Ryan nodded quickly. ‘Stands to reason, yeah?’

Aquillon wasn’t listening. She removed a tool from her belt and pressed it to the beacon. Ryan yelled out in pain; the beacon hissed and smoked and he clutched at it, trying to pull it clear. Graham helped him, burning his fingers but eventually prising it off. It clattered to the floor.

Graham stared at Aquillon, sickened. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

The Legate raised a hoof over the beacon. ‘It must be destroyed.’

‘Under Article Six of our own Interstellar Peace Accord, we are forbidden to interfere in other conflicts,’ said Masst urgently. ‘And it is enshrined across that sector of space that to destroy a Peace Corps beacon is tantamount to a declaration of war against the Hondopel. To do so risks bringing a dozen races into a defensive alliance against us.’

‘The analyser confirms that the signal is not a distress call, merely testing,’ said Aquillon. ‘Our actions will be excused.’

‘Perhaps … But can the Astingir afford to fight another war?’

‘Can you afford to defy me again, Centaurion?’ Aquillon ground the beacon into scrap beneath her hoof then seized Ryan by his metal collar and shoved him over to Masst. ‘We must know who was listening to that signal … who may be coming for them right now.’

‘Only the Doctor was listening out for that signal,’ hissed Ryan, ‘and you killed her!’

The Legate ignored him. ‘Time is of the essence, Masst. Get answers.’

Masst bowed his head and turned, leading Ryan struggling from the cell. Graham tried to follow – but Aquillon brushed him aside with her flank. The Astingir exited the room and the cell door slid back down.

‘Oi!’ Graham banged on the door, terrified. ‘Centaurion Masst – don’t hurt him! Think-scan him or whatever you have to do, you’ll see we’re on the same side … please!’

There was no response. Nothing. Graham pressed his clammy forehead against the door, thinking about the way the horse-creatures had argued in front of their prisoners. Not exactly a well-disciplined military force. More like soldiers who’d been on duty so long and so hard they were at breaking point.

And that made Graham more afraid.

Ryan tried to stay calm as Centaurion Masst herded him through the War Chariot’s dim corridors. The ship had seen better days; not all the lights in the golden ceiling were working, there were dents and scrapes in the tarnished walls and the floors had been worn uneven by the endless hooves that trod it. They passed two more Astingir troops, wearing dark, netted under-armour, tattered and torn; Ryan supposed they were off duty … and that the nearest military outfitters had to be a few star systems away.