“Yeah.” I breathe in, let it out slowly. “This is the one.”

It’s emerald green, but covered in scratches that turn pale and dirty where they run through to the armour underneath. The visor looks seamless from the inside, but the outside is made of eight glassy plates: layers of bulletproof composite fused across the front. They make it look like it’s glaring at you.

Brass badges perch on the brow. A jockey’s winged lightning, and the service bars that mark NorCol’s professional corps. Silver stripes run down the left ear, engraved with the name of every unit I’ve had the displeasure of serving in. The one at the top doesn’t even have letters any more, worn down until all you can see are the outlines. The one at the bottom still shines:

Nor Collective.

Battlegroup Odessa, Overgroup 6.

1077th Mechanised, 19 Wing. C-SAR.

My unit.

While it lasted.

An iron angel stands out on the right ear, painted there by a jockey called Sun. She gave it a sword and a shield and wings with too-long feathers that curve around the back. There used to be an inscription underneath.

I turn the thing over and show Hail and Lear the ancient logo on the base.

“You got that off a Volkov?” Lear frowns at me. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“How’d you get it?”

“Trained in one, back before I got my patch.”

He gives me side-eye. “And they let you keep the helmet?”

“I didn’t give them a choice.” I roll it over in my hands, and feel the weight again. “That machine nearly killed me. Burned me bad enough that I spent a long time wishing it had.” I heft the helmet. “Without this, I’d be dead.”

Lear nods at that. Jockeys are superstitious at the best of times, no matter which company’s cap they wear when they’re out of saddle. I’ve got the helmet, and it looks like Hail has the Juno. If it wasn’t for his time in chains, I’d bet Lear would have a few charms of his own. We carry our wars with us.

“How does this help? They’re saying the Juno’s running blind in there.”

“Not blind.” Hail’s look is grim. “But close enough.”

“Its lenses are damaged, but at least one of its eyes is still together. It can’t recognise faces”—I balance the helmet on one hand—“but it’ll recognise this.”

Lear’s eyes widen. “They were competitors. You know that, right? This is off a Volkov, the original block-buster”—he aims a finger at the wall—“and that is a Juno.” He taps the helmet. “As far as that machine’s concerned, this is the enemy.”

“It was civil war,” says Hail. “There wasn’t any difference.”