Hail’s contact is somewhere above us, standing with the ’draggers on the roof. The air ducts are built to NorCol standard, wide enough to accommodate one full-sized vacuum suit, helmet and all. Hangars are full of dangerous things, and there’s no point pumping air in if the people inside are busy dying of something else.

The crew has just finished taking apart the big breather module at the end of the shaft. Lear is somewhere between us and them, hauling my old helmet down the duct. As it turns out, the Locusts build their jockeys thinner than NorCol builds their suits.

“Hear that?” whispers Hail.

I crouch near the grating. For a second, all I can hear is the blood moving around behind my ears. I glance up at Hail, but she’s got her eyes closed, listening. I inch closer. I can just about hear the rustle of clothing, the edge of someone breathing. A boot hits the side of the duct. There’s a sound like a curse, turned to a hiss as it echoes down the duct.

“You there, Locust?” I ask.

We wait in silence for a moment and are rewarded by a long, rattling scrape. A length of steel bursts through the grate, tearing through the filter-mesh.

“Wrench,” says Lear, somewhere behind it.

I pick myself up off the floor. “I guess I deserved that.”

A smile tugs at Hail’s lip, but doesn’t make it all the way across. She pulls the wrench free and starts popping bolts. Together, we lever the grate out in a few seconds and pull Lear up by his hands. The helmet trails behind him on a line of cord. He swings it up where I can catch it, clicks it free of the little clasp on his belt.

“Thank you,” says Hail.

Lear puts up a finger and goes fishing through his pockets. His hands surface with a pair of calorie-bars, flavour: grey. “Hungry?”

We are. The bars are hard and fibrous, and it’s best if you don’t think too hard about the taste. NorCol has taken planets and founded cities on this stuff, but that doesn’t mean anyone likes it.

I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I started chewing.

Lear waits us out.

“What convinced you to do it?” asks Hail.

“Two jockeys stuck on a pad with only ourselves and a few lost ’draggers for company? Fuck that.” Lear shrugs. “Although, it turns out that Folau’s been moved to the same crew that came to help us with the break-in. Took the breather apart for me.” The Locust gives us a bastard-grin. “As it turns out, I’ll do anything to rain on Folau’s parade.” He nods to the helmet. “That the one?”

I hold it up and look it over for the first time in two years, probably longer. I don’t even know any more.