The air from the ceiling vents was cool and smelled of compost, but you soon got used to it. Once, long ago, the riveted metal walls had been given a coat of white paint, but the paint had yellowed over the years to scuffed and grimy sepia, into which generations of naval personnel had scratched their initials and grievances. Only Alva Clay had bothered to decorate the corridor walls around her cabin. Walker and I had never taken the time to personalise the corridors outside our rooms, preferring to keep our decoration within. By common agreement, our cabins had been located at equidistant points around the ship’s circumference, as far from each other as we could get while still remaining within the main crew section.

It’s not that we particularly disliked each other; it’s just that nobody joins the House of Reclamation because they have a happy home life. I can’t speak for the others, but my reasons for removing myself were the same as those that had compelled me to join the service in the first place: a need to get away from the people around me, from the things I’d done and the things I’d seen; a craving for the seclusion necessary to evaluate my feelings and experiences, and determine my place in the chaotic flow of events; and when it came to the placement of the cabin, if I’m being brutally honest, the need to be able to cry in peace, without worrying about being interrupted. Ninety-nine per cent of the accommodations were bare and unoccupied; it seemed natural to me to put as many of them as possible between my nearest neighbour and myself—and my neighbours seemed to share my sentiments. The ship wasn’t overly needful of the company of her own kind, and neither were we. At any time of the day or night, we could wander at will among the empty cabins and imagine ourselves almost perfectly alone.

But these weren’t the concerns uppermost in my mind as I directed our newest young recruit to Walker’s old cabin. I assumed he’d take the berth vacated by his predecessor. It never occurred to me he’d want to sleep anywhere else.

* * *

“Night terrors?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you want to knock on my door every time you have a nightmare?”

I swear his cheeks flushed. “No!”

“Then what are you asking me?”

His eyes glanced around the deck, unwilling to meet my own. “It helps,” he mumbled.

“What does?” I’d seldom seen a young man look so uncomfortable. He screwed up his face and rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes filled with glittering embarrassment.

“To have somebody nearby.”