“It’s protocol,” he says. He finds a little iron in his spine, puts an edge on his voice. “I can’t allow you to enter the compartments without decontam, and that’s the rules talking, not me. It’s either you and the suit, or it’s just the suit.” Not that he could stop me, and he knows that well enough. His body language is strangely hard to place, but he doesn’t seem to be looking for a fight. His voice softens. “Believe me, you don’t want to be inside when they scour it.”

I almost smile at that. I’ve been through a crash cleanup once before. My unit put down in the wind of the Novgorod’s attack on San Leneira. We didn’t know it was biological until we got the call from the colony itself. When we got back to NorCol’s carrier-group, they pulled us up on the runway, and fried the pathogen off of our shells. They did the same to us in our suits afterwards, out on the open deck. It wasn’t enough to kill us, but it definitely felt that way.

“The helmet stays.”

The sergeant looks me over, an odd look in his eye. “Understood. We’ll dee-see it here and now.” He has to turn on them before they move. “You heard me. Hop to.”

The private steps up first and her squadmates follow her in, holding long green lamps like batons. They sweep the lamps up and over my arms, down my sides and around my boots, watching for something in their visors. They stop twice, fishing tiny pieces of gravel out of the seals where my boots meet my shins. After that, one helps me balance while the other checks the soles of my feet, picking between the treads with a little silver tool. They pull a handful of dust out of the boots, dropping each speck into a clear box with seals on the top and stencilled warnings on the sides.

The hose comes next. Three NorCol jackets, two with long-bristled brushes and a third with the pipe in hand. I flinch, expecting the worst, but they move even faster than the first crew. Their hands are steady and their motions are practised, working the suit down quickly; no comments, no stray glances, quick and professional. I can see why the nugget got pat-down duty. The hose crew are good at what they do.

They do three passes over my helmet: the first with water, and the second with spraycans—some kind of soap. The crew stands back, watching as the soap sizzles, clouding my visor with foam. After that, it’s the hose again, set to high pressure.

“Helmet,” says the sergeant, offering a hand.