The press of bodies briefly parted, and I saw a figure reclining on the nose of a craft, lazily holding court. Then the crowd shifted, blocking my view. Someone yelled a question I could not hear.

‘How many did I kill?’ she asked, voice clear above the hubbub of the crowd. ‘You think I keep track, Hikits? Do you tally the rivets you tighten each day? Actually, that’s a poor comparison – you probably do.’

The laughter surrounded me now, as I was subsumed by the crowd. I still could not see her, nor could I navigate the press of bodies to get closer, and whatever voice I had was swallowed by the throng. I wanted to see her with my own eyes, but was forced to shift my focus to Mizar, who hovered high above.

She sat astride one of the two remaining craft, as servitors towed the others towards their hangar. She still wore her helmet, which was shading her face, but her flight suit was unzipped and had been pulled down to the waist, revealing bare arms and shoulders, the skin pale as moonlight. Like me, she had a bottle in her hand, though it held only dregs.

‘You think you got the Green Storm this time?’ someone asked, their voice audible through Mizar’s sensors.

‘Who?’ She frowned, glancing to the speaker in feigned confusion. The crowd bellowed uproariously, though the reference was lost on me. Shard stared at the speaker a moment longer before slapping her forehead, suddenly remembering. The gesture knocked the helm from her head, revealing a close-cropped shock of hair that was such a rich shade of red that I initially thought Mizar’s optics required adjustment.

‘Oh, that Green Storm,’ she said. ‘Who knows? The greenskins all look the same to me – green.’

As she drained her drink the crowd howled again, the sound bordering on hysteria. I have rarely seen front-line combat, and only from a distance. But this phenomenon was not unknown to me. Post victory, fear recedes and laughter comes easily. Even the most stringent commissar may turn a blind eye to it. For a time.

Shard lowered the bottle from her lips, tossing it over her shoulder, where it shattered on the cockpit of the adjacent craft, spraying glass over the servitors who were attempting to open it. From within I caught a flicker of movement, and she held her hand to her mouth in mock surprise.

‘My heartfelt apologies, Flight Commander Gradeolous,’ she said, addressing the sealed craft. ‘I really wasn’t aiming, only scored a hit by chance. You understand – isn’t that your dog-fighting technique?’