orsolya and the planetary government. Let them come to a political settlement. We both would like to see this end in your safe repatriation."

"To where?"

"That's above my salary. Grukan's salary too." Ikram pressed his fingertip to the note and slid it over to his side. "I guarantee the provisions, the fuel, and the clothing will be provided. The arms and ammunition are your problem."

"We could do with some Sacra too."

"Hmph." Ikram smirked. "Make a human out of you yet."

"Uh-huh." Setsiba's cheeks warmed. "No, thank you. I am a Zalilean yearning for her homeworld."

"You'll see it again."

"I do entertain that fantasy on occasion." Setsiba smiled. "On occasion."

"That's just gone half-seven." Ikram wound a dial on his wrist chrono.

"I—I would ask…"

"Ask away."

"Are you in pain? We have treatment for amputees."

"I don't really notice after thirty-five years." Ikram reached beneath the table and scratched his thigh. "They're just another extension of me."

Haven's moons had risen above the layer of smog in the dusk sky. Dust coated the Vetruvi and Ikram's vehicle. Setsiba sat herself in the cold driver's seat and parted her cheek-guards. Ikram hopped in to his ride and stuck his thumb out of the window. You go first.

Setsiba peeled around Ikram and returned his wave. "Lights off," Ikram mouthed.

Lights off. Setsiba twisted her indicator lever. And goodnight to you, sir.

Ikram's Wolf mounted the ramp leading up from the tunnel and passed through the gate leading in to INI HQ. Past curfew, there were very few occupied spaces left in the parking bay. Ikram parked inside his own bay and switched off. An out of order sign stuck to the front of the bureau's sole drinks dispenser on the ground floor. Ikram tapped the machine with the side of his fist and carried on to the turbolifts at the far end of the hallway. You'd better not be out of order too.

The doors opened and Ikram stepped out on to Fourth. Light peeped through the crack beneath the door of Room 28, the only lit room on Fourth. "Come." Grukan's voice answered Ikram's knock.

"Evening, sir." Ikram entered the office.

"Good evening, Warrant Officer." Two cups sat on Commander Sorge's desk. Smoke spiralled from his ashtray. "Smoke?"

"I'll take the drink, sir." Ikram grasped the cup by its cardboard ring. "Thanks."

"Still steering strong?"

"Mm—" Ikram jerked the cup away from his lips. "Agh, excuse me, sir. Hot."

"Our agreement still stands?"

Ikram dug in his trouser pocket and slapped the note on Sorge's desk. "They're asking for arms and ammunition now, sir."

"I can see that." Sorge's thumb tracked down the list. "And they can jolly well get them from the same place everyone else does; the street."

"Everything else goes through?"

"Nothing else strikes a red." Sorge squashed the note in his fist and dropped it in his incinerator. "They'll take what they're given."

"Sir? I—I mentioned our little conundrum to the ambassador. There's not a being among them petty enough to pursue a vendetta. She is also certain that any absence from their closed community would be noticed."

"I wouldn't waste any bother on that. I am aware of the murderer's identity."

"You know him! Well, why hasn't he been picked up?"

"She is of more use to me inside that enclave now than in one of our cells."

Ikram's fist tightened around his cup. "She lied. The ambassador claimed ignorance of the killer's identity."

"And so she should! Our ambassador isn't going to deliver one of her own to the enemy on a golden platter. I want our perpetrator on the other side of that wall where she can squawk."

"I don't see how having her there helps us, sir."

"It won't help you at all, Warrant Officer. You will continue these monthly meetings with our ambassador in a gentlemanly manner. Do tell me you have some information…"

"The Eldar situation is unchanged, sir."

"You have nothing."

"I have a request from the ambassador."

"A request? Your mission is information. Amuse her, woo her, sleep with her. Do anything to squeeze every last little tidbit out of her."

"If it's pillow-talk you want, sir, a younger, more active officer would be better suited for that exercise. The ambassador wishes to know of any Eldar prisoners being held on Haven. Prisoners taken within the last three months, sir."

"Why?"

"They expected a new arrival ten weeks ago, sir. Our lot may have interfered in some capacity."

"Alive or…?"

"I don't know, sir."

"A stiff, most likely." Sorge stabbed the end of his cigarette in the tray. "Alright, Warrant Officer, I'll book you off for the rest of the week. I'll make sure your money is transferred tonight. Enjoy your free time."

"Thank you, sir." Ikram carried his cup out with him.

