Behind them is what looks like an engineering facility. I’m expecting soldiers, or at least a few gunnery crew with light arms and crowbars. One of their techs just yelled a rated word, after all: shout ‘boarders’ or ‘fire’ without reason, and you get yourself a month’s extra swabbing; ignore the call, and you’ll get double that. There should be a welcoming party, gun barrels tracking us as we step into the open.

But most of them don’t even look up. Seems that tech gets himself a lot of extra swab duty.

There are ten stations in a row along the huge bay. Ten massive guns rest in pits cut into the floor, barrels passing through the hull. Gunners walk the gangways over and around them, watching screens and bickering.

“Why have they stopped?” I ask.

Masz puts his hands out. “No reason to keep the guns running. We’re just wasting ammo like this.”

“I don’t understand. What about general quarters?”

“Hmph. We got the call, same as everyone else, but we’re not seeing what they’re telling us we’re supposed to be seeing. Deck chief decided we’d make a noise, turn it into a training exercise, but we’ve been shooting at target glyphs. Min-maxing cycle rates.”

“What are you supposed to be seeing?”

“Hostile contacts, but we don’t have number or range. No details, just garble and bullshit. Some nugget who doesn’t know a hot mark from a cloud spot.”

Salt and I trade glances. “Why? Aren’t there any?” he asks.

Masz chuckles. “No, there are a bunch of marks on the scopes, but we’ve looked over every one of them. Nothing out there but friendly shells.”

THE GUNNER PUTS us on a tram off his deck. It’s not much like the monorails linking Horizon’s hangars; this is a bulk carrier, open-backed and oversized, wide enough that the Juno could ride with space to spare.

Salt has the usual trouble. The tram has a cabin near the front, with seats designed to carry a handful of engineers wherever their spare parts were heading. I strap myself into one, but he has to somehow join two belts together. He fights with the clasps for a while, but gives up, and ties the belts in a knot across his chest. He looks uncomfortable, but it’s that or nothing else. The rest of the tram is a flatbed deck, covered in mounting points and puddles of oil so old they’ve stained the steel.

“Sit tight,” says Masz. He toggles something with a blink of glowing eyes and waves us off.