His skin is almost the colour of clay, and colonial tattoowork looks down on me from between the crags of his shoulders. There are tallies and banners for every war he’s fought, and dark marks for every rebellion he’s helped put down. Odd symbols trace lineage down his spine; a dawning sun for his home fleet, and a curved eclipse for his home ship. From there, it trails into stars and constellations, showing his place among the squads that were once his brothers and sisters. Those last few end in ragged scars, skin and ink lifted out with a combat knife.

There’s a hiss, and I yawn through the change of pressure in my ears. The airlock is obvious now that we’re in it, built just shorter than a whole gang standing on top of each other. It’s narrower than the corridor behind us, but wide enough that a pair of NorCol jackets can push their way past, jangling keys to hand. The cons keep clear, rest their shoulders on the nearest wall, and give me a moment’s eyes on where we’re going.

MAS-HANG C

says a yellow stencil on the door, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

[ALL BERTHS]

AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY

The two jackets get working on the locks ahead, and the rest of their squad walks the line, rattling our shackles and checking the links around our necks, reminding us who’s in charge.

Thunder stops them dead, shaking the floor beneath our feet. Somewhere on the decks above us, something huge roars to takeoff.

I trade glances with Salt over his shoulder, and look back over my own. The man behind me meets my eyes. He’s another ex-jockey, just like Salt and me, but this one looks like he hasn’t seen a steady meal in years, or a shower in twice that. His skin is sickly pale, and his muscles run rangy. Lear, he’s called, to match the ugly look in his eye.

“Hangar,” he says.

“Burning hard,” I reply. “Big enough that it needed launch-assist.”

“Big bird,” he agrees. “Wide throat like that, probably a corvette.”

“Or a lander. LCA Scudderbox.”

“The only reason to fly a ’box is if you’ve got marines on station.”

“Which means there’s a garrison.”

He clicks a finger. “Which means we’re riding a carrier, at least. Big enough to haul wings and armour.” He spreads a grin, and crews it with ugly teeth. “Maybe they have birds for us.”

As the engine sounds subside, I can just about hear the edge of something else.

“What was that?” I ask.

Lear blinks at me. “What was what?”

A low rush, almost a whisper. This time from around us.

“That.”

Salt turns as far as he can manage and offers us a smile. “Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“They say there are clouds outside.”