Dakota thought for several seconds, the sudden pounding of her heart merging with the sounds of the party around them. ‘I’m going to tell you right now, I don’t like this.’

One corner of Moss’s mouth curled upwards. ‘Nonetheless.’

Dakota made an exasperated noise, shook her head and waved a hand at Moss. Go on, then. He started moving towards the door again, and she followed him.

They passed a whole circus of people in their progress. There were at least a dozen Catholic priests standing together in a loose knot, a few of them engrossed in conversation with an entirely human Imam wearing the gold earring of the Ministry of Islam. She caught a glimpse of a woman in a long dark gown, her hair pulled back in a tight bun-one of the many avatars of Pope Eliza, who stood in the centre of this gaggle of metal-skinned priests. Perhaps they were explaining to the Imam how they were free of sin because they were free of corruptible flesh.

Gas paintings partitioned the hall into sections, forming curtains of dry ice that trailed down from the ceiling, with images of mythical beasts projected on them, creating the illusion of ghostly monsters rampaging high overhead or wheeling through arched spaces on vast ribbed wings. In the centre of the hall a small artificial lake lapped at shores of finely crumbled marble, again creating the impression that the walls around it had stood here for millennia.

Mosses and vines wreathed the statues scattered here and there around the perimeter of the miniature lake, while clearly non-Terran shapes moved through its waters, sending up spumes of water from their blowholes as they surged from one side to the other. Hidden holo-projectors painted the air with abstract patterns of light through which guests passed as they walked from one fresh attraction to the next. Significantly, each constantly evolving pattern was based around the logo for Concorrant Industries.

Despite her qualms, Dakota felt a tug of excitement at the sight, mingled with deep unease. There was no doubt that Sant’Arcangelo was impressive, being one of the first asteroids to be equipped with a planet engine, but this one had it solidly beat.

But a darker side to Bourdain’s Rock quickly became evident. She followed Moss through the door, and then along a corridor opening into an enfilade of cavernous spaces that managed to make her feel claustrophobic after the sheer epic scale of the Great Hall behind them.

There were even more guests gathered here, but their activities were rather less salubrious. In a pit a pair of mogs-half-human, half-dog hybrids-fought with steel-tipped claws, while a crowd cheered and jeered encouragement from above. The beasts were vicious, lupine things, their human element barely recognizable in the dull vacancy of their eyes.

Even by the relatively lawless standards of the outer solar system, for all its lawlessness, breeding mogs was stunningly illegal. By such a display, Bourdain was openly flaunting his power and influence in the face of the Consortium.

Moss led her along past the edge of the pit and she glanced down on hearing an agonized howl. Just then one of the mogs collapsed, bright red blood gushing from its eviscerated torso.

The next cavern they entered was given over to the darkest sexual desires. There were mogs here too, hairless muzzled bitches with perfumed bodies, caged and set on plinths and awaiting the attentions of those whose tastes were so inclined.

Moss led her blithely through this cavern and on into the next, where human whores cavorted or copulated or danced with their clients, many glassy-eyed from the skin euphorics Bourdain’s employees had painted on their flesh. None of this would have bothered Dakota, except that some of these whores, male and female alike, were bead-zombies.

Moss escorted her through a final door, and into a large office space so relatively mundane that it took Dakota a moment to adjust. Subdued lighting cast gloomy shadows across expensively upholstered couches and chairs arranged casually around coffee tables. Bourdain had clearly been waiting for her. He stood up from behind a vast desk made of dark wood and stepped forward to greet her, instantly recognizable from a thousand newscasts and any number of scandals reported in the media.

‘Dakota, I’m delighted you made it to my little party.’ He smiled, revealing a row of expensive teeth. ‘Go on, admit you’re impressed,’ he continued, his smile broadening as if he meant to take a bite out of her.

She glanced around and noticed that Moss had taken up a position by the door, as if to block her exit, his hands folded casually in front of him.

‘If I have to be honest, I’m a little surprised you wanted to see me in person,’ Dakota replied, not able to keep a quaver out of her voice. ‘If there’s anything wrong with the consignment, it’s nothing to do with me, I assure you.’

Bourdain perched on the edge of his desk, with his arms folded in front of him, and gestured with a nod towards one of the visitor’s chairs near by.

‘Sit down, Dakota. I promise this won’t take long. I just want to clear up one or two small things, and then you can be on your way.’

Dakota stared at him, not moving. She heard Moss step up behind her.

Piri? Are you there?

Only silence. She felt the first swellings of real panic.

‘I can’t contact my ship.’

Bourdain shrugged. ‘Sorry about that, but I’d like anything we say here to remain private. Now, the sooner this is over the better, so please do sit down.’

Dakota obeyed with a show of reluctance. ‘All right, tell me what’s wrong, Mr Bourdain.’

‘Nothing,’ interrupted Moss from behind her. Dakota twisted her head to study him, and then realized Moss had been addressing Bourdain. ‘No scanning devices, recorders, weapons, nothing inside or outside of her body apart from her black-market machine-head implants. And we’re blocking them, of course.’

‘Nothing’s necessarily wrong’ Bourdain finally said in reply to her question. He hadn’t even glanced at his subordinate when he spoke. ‘But I’d like to know for sure if, at any point, you carried out a remote scan of the contents of your ship’s cargo hold.’

‘Never.’ Dakota shook her head. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’ve got in there.’

‘You were involved in the Port Gabriel massacre, am I correct?’ A fresh grin spread across Bourdain’s face. ‘Don’t look so startled, your secret’s safe with me, Dakota. You see, I don’t like too many surprises.’

She stared at him, for a moment more surprised than afraid. ‘That’s none of your business,’ she snapped. ‘I…’

Bourdain laughed as Dakota faltered, then he flashed a look at Moss. Dakota glanced to the side and saw the corner of Moss’s mouth twitch upward again in an attempt at a smile. Watching it made her think of a corpse exhibiting the first symptoms of rigor mortis.