"Estoc?"

"Sir?"

"Keep doing what you're doing. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sir." Estoc closed the door behind him.

The digits on Richard Sorge's chrono hit 21:00. Seven cigarette butts, smoked in the last hour, nestled in his ashtray. If it's pillow-talk you want, sir, a younger, more active officer would be better suited for that exercise. Sorge's fingers rested on the keyboard attached to his cogitator. Little flecks of ash lay in the gaps between the keys. Younger, more active officer. Sorge twisted a lever at the base of his chair and tilted it back. He lit his eighth and stared at the gently rotating ceiling.

"Espiotis Naval Prison, Chief Petty Officer Rosel speaking."

Sorge held the receiver between his ear and shoulder and balanced a pen and a piece of notepaper. "Good evening. My name is Commander Sorge."

"Good evening, sir. How can I help?"

"I would like to speak to Lieutenant Commander Henicken. Is he available?"

"Yes, sir. If I could take your full name, rank, and number, I'll transfer you across."

"Reichert Adonis Charles Sorge, Commander, Imperial Naval Intelligence, GR989714."

"Yes, sir. Is this to do with an inhouse detainee or a pending sentence?"

"Inhouse."

"Yessir. One moment, please." A single tone beeped in Sorge's ear. He coughed.

"Lieutenant Commander Henicken speaking. What can I do for you this evening, sir?"

"You can drop the sir for starters, Niele."

"Richard! Wow, I can hear that heart failure all the way up here."

"Forty years, Niele. I'm going out at ninety-seven."

"Forty years! If that's not rubbing it in, I don't know what is. Not all of us can afford treatment, Richard. Are you still on the sixty a day?"

"Heh."

"And that morning mix? Recaf mixed with Sacra, was it?"

"Alright, alright, Niele. I'm—I'm running late here."

"Yeah, what are you doing in the office so late?"

"Well, what are you doing in the office so late—haha!"

"Oh! Sorry, my boss has just walked past the window. I'm not supposed to be using this line for personal calls."

"Never said it was, Niele."

"Ha! Thank the Emperor for that. What can I do for you?"

"You can help me pin down an inhouse for me. Do you have a piece of paper handy?"

"I have a cogitator."

"First class!"

"Fire away, Richard."

Zalilean Enclave, Avramides District

Izuru's body jerked. Her eyes snapped open and she swung in to a sitting position. Dry lips parted and her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. Where are you? Cold moisture gathered on Izuru's nape and ran down her shoulderblades. She scooped her crumpled robe from the floor, dragged it across the bedsheets, and slipped her arms through the sleeves. Izuru tied the belt around her waist and crept out on to the landing above the embassy's ground floor.

Stone steps numbed Izuru's bare feet. She hitched the long ends of her robe up and pattered down to the ground floor. Two bolts held a pair of wooden double doors shut at the end of the entrance hall. Izuru wobbled on tiptoes and hauled the upper bolt across. Iron clanged. Izuru clamped her teeth together and threw a quick look behind. The lower bolt gave way and chill air blew through the widening gap. Izuru's jaw quivered and she pulled her hood up.

Lights twinkled in the sky above a thirty-foot-high wall cutting straight across the street, quite different to the very human structures it shadowed. Izuru wandered down the street to the wall. A gentle hum met her fingertips. Wraithbone. Izuru lifted her hand away and closed her fist. How did it get here?

Sentinels in emerald green armour paced the wall. Biel-Tani? Izuru fell against the narrow staircase and peeped over the top step. Gods, no. Right where the Prophet wants me.

"Aarthi yess aith!"

Izuru flinched. Above and behind her, a sentinel pointed a longarm at her. "I—I—I cannot—cannot understand." Izuru wobbled upright and held her hands above her head. "My tongue is severed."

Two of the emerald sentinels marched behind Izuru back inside the embassy and up the stairs. A gauntlet hammered on a closed door on the top floor. "Catumen? Catumen?"

"Edsam?" Setsiba Galah-Shah, long-haired and clad in a nightshirt, opened the door.

"Saim istaur."

"In Gothic."

"Gothic? How does one lose the mother tongue? This is a spy, Ambassador."

"Lower your hood. Please, lower your hood." Izuru drew her hood back and clutched her collar shut. "There. Satisfied? You found your spy, now return to your posts."

"Forgiveness," Izuru muttered once the sentinels had gone.

Setsiba came out in to the hall in slippers and a shawl. "I cannot sleep either."

