The company’s soul is right here, floating between bubbles of imitation gristle. I don’t waste time filling my tray before tracing my way back through the noise. I set down across the table from Hail, but I can’t hold her eyes. I have to focus a little too hard on operating my fork, but it all goes down fast enough.

I probably don’t chew as often as I should. “Christs. It’s delicious.”

“Go for round two,” says Hail. “You’re going to need it.”

Lear follows me back for one of his own, and Folau helps us manage a third tray after that. We mop up, and wash it down with caffeine darker than night and thick as tar.

Hail watches. “Better?”

“In every way.”

“Good.” She crosses her arms on the table. “When you arrived, I asked you how much they’d told you.”

“Nothing,” I mutter. “Less than nothing.”

She nods. “Standard. Then you asked me where we were.”

“You didn’t give us much of an answer.” I pick at my teeth between speaking. “‘Horizon isn’t on the map,’ you said.”

“That’s because it isn’t.”

“Where are we, then?”

“That’s the trouble,” she replies, without hesitation. She’s given this talk before.

Salt spreads his hands out on the table. “Simple question, Hail.”

“Complicated answer,” she replies. “And useless without the right context. I told you that the Authority doesn’t touch your sentences, you remember that?”

Lear grumbles. “Should’ve known.”

“Why would they do that?” I clear my throat, try again. “Why go through all the trouble? I saw the paperwork—reduction of sentence is guaranteed, even if you don’t make full term.”

“Did you read it? I mean, actually read it.”

I frown at her. “Of course I did.”

Hail raises an eyebrow, but there’s half a grin beneath it. “Is that right? Do you remember what it said?”

I go and open my mouth, but I can’t find anything to say.

Salt swirls his cup, watching the reflection. “Ah. I see.”

“You remember?” Hail asks him.

“Fine print. Something about the duration of sentence, relative to what it would have been.” He furrows his brow. “It’s subjective, then?”

“It is.”

Lear rolls his eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”

Hail smiles at him without warmth. “They don’t take years off your sentence. It just feels shorter.”

I don’t understand, and I say as much.

“As I say, it’s hard to explain, but much easier to show you.” She turns on her seat, looking for something behind her. She picks out the moustache from yesterday, seated among his knuckledraggers. “Remember him?”

We do.

She nods. “Good. That’s Vikram, maintenance and scheduling for D-upper.”

Folau pulls a face. “What’s he got to do with anything?”

“How old do you think he is, exactly?”

“Fifty?” asks Lear.

“Eighty,” says Folau. “Definitely eighty. No, wait. Ninety? A hundred?”