‘We’ll just wait,’ Rala said firmly. ‘We’re safe here.’

But now there was a tread, steadily approaching along the corridor. It was too heavy for Luru Parz, their controlling jasoft, who was a slight woman. Some instinct prompted Rala to take Ingre’s hand and hold it tight.

A man stood in the doorway. His skin seemed oddly reddened, as if burned. He wore a skinsuit of what looked like gold foil. And there was a thick thatch of black hair on his head. Nobody in the Conurbation, workers or jasofts alike, wore hair.

He wasn’t Luru Parz. He wasn’t from the Conurbation at all.

The man stepped into the room and glanced around. ‘All these cells are the same. I can’t believe you drones live like this.’ His accent was strange. Rala thought his gaze lingered on her body, and she looked away. She had never heard the word ‘drone’ before. He pointed at the panel in the wall. ‘Your food hole.’

‘Yes—’

He smashed the transparent panel with a gloved fist. Ingre and Rala cowered back. Bits of plastic flew everywhere, and a silvery dust trickled to the floor. To Rala this was literally an unthinkable crime.

Ingre said, ‘The jasofts will punish you for that.’

‘You know what this was? Qax shit. Replicator technology.’

‘But now it’s broken.’

‘Yes, now it’s broken.’ He pointed to his chest. ‘And you must come to us for your food.’

‘Food is power,’ Rala said.

He looked at her more closely. ‘You are a fast learner. Report to the roof in one hour. You will be processed there.’ He turned and walked out. Where he had passed Rala thought she could smell burning, like hot metal.

Rala and Ingre sat on their bunk for almost the whole hour, barely speaking. Nobody came to fix the smashed hole. Before they left, Rala scooped up a little of the silver dust and put it in a pocket of her robe.

From the roof the Conurbation domes were a complex of vast, glistening blisters. Rala had been up here only a handful of times in her life. She tried not to flinch from the open sky.

Today this dome roof was full of people. The Conurbation inhabitants, with their shaven heads and long robes, had been gathered into queues that snaked everywhere. Each queue led to a table, behind which sat an exotic-looking individual in a gold skinsuit.

Ingre whispered, ‘Which line shall we join?’

Rala glanced around. ‘That one. Look who’s behind the table.’ It was the man who had come to their cell.

‘He frightened me.’

‘But at least we know him. Come on.’

They queued in silence. Rala felt calmer. Living in a Conurbation, you did a lot of queuing; this felt normal.