Frothy, brown liquid filled two mugs, white for Izuru, red for Setsiba. The two sat in a kitchen beneath the ground floor. Embers glowed in a stone fireplace. "We've been rather converted, these past four months." Setsiba stirred her drink. "To the heathen way of the human." Izuru's eyes fixed on the mug's contents. Her folded arms remained on the wooden tabletop. "They call it Hot Cocoa. The little ones love it."

"You have not sired."

"Could you have dreamed it? The mind is most potent on the threshold of slumber."

"The Foresight."

Setsiba moved her mug against Izuru's. "If so, a toast to your future happiness."

"My future…?"

"Your future happiness, wanderer."

"Beggar."

"Can we put a closure to that chapter? You are safe here with us. We will happily clothe and keep you. Tell me your name. Only your name." Setsiba's hand closed around Izuru's. Izuru lifted her arms off the table and clasped her hands in her lap.

"I request political asylum."

"Political—"

"This is Eldar territory, is it not? I have seen the Wraithbone separating us from the human zone. Can you guarantee my safety?"

"As representative of the Craftworld Zalilea, I guarantee you political asylum, friend, after you speak your name."

"Izuru Numerial."

"And I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Izuru. Do you mind if I know you as Izuru? At least in private."

"Mm, fine."

"The cocoa is there if you want it."

"What's on the other side?" Izuru's cold eyes bored in to Setsiba's. "What's beyond that wall?"

"The fringe of the Avramides district. The lights in the sky you saw is the upper level of the Gorev district. There, the Orsolyan elite hide behind their Void Shield. Beneath them, the rats in the mud can only cower in their hovels."

"What is on the other side of the wall?"

"D—directly on the other side? A road, human habitation units, an elevated circuit for traffic…"

"How did I get here?"

"Surely it was the wills of the Gods."

Izuru's fingers tightened around the mug. "Don't be an idiot."

"What with everything upended these past months, it is nothing short of a miracle, you making it to us."

Izuru's head tilted down. Her brows lowered. "I did not come alone."

"…Which is precisely the issue I wish to pass between us."

Izuru sucked air through her nostrils. "Tell me," she growled.

"There are those in authority – a few – that do not see us through the same tinted lenses as the ordinary rabble."

"Whose bed do you grant warmth?"

"If you wish to know your uncle's fate, play the mute. I deal with the humans alone. Gratitude for sharing your name. I look forward to hearing your voice at our table." Setsiba took her empty mug over to a sink and held it under jetting water. "I shall bid you goodnight now, Izuru. Safe slumber."

A wall-mounted chrono ticked away the small hours. Stone cold cocoa sat in Izuru's mug. Her head tipped forwards and fell on to her arms. Leaden eyelids closed.

Lower Gorev District, 04:51

A searchlight swung over Ovaiz van der Beek's patrol car. Very funny, Feathers. Ovi grabbed the receiver from his vehicle's onboard vox unit. "Control, TL217. I'm rolling north on the Lerata, Lower Gorev-Lutu line. Feathers is blasting me with the Emperor's holy light. Beg for him to desist, please."

"TL217, wait one." The searchlight span away from Ovi's car. It belonged to an unmarked Valkyrie painted black. "TL217, we have no airships operating the Lower Gorev-Lutu line at this time."

"Thought not. Never mind, Control. Out."

Lights sparkled. Black smoke poured from a three-storey building. A swirling, orange inferno filled the second and third floor. Three OSEC vehicles stood stationary in the street outside a fenced-off compound. Iron gates lay on the ground. Dust coated the OSEC vehicles. The side windows had shattered in the two nearest to the gate. Three bodies lay underneath groundsheets. They wore OSEC-issue boots.

"The meatwagon—where's the meatwagon?" An officer ran at Ovi's window even before Ovi had brought the car to a halt. He knocked on the glass. "We called for the meatwagon."

"Er, sorry, I heard—I heard you on the net." Ovi buzzed his window down. "I didn't catch the code." Grime and shining sweat covered the officer's shaven head. His respirator bounced against his body armour.

"We had an informant tip us off on a ritual practise going on tonight at the address behind us. Four of us went in, two held outside…" The officer shook his head. "Not twenty seconds later, the whole building goes up."

Ovi dragged on his handbrake and turned off. "You trust informants?"

"Don't start worrying until their money stops."

"D'you need medical assistance?"

