He holds his hands up for inspection. He isn’t wearing the armoured gauntlets, just the soft gloves that fit the conduction layers underneath. They look thicker than mine, even with all of my hard casing counted in.

The rest of his body is covered in metal bands, with chunky bolts like lines of blisters down the sides. A fibre-mesh runs underneath, ruddy orange between slate-grey steel. It’s the kind of gear you’d expect if wars still happened on foot.

“Folau had to dig it out for me.” He nods to my helmet. “Probably older than that bucket of yours.”

I shrug. “It does what it needs to.”

“So does that.” Hail points to the yellow stuff on Folau’s tray, then waves me off my seat. “Go. Get some breakfast into you. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

“Longer than yesterday?”

She watches me, her gaze suddenly a few degrees colder. “No. But yesterday shouldn’t have happened the way it did, and it won’t again. It’s been dealt with.”

I hold my ground. “What does that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to,” she replies, low and toneless. “The Juno’s safe.”

“After everything that happened?”

“The damage is on Tower. They sent a nugget to do a jockey’s work, and they paid for it in steel.”

“And Kadi?”

Her jaw tightens. “He’s been dealt with too.” She tilts her head at the kitchen. “Go on. I need you eating.”

“It’s good,” offers Lear.

Folau nods, shedding crumbs. “Hate to agree with Locust here, but it really is. They’ve got real fuckin’ eggs, chief.”

I frown at him. “Chief?”

“That’s you.” Hail leans back, takes some of the edge off her gaze. “Standard practice. You had the highest rank before, so you’re the first in line for it now. You’re my new flight chief. Congratulations.”

“Also, we didn’t want it,” says Lear, behind his bloody rag.

Hail raises an eyebrow, but Salt stirs first. “He makes it sound like there was a vote. There wasn’t.” He tips his head. “Congratulations.”

Congratulations. Ha. First in line if Hail bites dust. First to take the reins if she gets wounded, or gee-locs through a turn. Lear made it sound like a joke, but he’s right. It’s a rough job, and anyone who had the option would pass.

Somewhere along the line, I remember to say, “Thank you.”

Hail raps a knuckle on the table. “Now get yourself fed.”

“Aye aye,” I reply, and my stomach tugs at me.

The chow line is immediately familiar. I collect a tray, and shuffle my way past sloppy eggs, spicy vitro-sausage wallowing in artificial grease, pale cheese, black beans, and folded flatbread, still hot and floury. NorCol’s grey nutri-bars have fuelled the company through more fights than anyone cares to count, but they aren’t made for comfort. In NorCol’s holds, that’s what breakfast is for.