I can almost see the edge of a smile. “Well, you’re off to one hell of a start.” He drops his aim, but keeps the weapon at his hip. He nods to Salt. “You’re colonial.”

“Once upon a time.”

I glance over at Salt. I know what he used to be, but only because he told me. The Authority is the last thing I’d think if I was looking at him for the first time. Wakehunter, maybe. Or a privateer that used to work in Open Waters.

“Unit?”

Salt touches a tattoo at his throat. Small, just about the size of his fingertip. Above it, the Authority’s banner-and-comet.

Ah.

“3rd Expeditionary.”

“Bullshit,” says the gunner, no hesitation.

Salt tilts his head back. “Read them yourself.”

“And get my head stoved in?” There’s a dry chuckle. He hefts the shotgun.

“Boarders?” comes from our feet.

The three of us look down at the tech, who makes a bubbling sound.

The gunner nods his way. “Did you do this?”

Salt smirks. “He didn’t need our help.”

There’s a real laugh at that, deep and husky. “Thought not.” The gunner flaps a hand at the door behind him. “Get yourself gone, boy. Tell Rhee you’ve unfucked the ammo hoppers. Normal service returning.”

The tech looks up at him, then back at us. “But sir—”

“Do these look like boarders to you, son? Half-naked and gunless; dead-lens jockey eyes?”

There’s a stutter, or a choke. I’m not sure which.

“Didn’t think so.” The old gunner jams a thumb over his shoulder. “Get gone.”

We watch him scramble.

The hood pulls back to reveal sharp blue eyes and a beard that’s almost copper. His skin is about as pale as the flash-gear that covered it, almost all of it sketched with dark tattoos. Most are unfamiliar, but I’ve seen similar things before, rippling across Salt’s own skin. They have about as much muscle, care of the Authority’s genesmiths.

“You’re a con.”

The gunner nods. “Since the dawn of time.”

“Colonial?” I ask.

“686th Long,” says Salt, reading symbols on the man’s throat, “but I don’t recognise the origin.”

“Karwar School of Naval Gunnery.” He props the shotgun on his shoulder. “Name’s Masz.”

“Salt,” says Salt.

“Rook.”

Masz nods, turns on his heel. “Come, jockeys, let’s get you back to your roosts.”

He shoulders through a pair of heavy doors. They’ve got the usual seals for atmosphere, but they’re spaced with layers of padding and flash-curtains.