“Gonna have to find a bottom bunk somewhere else, old timer. I don’t play with pensioners.”

The moustache puts out a hand, stalling the sergeant’s armoured fists. “I’m asking,” he says, with as much volume as he can manage. “I’ve got record here that says you were a greaser. Civilian crew of the CAV Kei River. Is that correct?”

“It is. So what?”

“I’ve got a knuckledragger crew that’s short one times mechanic. You want the spot?”

“Shit, yeah.”

The moustache nods, flaps some fingers at the sergeant. “Get him out of there.”

The sergeant waves a couple of marines up the line, one of them with a pair of bolt cutters in their hands.

“Chin up,” says the other.

Folau glares at them.

“You want it or not?” asks the moustache.

Folau turns his glower into a grin. “Do your worst.”

They grab him by his hair, yank his head to one side while they pop the lock at his neck. They take another off at his waist, and cut through the shackles on his feet. Arko Folau takes a moment to enjoy his freedom, shaking his boots and running hands up and down his shins. The moustache isn’t waiting, already walking away.

“Hop to, convict,” growls the soldier with the cutters.

Folau skips into a run, still grinning like a jackass. He tussles Salt and I along the way, earns himself a kick in the shin that nearly trips him over. He and Salt were both colonial, even if they didn’t share a boat or branch of service. Still, there’s enough familiarity to earn Salt a single-finger salute as Folau turns to catch up.

“We’ll miss you too,” rumbles Salt.

We watch him jog to catch the old mechanic’s silhouette, already fading from view. One of NorCol’s jackets splits off from the rest, and follows the two of them away into the dark.

For the first time, I realise that there’s a queue.

The next one steps up to where moustache was standing before, and I can already tell what she’s looking for. She’s got the same long coat as the soldiers do, but hers is unbuttoned, and there isn’t a uniform underneath. Instead, she wears the conductive under-layers of a flight suit, matte black with silver plugs where her jacks and spurs connect. She’s got the jockey swagger, you could see it from a K away.

Her balance shifts as she walks up to the line, always changing the spacing between her feet. It’s something Average Joe Bio has to work to understand. Bio’s got instinct, and that little shiver in the back of their ear that warns them if they’re about to tip. Keeping balance isn’t so much a thought as a feeling.