During the ship’s military service, the hangar had housed two-dozen single-pilot fighters—small, agile craft designed to strike at enemy vessels and ground targets, and intercept and destroy incoming ordnance. Now, all the cavernous space contained was a pair of well-used shuttlecraft, their heat shields scorched from atmospheric entries on a score of worlds, their faded black and white tiles and blade-like wings giving them the appearance of ageing killer whales. We used them for transferring equipment and personnel to and from planetary surfaces, sparing the Trouble Dog the effort of lowering her vast mass all the way to the ground.

At the back of the room, behind the shuttle farthest from the door and sheltered behind a stack of crates and other equipment, I had left an inflatable covered life raft wedged into a corner of the deck. Its orange distress beacon threw eerie moving shadows across the walls. Bending low, I pulled back the canvas flap and stepped into its darkened interior. The air inside smelled musty and rubbery, like the interior of a seldom-used tent, and contained a pile of old survival blankets that I had left heaped in the middle of its floor. Kicking off my boots, I lay down and pulled them over me.

I wasn’t angry or upset, merely depressed, having been gripped during Preston’s monologue by the sudden, melancholy realisation that this could be my final flight, on this or any other ship.

Disgraced captains were pariahs. I would never serve on another Reclamation Vessel. If I was lucky, I might find a job in administration. Perhaps I’d end up as a quartermaster on a distant supply depot—maybe an asteroid or small moon—where I’d at least be able to enjoy the relative solitude. The only other alternative would be to retire completely. In which case, these passing minutes might number among the last I would ever spend in space. I should have been savouring them, yet felt no inclination to do more than burrow into the comfort of those dusty-smelling blankets and listen to the creak and flex of the hull, the clang and gurgle of pipes.

“Ship?” I spoke into the darkness.

“Yes, Captain?” There were no screens down here on which she could project her image; instead, her voice came from a speaker somewhere in the hangar beyond the life raft’s waterproof fabric walls.

“Do you miss him?”

“Who, Captain?”

“George Walker.”

There was a slight pause. “He is dead.”

“Yes, but do you miss him?”

“I regret the loss of his expertise and his company.”

I picked at my thumbnail. “Has the ambassador been in touch?”

“I spoke to Ambassador Odom while we were berthed at Camrose.”

“And he asked you for your opinion on my guilt.”

“He did.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him the oversight was mine.”