It doesn’t normally cover full-blown repair, but Salt and I made a mess of our machines. Him more than me, but I didn’t know that until Hail told me about it last night. He took a beating against the hollows, collected enough hostile shot that they’re replacing almost all of his forward plating. The shell itself is fine, but it would be an easy fix if that was all there was. He burned hard and fast throughout the fight, worked his rails so hot he warped them. His primary armaments are a loss; you don’t just beat the kinks out of something like that.

My own shell isn’t much better. We’re missing a hand, but I knew that already. We also cracked the forearm and partially dislocated the elbow joint, collected six shallow scars in the chest, two in the shoulder, and one in the cheek. My numbers were off the charts, but I didn’t feel it until I’d actually broken something.

I glance over at the little Juno scratched into the wall, looking back at me.

“I’m sorry, old bird.”

Two shells booked off, and one lost to the wind; three battered jockeys, and one in a body bag. For all of NorCol’s quibbles, Hail didn’t have any trouble getting us the day to ourselves, and I need it. I sink into my bunk and wait for my temples to stop throbbing.

Hail got away without so much as chipped paint. She was with us right from the start, but she landed back on Horizon with enough ammunition left that she could have turned around and done it all again. If it was anyone else, any other jockey, I’d have called them on it. Gotten in their face.

If it was anyone else, but not Hail. I saw her, in just as thick as the Juno and me.

If she’s running a gun-cam, I’d like to see the footage. She’ll have scored as many hits as any of us. Maybe more. She’s that kind of jockey.

And probably awake already too. Tch.

The thought picks me up, but I’m the one who has to do the carrying. I roll over and haul myself to my elbows. It’s another minute’s heaving before I’m sitting straight, vision clouding from the corners. Christs, I hurt.

My ports burn, and the knuckles on my left hand are still ruddy from their encounter with Hail’s airlock last night. My right hand is a little better than before, but that isn’t saying much. I’ve got pins and needles to the elbow, and the feeling you get when you’ve hit the nerve in your shoulder. It moves when I tell it to, but it feels like I’m steering by remote.

Best of all, there’s a prickle behind my eyes like I’m due for a hangover I don’t deserve.