We stagger down a staircase carved into the concrete floor and take a ladder several storeys down. We walk through channels made to carry water, sewerage, and shipboard waste, then along corroded walkways that look like they’re sinking into the spoil. We find a hatch at the end of it all, and swollen paint and flaking metal make us force it open. We try hands and elbows first, but Salt takes the load on his shoulders, pushes through in a cloud of rust.

The other side is all bright light and rushing noise. We spill out into a canyon: pale, metallic cliffs that climb a hundred metres tall on either side. The dry dock’s empty now, but there are still signs of the things that were here before us. Engine tests have left long, black streaks across the walls, and ugly ruts mark the floor, worn by massive landing-gear.

The high walls channel sounds from all across the hangar, turning them into a single, endless wash. The noise leaves me dizzy, sweeps me along with it. This place wasn’t built for humans.

We duck through an exhaust vent and follow Hail up to the tops of the containers. We walk across gantry-ways and scaffolding, then drop back down to the hangar floor. It’s hard going. The pace is drumming me close to exhaustion, and I can see that the other two aren’t doing much better. Salt and Lear hunch like they’re still wearing chain, and walk with that strange half-limp you get when there’s shackles around your feet.

I’ve managed to get my neck straight and my shoulders back, but every time we turn a corner, I find myself marching again, Salt’s blasted tune still stuck in my head.

I fight it, but it takes work. I hum a NorCol shanty, and match Hail’s stride for a few steps, now a little faster, then a little slower. I have to concentrate on breaking the rhythm, but it never seems to last. I look up to find Salt and Lear moving to the beat still playing in my head, humming just loud enough to hear.

Lear notices it, takes his eyes off the floor and gives me a lopsided grin. He immediately snags his boot on a break in the decking. He catches himself before he’s tipped too far, turns the fall into a stagger.

“They’ve fucked us up,” he observes, turning his foot over in the light. The crack was wide enough to swallow a boot, but he got away without leaving any skin behind. “Haven’t they?”

It’s a little too bitter for me, but Salt works a chuckle. “We’re jockeys, Lear. I haven’t walked this straight in years.”

“Not like this. Feels like I’ll be wearing shackles ’til the day I die.”

“It gets better.”

We look up to find Hail watching us, a hand on her hip.