'Kobalt's a nothing. I checked. Just an Imperial watch station. But Gudran-'
'A primary trade world. Old culture, old families-'
'Old poisons/ he finished with a laugh, completing the proverb.
I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. 'Can we be more certain?'
'Lowink's researching for me. Once we break the cipher… I don't mean the message cipher itself, I mean the coded headers to the actual text, we'll know/
'Gudran…' I pondered.
My vox-link chimed in my ear. It was Betancore.
'Ever hear of a thing called the Pontius?'
'No. Why?'
'I haven't either, but Lowink's cracking some of the old transcripts. In the weeks before Eyclone arrived, someone was sending messages off the approved links to a location in the Sun-dome. They talk about the delivery of The Pontius'. It's all rather vague and indirect/
'Do you have a location?'
'Why else do you employ us? Thaw-view 12011, on the west side of the dome, the high-rent quarter. Aristo turf/
'Any names?'
No, they're very exclusive and coy about such things/
'We're on it/
Aemos and I rose from the table. We turned to find Fischig standing there. He was wearing the full flak armour, carapace and visored helm of an Arbites now. I have to admit the effect was impressive.
'Going somewhere without me, inquisitor?'
'Going to find you, actually. Take us to Thaw-view.'
FOUR
The Sun-dome toured at speed.
Thaw-view 12011.
Questioning Saemon Crotes.
The wealthiest Hubrites kept winter palaces on the west perimeter of the Sun-dome. According to Chastener Fischig, they 'enjoyed both light and dark' as if that was something indulgent. They looked inwards to the lit dome and had shutters that could be opened to view the dark landscape of the winter desert. It was a spiritual thing, Aemos suggested.
Fischig shut down his terrain-following guidance as we sliced through the streets, and his heavy speeder rose up above the traffic and buildings. We hooked hard turns between glass spires and roared west.
I think he was showing off.
In the rear seating, under the roll-bars, Aemos clung on and closed his eyes with a soft groan. I rode up front with the armoured Fischig, seeing a predatory grin on his face under the visor of his Arbites helmet.
The speeder was a standard Imperial model, painted matt-brown and sporting the badges of the solar symbol and the chevrons and tail number of the local Arbites. Armoured, it turned heavily, the anti-grav straining to keep us aloft. There was a heavy bolter pintle-mounted forward of my seat. I glanced around and saw a locked rack of combat shotguns behind the rear seats.