My uniform is where last night left it, spread in a trail from the door to the foot of my bunk. I scavenge the things I can reach from the end of my bed, avoiding the floor as long as I can, even with my thick socks back on. I don’t remember getting undressed, but then, I don’t remember taking the train back from the chow hall either, let alone finding my way back to bed. I remember talking to Hail, and my reflection in a jug of tar. I remember a field of bottles in the lamplight, but not much else. Mostly, I remember being cold.

I drop into my boots but leave them loose, throw on a shirt and pull my long coat over that, unbuttoned. I snag my personals bag, all NorCol brand and tacky plastic. All that, and I have to breathe before I can work the door.

I stop dead, hand on the lock. The Juno is awake.

It feels like someone moving nearby, when all you’ve got to go on is the changing air and a tingle on the back of your neck. I don’t have to see it, but I could point it out through a concrete wall.

Without my helmet on.

The shell is watching me when I step out into the hangar, looking down past a wall of scaffold and a disassembled arm, flayed open while the knuckledraggers mount it into a matching shoulder joint, propped by cranes and draped in dustcloth.

I smile at it. “Hello, old bird.”

It’s a whisper, lost in the rumble of bootsoles and the thunder of machinery. It wouldn’t be loud enough if it was just the two of us in here, but the shell doesn’t need to hear me speak.

It watches, and does what it was built to do.

It reads me.

The lenses flick. I try to read it back, but I’m made of dumb meat and headache. I’m too far away for anything more.

A weight hits me between the shoulders and nearly tips me over. I ride the impact and turn on the balls of my feet, bring a fist up in time to watch Avery spill himself across the floor.

Watch where you’re going, convict. I can see the words lining up on his tongue, but they don’t make it. He gapes at me. He should; if he wants a fight, he’s got it.

At least, that’s what I’m waiting for.

“Eyes open,” comes with a whistle from above: Folau, hanging over the edge of a scaffold rail. His eyes are puffy, and he looks like that sleep debt is gathering interest. Machine oil glistens on his cheeks, adds deep shadows to the dusky tones of his skin. There’s an eyebrow at altitude, and a smile that shows teeth.