"Not me." The officer led Ovi around to an officer lying against a patrol car with blown-out tyres. "Caught in the blast. I patched him up as best I could. Ticked every box. Now, where's the fucking meatwagon?"

"Hey, Alek." Ovi got down on his knees. Alek's right sleeve was torn from cuff to shoulder. Blood wept from dirty gauze tied around his neck.

"O—Ovi…" Alek's fingers found Ovi's wrist.

"Did you stick him?"

The officer raised a finger. "One, yeah, one. Just to keep him quiet. That's his blood on the ground."

"Did you use your…?"

"Y—yeah, I used my foam, my dressings."

"Still bleeding…" Ovi bit in to a plastic packed holding a dressing.

"Ovi, I've got fifteen-thousand in the pot. What do I do?" The heel of Alek's right boot had been peeled back. Bits of bloody flesh dripped.

"Where's the—where's the fourth badge? There's three over there."

"Ovi, I don't know what to do with it."

The officer bent over his knees and spat. "Listen, I got fucked hauling out those three. The smoke…"

"What's the fourth's name?"

"Lofrio. I'm Worrow."

"Take over." Ovi jabbed his finger at Alek's foot.

"Uh?"

"Take over!" Ovi hared through the gateway and up the steps. Heat blasted his skin and itched his eyes. Fire dripped from burning awnings. "Lofrio?" Ovi stumbled through a lounge filled with smoke. Bright red paint shone on the wall: KEEP SENDING US BODIES OSEC. Beside the writing was a smiling face. "Lofrio?" Ovi's eyes wept. He fled from the lounge and dragged himself up the central staircase. "Lofrio!" An eight-pointed star had been painted over a woman's face in a framed pict. Strange runes glistened on the walls. "OH!" Ovi tumbled over a body lying face down on the carpet. He wrenched his respirator up and coughed. "Lo—Lofrio!" Ovi seized Lofrio beneath his arms and hauled him back to the stairs. Can't see. Can't see. "EURGH!" Phlegm splattered the banisters. Lofrio's head thudded down each step.

Gloved hands took hold of Ovi's collar. Ferrocrete and rock scraped at Ovi's legs and arms. His own head thudded against a tyre. A torch shone in his eye. "You green, pal?"

Ovi held up his thumb. "L—Lofrio."

"Is that his name?" A man in a grey flight suit and a black ballistic vest swung the torch away. Thick, square cheek guards covered a thin facemask, leaving only his eyes exposed beneath a pair of goggles. "Lofrio, is that his name?"

"Yeah, Lofrio." Ovi pressed his forearm to his brow. "All accou—all accounted for."

"Right."

"Are you the meatwagon?"

"Negative." The soldier brought a slung lasgun around from his hip and straightened up. "You're stood down, OSEC."

"No, wa—wait." Ovi shambled after the soldier. Further back along the street, more of the masked, helmeted soldiers held a perimeter around the black Valkyrie. "Who are you?"

A soldier with white tape on the back of his helmet stood looking over the three OSEC beneath the groundsheet. A pencil nub travelled down a long list of names written inside a notebook with a pink, children's cover. Five bodyguards stood around the OSEC bodies. One knelt over Lofrio and worked a bag valve.

"Is he breathing?"

"Ovi…" Worrow thrust a water carrier at Ovi.

"Is he breathing?" Ovi bobbed on his heels. "Oi, let me—"

"C'mon, leave it. It's not our crime anymore. We're stood down."

"Bullshit! Says who?"

"Says…" Worrow pulled Ovi in to a hug. "They're Shimago mercs. Don't piss them off."

"What?"

"Come on, take the water." Worrow planted the water carrier in Ovi's hand. "Take the water."

Shimago mercs? Ovi poured water in his palm and slapped it on his face. "Hey. Hey!"

"Hoi—back off, OSEC!" A merc brought his lasgun up to his shoulder. Others next to him whirled and raised their own weapons.

"What is your name?" The merc with the white tape on his helmet swiped a page across. "Let him in."

The mercs parted for Ovi and formed a loose ring around him, the merc holding the list, and the OSEC. "I want to know how you think you can interfere in an OSEC crime scene."

"Interfere? We just pulled you and your colleague out of that cooker. Don't look at me like I'm a simpleton, son." The merc's eyes focused on his list. "Lofrio, was it?"

"Yeah, why do you keep looking at that list?"

"First name?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know your own first name?"

"No-no-no, I'm not Lofrio. He's Lofrio, down there."

"And what's his first name?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know your fellow officer's name?"

