We pluck our weapon from its mounts, flinching at the glare of its new barrel in the light. Avery’s knuckledragger crew should’ve sprayed it matte, but repairs are repairs, and they were making do with jury-rigs and abandonware. We’re just lucky to have something that was made to fit.

We roll up behind Bor’s Decatur, already scanning the air for hollows. If there was any doubt that she used to be Hasei, it’s gone now; she came down without a sound, heavy steel carried on whispers and fingertips.

We brace for Hail. She might have been Sigurd once upon a time, but we’ve been around her long enough now; she flies like there are NorCol patents on her genes, and she doesn’t have her Spirit anymore. Heavy Decatur’s ready to bring the rain.

We sweep our aim across the cloud tops, watching for shadows and heat-ghosts. From there, into the crags in the hull ahead of us, up and down, looking for any sign of hollow machinery.

We don’t see Hail lean out, but we hear a single augur-ping as she measures the fall.

We’re still looking out when we feel her subtle steps behind us, and the faint warmth of her weapons charging. There are no echoes, no landing-wash, no sign of any living shell until her machine flicks us a line.

Stacking up, like a breath against our ear.

We’d smile, if we could.

Not so NorCol after all.

Salt hits harder, and has to fight his fall with burn. Not that we’d expect much else. We’ve had enough airtime with him to know that anything he does comes wrapped in weight and fire. Just be sure that you’re out of the way.

His machine straightens from a cloud of condensate, exhaust slowly carried away on the breeze. He has the same red markings as Bor and Hail do, fresh spray-lines across chest and shoulder to make sure that we don’t take him for a hollow.

Sorry, he sends, once he’s had a moment to cool off.

But no one complains. His echoes fade quickly, and nothing rises from the cloud.

We’re clear, sends Bor. Come.

She leads us along the ridge, takes us on a slow climb around another silver-grey continent, open froth below us. From there into a massive scar that could only have been carved by another dreadnought. The impact turned metal to liquid, splashed it out around the edges, and left a crevice in the plate that’s wide enough to fit us all, if we crouch and pull our wings in close.

Back out again, and we drop onto a spur crusted with antennae and ranging equipment, pockmarked by driftwood and deformed by angry currents. Past that, we crest a sudden cliff looking out across a stretch of open air, the froth turned to eddies between us and the wall of steel in the distance.