I can see the lost hours on him, in rings around his eyes. “There is no chain of command, Rook. No Tower. Andrade’s crew pulled three people out of the command levels. Three, and none of them are talking about what they saw. All of the conventional channels and ranks—all of that is dead. The unofficial stuff, the Werewolves and the honour codes and the straight-up muscle—that’s what we’ve got, and it’s loaded close to breaking. We don’t know how many are dead, and what’s left is only just holding together.”

“And some of it is looking for me.”

He looks away.

“They think I caught it, don’t they?”

He tries to find my eyes again, but he can’t hold it. “They don’t understand what they’re up against.”

“Lynch mob or kill team?”

“Unconfirmed, but probably some of both.” He deflates and puts his head around the improvised lock, waving to someone I can’t see. “Buy us some breathing room, sarge.”

There’s a tussle outside. Someone shouting.

Folau breathes in, lets it out slowly. “When I say no chain of command, I mean nothing; we’re running on an emergency plan that’s a century out of date, supplies are anything Andrade could scratch up, but even he didn’t think things would get as bad as they are. There are others, even a few more Wolves, but they’re running scared. All of us are. Scared and cut off and making damnfool decisions.” He rubs his eyes. “What’s important is that we got to you first, and you aren’t about to drop from shock. I’ve got three jarheads outside, armed and taking orders from me. That’s about as good as anyone can do right now.”

The crowd-sounds brew closer to a mob, but whoever’s outside is hesitating. For now.

He looks up at the sound, feels for the handgrip of the pistol on his hip. “We can’t hold here forever, so how about this—let me get you out of here, and I’ll tell you everything I can. Deal?”

“Deal.” I catch his eye before he turns. “Folau? Thank you.”

He offers me half a smile. “Don’t thank me yet.” He watches me for a second more, but the suit holds tight enough that he can’t see me shiver. “Come on.”

Folau helps me into an alley between this container and the next one down the line, and a marine meets us on the doorstep. The soldier is a whole head taller than either of us, and wearing a void-capable suit of armour plate, shoulders marked with a sergeant’s arrows. Two more stand where the alley spills into the open; breakers between us and the sea of faces ahead. They hold perfectly still while the crowd rolls around them, carbines aimed at the floor, free hands straight out, palms flat. A warning, and a demand.