"We're from different districts."

"Why aren't you in your assigned district?" The merc spun a finger in the air. A drone flew up in to the sky. Broken wiring poked out of panelling.

"I heard their call. Officers in…" Ovi followed the drone's flight. Is that one of Lusia's drones?

"Officers in what? Look at me when you are talking."

"Err, officers in need of assistance. Look, why the fuck am I explaining this to you? You roll up to our crime scene, you point muzzles in our faces—" Ovi's hand settled on the butt of his service weapon.

"You, egghead, over here." Worrow sidled through the merc cordon. He threw Ovi a glare. "You were the one that called it in?"

"Uhh, my sergeant called it in. I requested assistance after the building went up."

"Officer Lofrio—first name?"

"Bren."

"Don't tell him that!"

"He is on the list." The merc nodded at the medic. A blade popped from a stubby grip and the medic drove it in to Lofrio's neck. He pulled the bag valve free and twisted the knife out.

Ovi whipped his sidearm out. "You've just murdered an officer of—"

"DROP IT!" Lasguns turned on Ovi.

"DROP IT NOW!"

"Your colleague was a son-of-a-bitch informant." The merc crossed out Lofrio's name. "You did us a service pulling him out of the fire."

"A service?"

"Put it down, you fool." Worrow's hands stayed away from his service weapon. "We're fucked otherwise."

"Lay down your weapon, officer."

"You just murdered an officer of the law. I'm taking you in—all of you!"

"Is OSEC still arresting people?" The merc turned the list towards Ovi. "Look. He was OSEC. He was too. He was PDF. They were Imperial Guard too. When the enemy made their landing at Wiorek, thirty-thousand PDF and Haven Security Forces fled. Those that didn't turned traitor or were killed. Now, without argument, tell me their names, yours, and the other injured officer's too."

It fell to Worrow to recite the names of the three OSEC. The merc's eyes and pencil travelled up and down his list. The blunt nub paused and hovered over a name. "The last one is a traitor." The pencil scribbled the name out. "Good riddance."

"Why—why are you doing this?"

"We will kill every last informer, sympathiser and saboteur on this list. If your name is found, we will kill you too."

"Whose intelligence is this? Is it Shimago's? How old is the list?"

The merc ripped the nametag from where it poked out beneath Ovi's body armour. "Van der Beek. First name?"

"Fuck you." Ovi paced around and kicked stones. "Fuck you. It was Shimago, wasn't it?"

"Ovi, shut up shouting and swearing, yeah?" Worrow caught Ovi by the arm. "Yeah?"

"O-V." The merc peeled pages apart. "Hand me your ID."

"Give him—give him your ID."

"And what's yours, officer?"

"Worrow, A.F."

"Your injured colleague?"

"Alek Ribeldstern."

"How is he? Did you stop the bleeding?" Ovi leaned around the watching mercenaries. Alek sat against the patrol car, his hand resting on his body armour. His head had lolled to one side.

"Mm. Best I could. Where's that fucking meatwagon." Worrow's head jerked forward. He dragged the back of his hand underneath his nose. "Fuck…"

"Worrow, A.F."

"Sir?"

The merc's looked between the page and Worrow. "You are free to go."

"W—w—what about Alek?"

"Last name?"

"Ribeldstern."

The merc flicked through the list. "Ribeldstern, Aleksander. He sold information to the enemy for money."

"Wha—wait, you can't do this!" Mercenary lasguns jumped up.

"Van der Beek. How do you spell your last name?"

"How do I—? The—the normal way."

"Tell me exactly. We'll stand here until that building is ash."

"B-E-E-K. Pronounced Beck."

The pencil tapped against the paper. "The names on your ID tag and papers are different."

"Misprint. It was a misprint."

"Van der Beck. First initial O."

"Can't be. I'm not a traitor."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight." Ovi's skin tingled. "I'm not a traitor."

The merc's fingers uncurled, one after the other. His jaw moved, mouthing each number off. Flaming curtains flew from the downstairs windows and set alight patches of grass. "It's your birthday." The merc closed the notebook.

"W—w—wait, what about Alek?"

"I crossed him off."

"He—he had fifteen-thousand in the pot. It was for—"

"It was blood money. He made it at the expense of your fellow officers. Listen, I'm throwing you a bone here. We're on the pull for Shimago. Shimago and the governor—"

"What, you think the governor cares what goes on down here? All the way up in his castle on Upper Gorev?"

