The chow hall is exactly what I’m expecting, exactly where I expect to find it. Long tables all in stainless steel, benches crowded with uniforms. Point-lamps glare from the ceiling, lighting cones through the low haze. One side of the hall is all countertops, the space behind them opening into the industrial workshop that NorCol probably calls a kitchen.

Half of Hangar D’s jockeys sit on one side, and half of its knuckledraggers keep to the other. A few tables mix near the middle, but they keep it personal—pilots and technicians paired off and talking shop, ignoring the odd looks they get from either side.

Hail, Salt and Lear have claimed a table to themselves, and they wave me down as soon as I clear the door. At least, Lear does. Salt has his head on the table, and Hail only looks up once I’m in range.

She spares me an eye. “Sleep all right?”

I roll my head around. “I’d forgotten what a bed felt like.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“You’d be right.”

“And the suit?” asks a familiar voice, just behind me.

I turn to find Arko Folau with a trayful of oily eggs in his hands, a jug of black coffee balanced on the corner.

“Better than the sleep.”

On the surface, my new flight suit is much like any other I’ve worn in NorCol’s service. There’s a conductive sleeve underneath, full-body, with fluid lines to keep you warm or cool or whatever it is you need. Over that, thick fabric mesh run through with strands of artificial muscle and covered in bands of soft armour, turquoise on a grey background. Composite plates are tucked in against my ribs, under my arms and over my shoulders, lining my hips and moulded to cushion my spine. If our shells take a hit, the inertia can kill us before the bullets do, and so the company pads our suits, covers them in carapace.

On the surface, you wouldn’t know anything was different, but I can feel where someone has tweaked it. Brand new, the suit should feel like a straitjacket. Too slow and too heavy, while its little mind gets used to wearing you.

But this one moves like it knows me.

I raise an eyebrow at Folau. “Your doing?”

He smiles, and drops himself into the seat next to Lear. “You’re welcome.”

Lear looks up from his chow. “What’re you doing here, knuckledragger? Need a map?”

Folau ignores him and gets busy on his breakfast, working his fork like a shovel. “You see, you noticed,” he says, talking through a mouthful of scramble, waving a finger at me. “Unlike my favourite Locust here. Did the same work on his suit as I did on yours, but it seems he doesn’t even need a helmet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” growls Lear.