That’s the way she speaks now, lining up another shot. “Did you hear me?”

You can feel the menace behind it, put there by someone who’s used to being seven storeys tall. She gathers like a stormfront, building charge as she speaks.

“I’m calling security,” says one of the nurses on my ward. It’s supposed to come out stern, but he mangles it, catches his voice on the last syllable. He can see the clouds on the horizon.

Salt rumbles like distant thunder. “They won’t get here in time.”

If he was an officer before, he doesn’t show it. Hail’s words have sharp edges, but Salt speaks plain and level. He could be checking up on his wingmates, or calling a flight plan into Tower. He could be taking hits, or fighting a fire in his cockpit.

Or threatening a nurse.

I can imagine the nurse looking the big Palmirran up and down, trying to make sense of the colonial tattoos that creep up past Salt’s collar, the muscle that powers his fists.

“But—”

“Her breakfast is getting cold. You don’t want that on your head, believe me.”

I smile at that.

Salt’s voice doesn’t change, but it doesn’t have to. It’s completely matter-of-fact, and devoid of anything that you could ever call a threat.

“But I—” The nurse gets a little further this time.

“But you what?” This from Hail again. She’s got the tone down perfectly. I haven’t heard someone speak like that since Basic, and if it’s giving me shivers, it’ll be sucking blood from the nurse’s face.

“Five minutes,” he says.

“Five minutes,” she replies, as if it would make any difference.

I can track them down the passage by sound. Their steps overcompensate, catching their toes every now and then, dragging their heels. You can see it on any jockey’s bootsoles, worn front and back.

Hail turns the corner first, but she stops dead in the doorway. She looks me up and down. “Uh,” she manages. “Morning.”

She was ready to steamroll the nurse outside, but an eye on me and she’s stuttering already. I must be in worse shape than I thought.

“Morning.” I offer her a smile, but my swollen cheeks keep it narrow. “Worse than you expected?”

She hesitates. “No, I just—”

Salt nudges her clear of the airlock, folds himself through the door. He’s carrying a tray of food so big it looks like a tabletop. There’s coffee two kegs deep, a jug of water, and three plates, all stacked as high as they’ll go. It looks like he got a spoonful of every single thing on the breakfast line, then went back again and got second helpings of all the things jockeys tend to like the most. Thick and rich and wallowing in grease.