‘She’s putting out her own boarding party. Ceased fire ’cos she don’t want to cut ’em to ribbons with her own scatterfire.’ Triglav jammed down the visor. ‘But doesn’t stop us giving some of it back. I’ll see if the coils have cooled down enough.’

A rain of blows began to sound against the hull, concentrated on the side of the Monetta facing the enemy. It was lighter this time, not the same as the earlier scatterfire volleys.

‘That’s the boarding party’s own guns, not the ones on the ship,’ Triglav said, just his mouth visible. ‘Can you still see Prozor and Hirtshal?’

‘They’ve got three of them,’ I said. ‘They’ve cut their way through the rigging and I think they’re working their way back to the front of the ship, or an airlock.’

All we could do was watch while the five suited figures made their slow, stomping progress back to the bow, moving in rocking lock-step like clockwork figures that had nearly wound down to stillness.

‘Prozor and Hirtshal are going out of sight,’ I said. ‘The other three are still behind them.’

Our guns stopped. Triglav squeaked up his visor.

‘That’s us done. Barrels are cooked, or we’re out of slugs, or both. Can you see Trysil?’

‘I’m not sure. Could that be Trysil bringing up the rear?’

He looked through the window. ‘Yes, that’s her. Rack and Jusquerel just ahead.’

The one I was sure was Hirtshal stopped mid-stride, and for a stupid instant I cursed him for hesitating. But then I saw something had gone right through him. It was a thin gleaming line, entering by his right shoulder, exiting by the left hip, the end of it skewered into the hull, pinning him into place like a specimen.

A harpoon.

The weapon must have had a piercing head, and the entry and exit wounds it had punctured through his suit were wider than the diameter of the shaft. Lungstuff was geysering out of those two holes, and with the lungstuff came something else – a cargo of sparkling pink glitter.

Prozor was trying to help Hirtshal. Trying to staunch the flow of lungstuff and blood, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his thigh, pressing her faceplate against his. The outgassing made a mockery of her efforts, laughing its way between her fingers.

‘Prozor!’ Triglav shouted. ‘It’s over – leave him! Get inside before one of those things takes out someone else.’

But there weren’t words enough in the universe to make Prozor turn her back on him. And it wasn’t words that decided it, in the end. The harpoon exploded, turning into a line of sun-bright fire that burned right through Hirtshal, its vicious energy finding every join, every seam, in the armour of his suit. Light fanned from his wrists, from his elbows, from his knees and waist and neck. His faceplate became a dark-fretted searchlight.