I have to crane to see what he’s looking at. A little line of floodlights in the distance, and a platform just like the others we’ve passed along the way. If we were anywhere else, there’d be a giant stencil telling you which line you were on, and which of Horizon’s giant hangars you happen to be passing through. This ship is a tangled mess at the best of times, but it’s even worse without something to give you a sense of place. The Werewolf seems pretty sure of himself, but this line doesn’t have a name, and nor does the platform.

Hail is already on her feet, fingers hooked into the loops that fall from the ceiling. She doesn’t know where we are either, I’d bet, but she takes it in her stride. “How long have we got?”

“Ten minutes,” says Andrade. His eyes light up for a second, and the car settles on its track.

She nods, swivels around, and leans over me. “Are you sure you’re up to this? It’s going to be some hard flying.”

“You got any others?”

“Jockeys?” A smile tugs at her. “A handful, if I had to go looking.”

“But no one you could explain this to.”

She shrugs. “It would be difficult.”

“And even then—”

“—I’d still have my doubts? Yes. Hell, I’d be looking over my shoulder every goddamn minute.”

“Get me out of this fucking chair, Hail.”

There’s a real smile, just for a moment, gone as quickly as it arrives, and replaced by something grim. She sets a boot against my seat, locks a hand around my wrist, and hauls me upright. She hovers for a second, hands spread to catch me. I don’t blame her; I’m half expecting a closer look at the deckplates myself, and I’m surprised when I hold just fine.

“Tell me what we’re going to do.”

Hail steps to one side, revealed a heavy metal lockbox near the front of the car. “First, we get dressed.”

Folau crouches near the locker, flicks it open. Inside is a pile of flight suit, armour, and a helmet that can only be mine. Hail and Salt are already popping buttons, and I have to work to keep pace. Folau funnels us parts, and we lean on each other as we gear ourselves up, the way that jockeys do. The others help me through the last steps. I’m out of breath and drowning in sweat, but my suit warms around me, channels the clammy fluid away. Basic systems hold me upright, take the load off the battered muscle underneath.

I’m feeling more alive with every buckle and seal, more like myself as the steel closes over me and my jacks begin to merge with the suit. “What comes after this?” I manage.

“Simple. We get in our saddles and fly out when Andrade does.”