Hirtshal came apart. His helmet drifted away, then his arms and torso, and the upper parts of his legs. Only his magnetic boots remained, still fixed to the hull.

‘Hirtshal . . .’

Triglav settled a hand over my wrist. ‘Mourn him later – it’s for the best.’

‘Why didn’t it explode straight away?’

‘Because this was crueller,’ Triglav said.

Rackamore urged Prozor on. I’d nearly lost sight of them around the curve of the hull when another harpoon caught Trysil, pinning its way through her lower leg, between knee and ankle. Trysil reached down, trying to drag the harpoon out of her leg. Rackamore and Jusquerel turned back, while Prozor waved at them to continue. They returned to Trysil and tried to heave the harpoon out of her suit. It was jammed firmly into the hull.

‘No,’ I said.

I saw them look at each other. Trysil motioned them away with both her hands. Rackamore took a hesitant step backward, then reached out a hand. His fist closed around Trysil’s, and then he bowed his whole body, and I knew that this wasn’t some final attempt at rescue, but a captain’s farewell.

Rackamore let go, but even as he stepped back he never turned his gaze from his colleague. Then the harpoon flared, and the brightness of it seemed to eat all the way through Trysil’s boot and the lower leg. She flailed her arms and her pinned-down leg came apart just beneath the knee, truncated in a furious molten glow.

Rackamore reached out to try and grab her hands, but it was too late. Trysil fell away from the Monetta, the stump of her leg still smouldering.

‘Triglav, I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Trysil,’ he said. ‘Trysil. My Trysil.’

I felt a gust of lungstuff, and started in panic. Somewhere we had been holed. But without even looking at me Triglav raised a calming hand. His voice was surprisingly even and composed, given what he had just witnessed.

‘Just the lock opening for the bauble party. Normally we get the pressure nice and equalised first.’

They weren’t long in making their way to us. Rackamore was tugging off his white-crowned helmet even as he entered the galley. Then came Prozor, cradling her helmet, and behind Prozor was Jusquerel, carrying a large wooden box.

‘Cazaray and Mattice are gone,’ Rackamore said, before any of us’d had a chance to fire off a question. ‘They died when the launch was hit.’