She nods. “Even if they didn’t, the companies always find someone up to the task. They found you three, after all, and all in the same block. Neat coincidence, don’t you think? They can scratch just about anything out of the grime.” The car sways, but she’s rock-steady. “This is about something else.”

I understand. This is about dying.

“What happened to the others?”

Hail locks her eyes on me, but doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s a fair question,” says Salt. “Four jockeys, counting you; that’s the normal flight size. You’re picking three of us up in one go, which means that you’re missing three units. All of your stick. What happened to them?”

“They died.”

“Worked that out already,” I say. “How bad?”

“Honestly?” she asks.

“If possible.”

“Not as bad as it could have been, but bad enough. We got split up, and a Sigurd crew pounced on them in the storm. If there were ejectors, the wind carried them away.”

“Storm?” I trade glances with the other two. “What do you mean, storm? Where are we?”

She leans in. “How much did they tell you?”

“About this place?” I cross my arms. “Nothing, apparently.”

“I’ll start at the beginning, then. One, the Authority doesn’t touch your sentences. They keep rolling, same as before.”

Lear blinks at that. “What? The recruiters said—”

“That you’d get your time cut?” Hail laughs at him. “You thought it would be that easy? Murderers and war criminals and anything else you can imagine, and they just let you out early?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Well, from where you’re sitting, it’ll definitely seem like they did.”

I sit up and glare at her. “What does that mean?”

Hail opens her mouth to speak, but a siren interrupts. The car brakes hard, and she has to fight to stay on her feet.

“What’s going on?” I shout, but it’s lost to the noise.

“Belts!” yells Hail.

The car stops dead as we yank at our restraints. Lear gets his closed in a moment, and I’m not too far behind. Salt gives up after a few seconds—the belts are made to fit NorCol employees, not colonials. He braces himself against the seats, one boot pressed hard against the other side of the aisle, arms spread wide.

Automated shutters roll down across our windows, but not before I get a look outside. NorCol uniforms sprint across the open docks below us, and giant walkers kneel, driving anchors into the floor.

A few jackets are caught out in the open. They drop to the deck and put their hands over their heads.

Something clatters under the floor, like locks being driven home.

“What’s going on?” I finally manage.

Hail pushes herself back in her seat and closes her eyes.

“Tide,” she says. Just as it hits.