It works. They wait in little islands of calm, surrounded by NorCol uniforms and knuckledragger suits, the marks of a dozen departments and a hundred decks, numbers and insignia from all hangars. They crane for a look as I clear the door, but the eyes are drawn and the cheeks are greasy, rubbed with ash and streaked with blood, tear-stained and singed around the edges. Not a soul steps closer. They fall away as the marines advance, always keeping the same distance. They know the marines won’t shoot, and that the powered armour won’t flag them as threats unless they cross the 2-meter mark.

“Quickly,” says Folau. We step between the two marines and they fall in with us, the sergeant closing in behind.

Container sides rise around us, galleries full of faulty wiring and barrel fires. The deck is arranged in an unfamiliar pattern, etched with grip-grids that might be a hundred years old, thick with dust.

“What is this place?” I manage, between awkward steps.

Folau’s jumpy, his hand on his hip and his eyes on every dark corner. “A refugee camp, I suppose. The best we can do with all of the crew coming in from outside.”

Outside?

I don’t get the chance to ask. We change course down another steel ravine, keeping a quick step so the walkway can’t fill up in front of us. There are stragglers, but most of them don’t seem to register us walking past. They’re too far gone, too bruised or battered to understand.

Some linger. Some even try their luck; most of them think better just as the marines come into range, but a man in an old gunner’s uniform holds his ground until we’re right on top of him, tries to force his way through the middle. NorCol armour drops him to the floor without even breaking stride.

“She is part of it!” he calls after us. “Don’t you see? She is part of their machine!”

I can’t help looking back. “What’s happening, Folau?”

The marines slow us down before he can reply, and herd us into an alley I didn’t see. One of them puts their helmet around the corner up ahead and the other stacks just behind them, like they’re about to make a breach. The sergeant never leaves us, eyes on everything and weapon at the ready. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were working silent, relying on body language and training to keep them all in line and all in time. I do know better, though: they’ll be trading notes and helmet-feeds across their net, just like jockeys do between their shells, but their combat channels are encrypted, hidden where my systems can’t reach.

An armoured hand flashes where I can see, using a language I can speak.

Hold.

For a moment, it’s all we can do.

“What’s happening, Folau?”