The floor shakes, and another train appears in the distance, following another line through platform C. It howls past, a blur of white and turquoise, a rush of ozone-stink. Hail doesn’t look back. She’s watching the three of us, the wind catching streamers of her hair, tugging at the collar of her coat.

For a heartbeat, I catch the edge of something else. A scar, curved around her throat. Little bubbles of tissue where her skin snagged between the loops of a chainlink collar.

The train shrieks away, leaves us alone in the quiet.

“Because Horizon isn’t on the map.”

Three

THREE

THE TRAIN IS plain inside, every flat surface stamped with NorCol’s blocky logo. Glossy seats line the walls on either side, with thick red restraints ending in heavy silver buckles. I’ve seen lighter belts in a fighter-pilot’s chair.

By the time I make it in, Salt’s already claimed a place, taking up two seats and most of a third, having to slouch with the wall as it curves into ceiling.

Lear folds himself into a seat nearby. There was never much of him to begin with, but there seems even less when he sits down next to Salt. He draws his feet up and rests his chin on a knee. I set myself down across from the two of them, and Hail stands between us, a hand looped through one of the straps hanging from the ceiling. The other seats stay empty.

“Where’d the shadows go?” asks Lear.

Hail sways as the train begins to move. “Back to their posts.”

He offers her an ugly smile. “Aren’t you worried?”

She returns the smile with teeth and flips her coat back around a service weapon on her hip. It’s the kind NorCol issues to all its jockeys; nine shots in the mag, single-stack, barrel wide enough to fit your finger. Not enough to fend off another machine, if that’s what brought you down, but it isn’t made for that. It’s designed to keep the vultures off your back if you eject, and to give you fangs if someone tries to pry you out of your pod. She’s probably got it running composite shot; made to shatter if it hits anything airtight or important, but more than enough to make a mess of a smartass con.

She rests a hand on the grip. “Aren’t you?”

Lear eyes the gun. “Not while we’re getting on so well.”

Hail pulls the coat straight, smooths it out. “Have they told you how this works?”

“More than the Grey did?” asks Lear.

“More than the Grey did.” She nods. “Durer is a piece of work, but he’s just the Authority’s local mouthpiece. A few months ago, you were taking up space in an Authority cell, eating Authority chow and breathing their air. Now you aren’t, and the chances are you never will again.”