We cling to the underside of an afterthought, close enough to the ship’s internal masses that my inner ears are prickling, my stomach trembling uncertainly.

“Hear anything?” asks Hail.

“Nothing,” says Salt. “He put out a call to say that his chambers were still pressuring up, but that was ten minutes ago.”

Hail’s Spirit looks back at me. “Mind taking a look?”

The Juno and I risk an eye over the edge, but it’s a stretch to get an angle on the hull. “One second.”

We hook a hand around the lip of the cabin, fingers in the slot where the door merges with the armour. We lock one foot against the decking and test it for pressure. It’ll hold us.

We let ourselves swing, hanging free nearly half a K above Horizon’s patchwork hull.

“No movement,” I call back. We work our lenses and zoom in for a closer look, but the massive gun-barrel is still hidden by shrouds and armour. “I guess he’s still locked in.”

“Salt?”

“I’ve already tried again. Either the armour’s blocking my signal, or he isn’t picking up.”

The Juno and I edge our way back inside, lock our other foot back on deck. Hail is hanging out on her side, out on a limb. Salt’s machine holds her wrist, tethering her against the wind.

“There’s a patrol rolling in.”

A shiver runs through the steel around us, through our bodies, turning to a heartbeat rumble in my ears and an earthquake in our sensor-webs.

And then it’s gone. The silence is instant.

“Any ID?” I ask.

“Full-timers, if I had to guess. Enforcing the no-fly. Herding everyone back to their roosts.”

“Are we clear?” I ask.

“They’re coming about.”

“Shit.”

Salt hauls Hail’s Spirit inside, and we hold tight as another tremor passes by, hard enough to shake the air inside my lungs.

“What was that?”

Salt’s shell raps a knuckle on its chest. “They’ve turned the augurs on, set as high as it’ll go.”

I’ve heard his Decatur making sweeps, but the Juno and I have always been on the edges, or with stone and dust in the way. Now that we’re on the receiving end, it feels like they’re trying to shake us apart.

“Christs, it’s loud.”

Another break, and I’m left with silence sucking at my ears.

“How can you hear anything?” I ask, but Hail’s machine waves me down.

“Hush.” It cocks its strange head, listening to something. “The cockpit’s calling out.”

The Juno and I strain our ears, but whatever it is, it’s out of hearing. We can make out the echo, but we have to tilt our head just right. It comes in and out like someone is scanning frequencies.

If Hail is hearing anything, it won’t be more than a whisper.