And it takes fuel. The ’draggers load their trays up with salt and fat and protein, slurping their ways through pools of congealing oil like they’re relatives of the machines in their care. Heaps of chilli and sweet sauce slop across the top, and jugs of thick black coffee perch on the corners of their trays.

It’s more of the same for me and Hail. She takes a mug of tarry brew, and another one for me. She goes without a tray, but I don’t pass the chance. A line cook dishes me a square of something hot and rich, trailing steam and strands of dark toffee. I turn and make for the table we’ve taken to eating at, but Hail catches my elbow and steers us into the middle of the room. I don’t fight her; I don’t have the energy. She pushes us through lines of seating, settling on the edge of a group of ordnance techs, eight asses deep on a twelve-seat bench.

We drop into the last two, and I try not to slump too hard. Less than an hour ago, I was wide-awake, wired and ready. Now that I’m here, looking down a barrel of caffeine and a mound of steaming sugar, I’m starting to feel it. There’s a whole flight between me and the last time I actually slept, and I’ve got the sudden urge to fold into my plate.

I force my spine straight with all of the effort I can muster and work my spoon around, blunt and careless. The pudding is hot and eye-wateringly sweet. The coffee is even hotter, about as thick, and so bitter it curls my toes. Together, they’re more comforting than I’d care to admit.

Hail watches me, nursing her mug, head cocked to one side as she listens to the noise. It must be loud enough, because she finally decides to speak.

“I think those shells were hollow from the get-go.”

I sit back and wrap my fingers around the coffee, letting the warmth seep in through my gloves. If my bunk was anywhere within range, I’d crash and burn. Somewhere along the line, I manage to keep my thoughts in order.

“We don’t know how long they spent on that rock before we got there. They could’ve been stranded.”

But Hail shakes her head. “There were four of them to begin with. If it was just the one, I’d buy it. Four shells, and no one calls home? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Five shells.”

She frowns at me. “Five?”

“Four on the ground, one in the air. The observer.”

“I had a friend in Obs take a look at that silhouette—it didn’t match anything on Sigurd’s rosters.”

But I read her look. “That you know of.”

She shrugs. “That anyone in NorCol knows of. It isn’t on any database on Horizon.”