I smile at him as the hatch pops free, seals hissing as the pressure equalises on our side. It feels like the air has pressed up against the sides of my head. Behind the door is a pallet of ammunition: massive rounds all twice as tall as I am, and almost as wide as Salt, painted bright red with yellow on their tips and simple stencils on their sides.

I wave him through. “Going up.”

WE SET THE journey nice and slow, ‘feed inspection,’ as if we were running eyes up and down the shaft sides looking for cracks in the steel. We aren’t taking any chances.

We hit the next hatch up in a minute and change. A pair of eyes meets us through the little window in the door and go wide for a second before they disappear. When we pop the seals, we find the rest of an ordnance tech, wrapped in pale flash-gear, and reeling back from the hatch. He loses footing just as I step out, spills himself out across the corridor, scrabbling back on his hands and feet, hitting his head on the bulkhead behind him.

“Whoa, easy now,” says Salt, still working his way clear of the hatch.

The tech finds his senses just in time to see a mountain of muscle and tattoowork unfold itself behind me. His eyes shiver in their sockets, and reflex sends him hunting for the sidearm on his hip. His fingers run numb and stupid. He can’t even clear the flap.

I push Salt back and try to wave the tech down. “Easy now. There’s no need for that.” I tilt the badge on my shoulder over where he can get a good look. “See that? We’re jockeys. NorCol.” I watch the words bounce off of him. His eyes are glazing quickly. “Friendlies.”

He tugs on his gun again, and for a second it looks like he might get it free. Salt and I throw our hands up, but we’re on our toes. We’re not getting sunk by some nugget who doesn’t know better, NorCol or otherwise.

“Friendly,” I say again, lower this time, trying push it through his skull. “Friendly,” with a tap on my chest. “We’re friendlies, you understand?”

For a second, it looks like I’ve snagged him. He can see my patches, and my coat is the right shape. His gaze makes it halfway to the unit markers on my chest, but trips over something in the back of his head. Something put there by a drill instructor back when he was in basic. I know that look when I see it—glossy-eyed automatic. Dammit.

“Boarders,” he squeaks out, finding his lungs a moment later. “Boarders!” And still the gun won’t pull free.

That’s it, then. I’m on the balls of my feet without thinking, and I’m putting the next step in his face.

“Stay right where you are.”