“That’s because it is,” says Hail. She turns it over in the light. “The original complement of this place was two techs and two jockeys, with two service weapons to share between us.”

“Minus one.”

She smirks. “He also took all of the spare magazines.”

Together, we jam the craggy end in through the gap, and take turns kicking it until it’s wedged between the door and its twisted frame.

“Take the wall.”

I look at her, then at the tool.

“I’ll catch you.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t make me pull rank, convict.” She even sounds a little like she means it.

“Yes, sir.” I manage to sound exactly like I don’t.

I unlock one boot, press it against the wall, and set the mag-lock again. One more, and I’m standing level with Hail’s chest, flipped ninety to what we’ve been pretending is the floor. I crouch under the tool, set my shoulder against it, and get ready to push. Hail lines up on the other side, locks her boots, and gets a grip on the handle.

“Ready?” she asks.

“I wish Salt was here.”

“On three.”

I rise until I feel the pressure on my shoulder. She takes up slack.

“One,” she says.

“Two,” I reply.

“Three—”

We’re still heaving when, with a heavy clunk on the other side, the tool comes loose in our hands. My boots hold tight, but the rest of me’s wheeling for balance, mid-air. Hail nearly lands on her ass.

The door swings in without another sound, one hinge still holding on, the other snapped clean down the middle. A few more mangled hardrounds trickle out, along with a few shards of the door itself.

I inch my way back to the floor, have to stretch to get my feet locked down.

“Are you ready?” asks Hail.

I frown at the tone in her voice. “For what, exactly?”

“Take a deep breath.” She nods past the door. “The first time is”—she takes a moment to find the right word—“difficult.”

There isn’t much to see. The compartment is almost completely dark, and what little light there is streams past my head, throwing a cone across the floor and catching the edges of boxy shapes around the room. From here, it looks like the bridge of an old ship. Deep chairs and oversized displays, interfaces made to carry huge amounts of information. It reminds me of the diasporan hulk still anchored near Destiny: one of the ugly things that carried us out of the glow of our old sun.

“I don’t get it.”

Hail meets my eyes for a second, but she just points. I follow the gesture into the middle of it all. There’s only just enough light to pick the details out, and I really wish there wasn’t.