“Pictures of what?”

“Jockeys losing it, turning shells on their ground crews. A lot of dead knuckledraggers.”

“Christs—”

“Stop right there!” It’s the sergeant, holding steady somewhere behind us. She shouts again, her voice amped through helmet speakers.

Ahead of us is a little service-lock, already open, with two more marines gesturing inside. Our escorts turn and wave us through, a spare half second before they turn to join the flashpoint.

I look back through the airlock as hydraulics drag it shut, just in time to see the sergeant and her squad spread their feet, a warning shot sparking across the deck.

Beyond them, clawing hands and improvised weapons.

The heavy door leaves us in silence, but my breathing sounds as bad as it feels, loud and harsh past the beating in my ears. I have to fight to keep myself upright, to keep my insides from trying to empty themselves against my visor, but something stops me short.

00.81

“Where—” I swallow, and try again. “Where are we?”

Folau looks me up and down. “Old Horizon. Used to be part of the original reactor complex. Radioactive waste, fuel storage, spares and the like. All decommissioned centuries ago.”

“The bulkheads.” Even with the suit, I have to prop myself up. “Thicker than elsewhere.”

He nods. “Boron composites in the walls, among other things. Built to keep the rad from creeping out.”

01.67, barely a whisper.

“Where is medical?”

He frowns. “Deeper in. As far away from the ash pits as possible. Why?”

Oh.

“We were trying to find ourselves.”

“You’re not making any sense, chief.”

The readings spike as the other side of the lock swings open.

11.13

“I was still connected.” I’m gasping for air. “When they pulled me out of the saddle; I was still connected.”

20.54

“When I woke up, I couldn’t feel it any more. I was lost.”

26.12

Not anymore.

FOLAU WANTS ME out of sight and in the quiet, at least until he can find Andrade in all the mess and chaos. Until he can find someone—anyone—he can trust. For now, that means me, bundled in a corner, looking out over the ancient factory hall playing hangar to our shells. He knows hangars. It’s how he found this little rat’s nest, hiding in a gallery near the ceiling vaults, invisible unless you know exactly where to look.

Breakfast is his doing as well, though I don’t want to know what he had to do to get it. An eighty-year-old lasagne that warms my lap, fresh as the day it was packed, eighty-year-old heat-strips cooking it on command. There’s a cup on my knee that used to be a cam-head, cleaned out, and sprinkled full of something that looks like it’s turning into hot chocolate. The date on the packet has faded, but if I had to guess, it’d be to the nearest century. Still, it smells like it’s working as intended.

NorCol: building for the future.