“You don’t belong here,” Hope said. “Your adjutant doesn’t either, but she looks like an earthworm, and you can see she doesn’t care.”

“How perceptive,” murmured Pila.

“You, though—you’re neither one thing nor the other. You’re not an earthworm, but you walk around like one. You want us to accept you, to take you back. Everyone can see it in your face. You’re needy. But you can’t come back. You’re polluted.”

“Maybe,” Pirius said tightly. “But I had no choice about what happened to me.”

Hope shrugged. “Doesn’t change the fact.”

“And whatever you think about me, I have a job to do. I want you to help me do it.” He outlined the assignment he wanted Hope to take. On Rock 492, Hope would be in overall charge of the ground crews. He knew Hope had been assigned to artillery batteries here on Quin, and he imagined Hope, a born engineer, would be attracted by the idea of getting back to working on ships.

But Hope said, “Why me? There are plenty of other engineers stranded on this rock.”

Pirius shrugged. “I—I mean, Pirius Blue—once selected you for his crew. I have to trust my own judgment.” He forced a smile at his own weak joke. “And remember, our duty isn’t to do what we want—”

Hope leaned forward, suddenly angry. “Don’t patronize me with crèche slogans, you desk jockey. I know all about duty.”

“I’m sorry. Look, Hope, I won’t have you assigned if you don’t want it. I want to work with you, not against you.”

Enduring Hope stood up. “I’ll do it if Pirius does it. I mean,” he said caustically, “the real Pirius.”

Pirius Red faced other problems when he interviewed other candidates.

He was brought a young woman called Tili, who, it was said, had shown intuitive promise as a navigator before she had been banished to this dismal place for some irrelevant misdemeanor. Her condition shocked him. She had been wounded in action, and though her physical injuries were healed, her eyes were wide and filled with an inchoate pain. He got off to a bad start when she wouldn’t even respond to her name. It seemed she had been one of a set of triplets; since the other two had been killed, she had insisted on being known only by her “family” number, Three.

She wouldn’t volunteer for his squadron, but she would follow orders, she said. “But it makes no difference whatever we do.”

“Of course it does—”

“No. Ask This Burden Must Pass.”

“Who?”

She shrugged, and sat apathetically until he released her.

After similar experiences with other cadets, as Burden’s name came up repeatedly, Pirius realized that to penetrate the strange, deviant culture of this Base, he was going to have to meet this frontline prophet.

And, as he had always known, he was going to have to confront his own future self.