All of it.

My helmet rests on the floor, close enough that I can feel it against my hip. I needed it when I woke up, but not now.

78.41

I can tell the sync levels by feel and instinct, and the way that closing one eye opens another in the distance, looking back up at me.

This part of me, anyway.

They say that pilot-sync goes both ways, but for all my time in the saddle, I’d always thought that meant feedback. Come down too hard, catch some hot sparks on the wind, and you’ll feel it as much as the steel does, your subconscious processing the damage reports coming in through the jacks.

This is something else.

Burgundy machinery stretches out in the glow of improvised daylight, and I can almost feel the warmth on my skin, here in the shadows. A pair of Decaturs move nearby, both marked with the red crosses we’ve seen on the other survivors.

One of them is Bor, the jockey from the tunnels. She didn’t recognise me, but I’m not sure she would. The last time we met, she was half asleep, half a beer down in the middle of Lear’s memorial.

I watch her as she moves around the Juno, pale shell holding a technician in one palm and a welding crew in the other. The other Decatur holds a replacement armour plate steady as the knuckledraggers cycle our mounting pins and seal it across our damaged shoulder. There are no scaffolds or working cranes, so the ground crew makes do with a pair of friendly shells.

If I look closely, I swear I can see Avery between our feet, waving his hands and directing his little band of overalls across the floor. They’ve copied the mind-state that used to be Hail’s Spirit, even if they can’t find a body for it yet, and found a way to silence the duplicate still living under our skin. They’ve filled our reactor back to pressure and replenished the magazines. They’ve treated the claw marks on our chest and splinted a minor fracture in our right leg, but the shoulder is going to take more than that. The glassy thing cut through every layer of armour we had, down to the bone, in a heartbeat.

Food in one half, new feathers in the other, and we almost feel alive again.

“We’ll have you flying soon,” says a voice behind me.

I spare Andrade a glance, but no more than I have to. I make him wait through a spoonful of lasagne.

“This is Folau’s bunk,” I say, steady as I could hope for. “You should knock.”

“He let me in.”

“He would.” I watch my breath steam. “You saved my ground crew.”

“I saved everyone I could.”