If the other two are feeling it, they don’t give much sign. They thread the narrow walkways without a word, skip across ravines as they come. Hail unlocks a door with passcodes Andrade left for her to find, trading whispers for the sound of bolts pulling back into their housings. The next hatch needs more than that; a boot, and Salt’s heavy shoulder. There’s air on the other side, and more solid ground made for walking on.

29.01

The last door has a giant stencil across the front, bright red and ivory against the bulkhead grey. A triangle with a jagged star in the middle.

“Munitions,” says Salt. He glances at Hail. “You sure this is it?”

“No”—her eyes glow—“but this is where he said to go.”

Another whisper, and we’re through.

30.11

The other side is an open concrete pad, iron rails set into the floor. They’re rusty now, and the machines that used to run along them are nowhere to be seen. The roof is suddenly far away, curving into vaults.

On the far side is a line of massive shadows, set into a conveyor that runs along the wall, floor to ceiling. As we walk out into the open, more of them come into view. Ultra-heavy ordnance, each round as tall as two Junos lying end-to-end, and several times as wide. The magazine that once fed Andrade’s monstrous gun.

32.48

A loading bay opens up across the wall opposite, the panels still silvery. A NorCol cutter stands in the middle of it all, wings stowed, body crouched on a jury-rigged landing pad. They must have flown it in, threaded passages never meant for flying, followed the old tracks from wherever the supply trains used to rest.

It’s a big bird, and specially made for carrying shells; a boxy thing with a hook snout and hooded wings and wide doors on either side. Its pilots stand outside, helmets on the floor, voices echoing, one with a glowing smoke between his fingers. They tip a couple of salutes as we roll up.

34.12

“You’re the escorts,” says one. Doesn’t give any sign he’s looking for an answer. There’s nothing else we could be, in a place like this.

Hail nods. “You’re our ride.”

He takes a mouthful of smoke, looks us up and down. There aren’t any patches on his suit, no sign of a unit on his helmet or his bird, or the crew that waits around him. They aren’t shapeshifters like Andrade, but they look like they’re used to working in the dark.

“Enjoy the tour?” he asks, the words turning hazy.

Hail gestures for the tail-end and pops her visor for a drag. She bites back a cough, watches the ember for a second. “What is this place?”

“Ghost stories, mostly. They say it’s what Horizon used to be.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never been through it, have you?”