I can’t help the fright as I tilt, but my reflexes loosen me in time for the suit to take over. It spreads my stance, uses the boot-locks and muscle-fibre to lower me to the ground.

A shadow passes overhead. “Diagnostic,” it says. “Why aren’t you treating for shock?”

There’s a pause, and a flicker of glowing eyes in the sky.

“Reboot internal logic platform.”

There’s a click, and a trail of text across my visor.

“That’s better. Begin trauma management.”

I don’t feel the pinpricks, but my heart runs heavy and my muscles constrict. The suit props me up, holds me tight while my skin turns electric.

“Christs, you haven’t been feeding her either? IV and suppressants. Now, please. Call out.”

“Administering nutritional admixture and hunger suppressants.”

“Good.” A sigh. “Anything else I need to know about?”

“Negative.”

“Don’t think I won’t strip you out when you’re on my bench again.”

The suit doesn’t respond to the threat.

Minutes pass, and my vision clears, opening up around a set of familiar features. He’s missing his ’dragger suit, traded out for a marine-marked coat and a heavy scarf across the lower half of his face.

“Folau? Is that you?”

There’s the top half of a smile, and a soft look. “Hello, chief.” He stands straight, looks me over. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

He chuckles. “Should’ve known better than asking.” He turns in place, and offers a hand to get me standing. “Do you think you can walk?”

FOLAU PUSHES THROUGH the covers and insulation and into an emergency airlock made of clear polymer, bonded to a hole in the side of the container. He probably didn’t have time to seal it on the way in, but its little compressor has already inflated it again, stretching it out on either side. He cycles it with a handheld pressure-release, nozzle whistling as he waits for atmosphere to equalise. When it splits, there’s a sudden rush of noise. Raised voices and footfalls, turned to hazy static on the high ceiling.

He spares me a glance. “You steady?”

I nod, unassisted.

He matches it. “All right. This is gonna be close, so I need you to call out if you can’t keep up. If you trip, anything, one of us will get you.”

“Us?”

There’s a strange look. “Search party,” he says, with a little twitch. “At least, that’s what I’m calling it. We thought we’d lost you.”

He means more than the kind you do at sea.

“You thought I’d caught it.”

He shakes his head a little too quickly. “I saw you after that fight with the hollows in 2-8. I saw you after your first day flying, before anyone knew there were hollows to begin with. I’ve seen enough, believe me.”

“But that’s not true for everyone.”