Folau grins at him. “Your skull is plenty thick on its own.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later, honey.” Folau taps his shoulder, right where a suit’s central processors would live. “I tweaked them, added a little homebrew. Defaults are for dipsticks.”

“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” says Hail, through a cloud of caffeinated steam. “How’d the swabbing go?”

“Swabbing?” Folau rolls his eyes. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

She grins at that. “Good thing you were so busy tweaking their suits. Newbie knuckledraggers usually get the whole hangar floor to themselves.”

I sit down across from Hail. “Thank you, Folau.”

He tips his brow at me. “You’re welcome, jockey.” He elbows Lear. “See that? Courtesy from my colleague over here.”

Lear loads his fork with a bubble of something grey and oily, flicks it between two fingers. He scores a direct hit, right in Folau’s ear.

“How are your implants doing?” asks Hail, over the noise that follows.

I set my helmet on the tabletop. “Medical pulled the last of the plugs out before I hit my bunk last night.”

I blink life into my eyes and a holographic display opens up, right above her face. I spread one of the menus with a glance and offer her a connect. She accepts, her eyes aglow for a moment as the request pops into existence where she can see, fading again as her devices pair with mine. I twitch as she filters in, a little weight settling against the front of my skull. Once Lear and Folau have finished flapping at each other, I do the same with the Locust. He reads as a wingmate, his position recorded, and medical data traded between us. Annoying right now, especially from Lear, but we’ll need to be used to it by the time the shooting starts.

I flinch at the connections. It’s been a long few years. “They’re still a bit raw, apparently.” My temples throb.

Lear looks up, but his eyes flicker and spark. He falls back, clutching at them. “Not as raw as mine,” he manages. He paws at the little streak of blood running down his lip. “Fuck.” He collects a napkin to bleed into.

Salt stirs like a mountainside and flicks another napkin across the table to Lear.

I glance at him. Lear is wearing a suit just like mine—just like Hail’s, if you don’t count all the rank and tabbing. Salt is something else.

“Didn’t they have anything in your size?”

“‘Good morning,’ you mean.” A blink, and his eyes glow golden, offering another connection to our net. His steady heart beats somewhere under all of it, just out of hearing.

“Something like that,” I reply. “Couldn’t NorCol find you anything that fit?”