They’re Hasei brand. The pod, and the jockey too.

The ejector landed at an angle, beached on a sand drift. A Mirai followed it but didn’t bother getting in close to make the shot. The pod was propped up like a target. High-cal rounds tore through the roof, nearly broke the whole thing in two. A few shots went wide and buried themselves in the dunes on either side. A few went high and hit the wall behind it.

Salt stands close and pans his big lamps up and down. The wall runs floor to ceiling, made of the same bricklike stuff as the pillars. It’s still solid, but you can see where Sigurd’s munitions struck. There’s light on the other side.

“What do you think it is?” asks Salt, running fingers across the surface.

“A bulkhead, maybe,” says Hail, picking her way across the remains of Hasei’s shell.

“No,” I say, “it’s the foundation.”

Hail and Salt look back at me.

“Check your bearings, count your steps. The Lighthouse is right above us.”

The both of them go quiet, waiting while their machines do the guesswork.

“And when you’re done, you can take a look at that.”

They turn, following the marker I’ve just planted in their eyes, then take a second to work the angles, trying to find a bullet hole that’ll give them the best view. They crane, trying to get a look at the thing resting in the sand on the other side, but they don’t need any more than a glance. It’s mirror-black, with familiar curves and stencils.

“What is it?” asks Hail, as much for herself as the rest of us.

“I can’t tell from here, but one thing’s for certain: it was built by Sigurd-Lem.”

WE LINE OUR shells up against the wall. Salt’s machine gleams up ahead, casting craggy shadows in the light through the bullet holes. Hail stands right behind him, not much more than a shadow in the glow. I’m behind her, still listening for any sound on the other side.

My jacks don’t tell me anything we don’t know already. We’ve been at it ten minutes or so, Hail and I listening for vibrations, Salt cycling those huge eyes of his. As far as our instruments are concerned, the space beyond is sterile. That doesn’t mean we’re taking any chances.

The Juno and I would always have been at the back of the line—we’re both the lightest, armour-wise, and the slowest. That probably wouldn’t have stopped us before, if it wasn’t for our hand. We’ve got the rifle balanced on our wrist, with enough grip to get two shots off, provided we aimed the first one low and worked the trigger fast enough. After that, we’ll be lucky just to keep a handle on it.