“Well, she landed with it. Went through dee-see and everything. And then, well—” He shrugs. “Her SO saw it come in, called Kadi to get an inspection team on station to look it over.”

My heart skips. “What happened?”

Folau smiles, without any of the usual rough edges. “You don’t have to look like that, NorCol. No, you didn’t bring some UXO back on board. The bomb crew got in early, ruled it safe.” He shivers, pushes his hands down in his pockets. “It’s much more interesting than that. Hail came down, went through decontam and the once-over from EOD. Everything was as it should be.”

“Was?”

“Well, somewhere between the dismount and the inspection crew getting there, someone ghosted the beacon. It’s gone.”

I CATCH A monorail between blocks, headed for where Hail keeps her shell. The car is empty when it arrives—at least, I think it is. I’m a few steps in when I realise there’s a coat arranged across the last row of seats, out cold and snoring quietly to herself. I don’t recognise all the markings, but she’s got a jockey’s tab on one shoulder and a specialty pin on her collar. Professional NorCol, if I had to guess, but it’s hard to tell from here.

I pick a seat near the front, but I’m not going far. The jockey looks like she’s been settled a while, but Horizon is big enough, I suppose. There’s every chance this line has carried her for an hour or more. She might be headed for the prow, or on transfer from one of the other massive hangars down-ship.

The car’s only just picking up when there’s a chime from the front, and a creak as it slows again. The jacket sits up on automatic, pulling hair out of her eyes and blinking at the light. She has to haul herself upright, and even then, it takes both hands and a deep groan. She turns back as soon as she finds her feet, and roots around the seats she’s been lying on. It takes her a second, but she comes up with a bottle in her hand.

Oh. Of course.

I look out at the windows as another block rolls into view. A giant stencil on the doors reads 67, three storeys tall. Lear’s block. The platform is narrow, and lit by a portable lamp. A field of empty bottles catches the light, arranged around the access hatch in a patchy little shrine.

I watch the jacket as she passes, walking with a jockey’s awkward steps. A patch on her chest reads BOR.

She splits a casual salute off the corner of her brow. “Jockey,” she says on her way past.

“Jockey,” I reply. “Thank you.”

She stops on the edge of the door and gives me her eye, just for a second. “He yours?”

“He was.”