NorCol armour crowds the chain, weapons free. No one is looking forward to this. If any one of us was going to make a play, the jackets figure it might be him. Somewhere else, something in it for him, and they’d be right. But he’s also not stupid; I’ve watched him counting heads, and half-heard the mumbled calculations. Every outcome is the same.

The marines call in a few extra hands, and move in circles so there’s always an open line of fire. A hair out of place, and they’ll light him up where he stands.

Lear keeps his peace, hands up, palms exposed. He holds perfectly still as they pat him down, stretches his greasy neck for the cutters, and even manages to smother that awful, everpresent smile.

The jackets watch him long enough to see him out of arm’s reach, and a second longer to be sure he isn’t coming back.

“Where to?” he asks, once he’s caught us up.

We look back for Hail, but she isn’t waiting.

WE FOLLOW HER back into the noise, but there isn’t space for questions. It’s enough work keeping stride and not tripping over ourselves.

A pair of marines swing out behind us, and keep a few paces clear. To begin with, I figure they want the distance. Nothing’s dangerous like a con with idle hands, so they spread themselves out, and give themselves time to react if we decide we’re going to make a break.

A few minutes further out, and I’m not so sure. They’re starting to trail, jogging every so often so they can keep us in line of sight. They slack a little more after that, only drawing level when Hail gives us a minute to breathe. Even then, they spend the time picking at their boots and staring into nothing, looking at everything but the three of us. I keep waiting for Hail to tread on a couple of toes, maybe get in their faces a little bit. She’s seeing it just as well as I am, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Hop to,” she says, but it’s only aimed at us. “We’re a long way from our birds.”

She starts along the same path that brought us in, through the loading yards and across the huge rails again, but the familiarity doesn’t last long. She turns without warning. The three of us follow, but we can’t help trading glances. This place is full of blinds and gulleys, and NorCol’s jackets haven’t turned the corner yet.

It would be so easy to get ourselves lost, and hard to get found again. Or it would be, if we all had shit for brains.

We turn as one and run to catch her heel. We’re jockeys, after all. We can put our hands up if we have to, but none of us like the idea of fighting on our own two feet. Even if we did, it would be just a matter of time before NorCol ran us down and stretched us out where all the other cons could see.