“Yeah, but I don’t know them enough to give a shit. I’ve got my own thing going. I’m sticking with it.”

He couldn’t tell if the release in Erich’s eyes was relief or disappointment. Maybe both. Lydia would have known. Or Naomi. Or Holden. Alex, probably. For him, it was just a little change in muscle tension. Could have meant anything.

“I’ll find my own way then,” Erich said. “We’ll be out of here in a couple days, if I can manage it.”

“Okay, then,” Amos said. It felt like there should be something more. He’d known Erich as long as he’d known anyone alive. Even if they saw each other again a time or two, the conversation they’d just had was the mark of the end. Both of their lives could have looked a lot different if Amos had said a few different words. It seemed like there should have been something to say about that. But since he couldn’t come up with anything, he went back to the lift and headed down for the machine shop.

Going to the technical end of the Zhang Guo – the places where the owners and their guests wouldn’t spend their time – was like stepping into a different ship. All the glitter and beauty gave way to a clean utilitarian design that wasn’t as good as the Roci, but better than any other ship Amos had worked. All the corners were curved and softened in expectation of impacts. All the handholds were double-bolted. The drawers and cabinets in the machine shop were latched in two planes. The air smelled like fresh filters and lubricant. Someone had kept the place clean and in better order than a glorified orbital shuttle really deserved. Amos wondered if whoever that had been was still alive. It wasn’t a question he could answer, though, so he didn’t spend a lot of energy on it.

Peaches was sitting at a workbench. The outfit they’d gotten during their bike trip to Baltimore looked pretty sketchy in the clean and tidy surroundings. Torn at the shoulder and still too big for her. She looked like she was swimming in it. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a zip tie and her hands were moving quickly and carefully over an open case of modular electronics. Her movements were as precise and flowing as an old recording of a piano player at the keys. She didn’t look up as he came in, but she smiled.

“Got something for you. Salvaged a hand terminal. Nice one. Even got it talking to the local network. Finish the configuration, and you’re good to go.”

Amos pulled the seat next to her out from the body of the ship. She handed him the terminal, but still didn’t meet his eyes.

“According to Chrissie, it ain’t salvage.”