"I'm saying—don't interrupt me when I'm talking—I'm saying we have official clearance to implement executive measures in all districts of Orsolya. Now, I'm giving you official clearance to find yourself a hole and dig deeply. Bury your heads. Forget about this."

"But, you can't—"

"Lay low. Your meatwagon's here." The merc waved a finger over Ovi's shoulder. The drone zoomed back to the mercs around the Valkyrie. "I hope you choose better friends in the future!" The mercs trotted after their commander and climbed aboard the Valkyrie. Jet air blasted Ovi and Worrow. Dust tore at their skin. Headlights cut through the cloud left in the departing Valkyrie's wake. Multi-coloured lights flashed. OSEC vehicles careered up to the gates. Ovi fell in to his own vehicle and unhooked his vox receiver. His hand hung next to his open mouth. A gloved hand knocked on his window. Ovi pummelled the receiver in to the dash and kicked out. His heel cracked the curving panel. The receiver fell in to the footwell and lay amongst crumpled packets. Ovi bent over and dug his nails in to his scalp.

Espiotis Naval Prison, 1200 kilometres north of Orsolya

An alarm screeched in Richard Sorge's ears, curling the hairs on his nape. A thirty-foot-high gate parted. Iron on iron grated and shrieked. Sorge and his four-legged companion stepped out of the prison block and in to a passage looking across a prison yard. Three layers of fencing and a waist-high stone wall separated Sorge from men in bright yellow fatigues wandering around the yard in a slow circuit. Curving prongs on top of the fences loomed over the inmates. Marksmen patrolled the rooves overlooking the yard. Sorge clicked his tongue and strolled down the passage. Paws pattered at his heel.

Shaven-headed, tattooed inmates threw stares at Sorge. Broken-nose, scarred, musclebound thugs sneered. A few smirked. Sorge flicked the lead and carried on. Amidst the threesomes and the pairs, a few men walked alone. Sorge smiled when he caught sight of a slight, pale figure moving with his head lowered. Brown hair hung over his ears and a fringe crept down his forehead. A short, scraggly beard darkened his prominent jaw. Bruises swelled on his cheeks and brow. The skin on his nasal bridge was broken.

"James." James trudged after the inmate in front. Sorge kept pace. "Two years—nearly—to think on. Still hate me?" The passage ended and the circuit curved away from the fences. Sorge snorted and fumbled with a cigarette. Big, wet eyes blinked. "Old fellow, you'd probably still hate me too." Sorge flicked his lighter open. And I don't blame you.

Sorge retraced his steps to the gate and waited for the circuit to bring James around. A tail thumped on the ground. "I acted… maybe rashly there, I'll admit." Sorge matched James's pace. "The time, the circumstances, the place forced my hand, forced me to enact measures I now observe as not entirely unnecessary to the Bureau's cause. We are a family of beggars, James, beggars pawing at the tables of the influential. I have the best and the brightest tacticians and administrators to keep above the poverty line, but I can replace any one of them at a moment's notice. Combat personnel, men and women with the hard lessons tucked under their belts and the minerals to go with them, they are nigh irreplaceable; even moreso if they are junior officers." The far wall closed in on Sorge. James stayed in the circuit.

Ash dropped from Sorge's cigarette. His back was to the wall and one foot was planted on the brick. A thump-thump-thump drew Sorge's eyes down. Patience, old boy. A long tongue poked over teeth. Sorge twisted his arm and pressed the shoulder buttons on his chrono. "I can walk this circuit all day, James. You have another eighteen minutes, twenty seconds, and fifteen circuits." Sorge winked down at his companion when James turned his back. I'll get him on the fourth.

James passed Sorge on the eleventh circuit. Sorge flicked his cigarette butt aside and tacked on to James's heel. Alright then, James. Gloves off. "Susannah Senf is alive and well." Flimsy heels crunched. Two inmates parted and tramped around James. A shoulder hit his. "Susannah Senf is alive and well." Sorge moved as close to the fence as he could get. "When that gate closes behind you in four minutes, you will never see her again. Your hair will be grey before you see the outside of this prison." Pale blue eyes edged up the fence to Sorge. James turned to face Sorge. His chin rose. Sorge clicked his tongue. "Come on. Up you get, Trip."

A pair of paws scraped on the rough stone. Pointed ears bobbed up and twitched. Triptolemus's tail wagged wildly. James's hand touched the fence. His fingers curled through the gaps and clung on.