There’s more concrete and tar and bonded plating, machines bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, but most of it’s forgotten as soon as we’ve passed by. My eyes are clouding, merging everything together into a parade of storms and shadows.

Somewhere in the middle, we cross into a clearing. A little circle of open deck, rimmed by scaffolds and ringfence and barbed-wire coils. A line of metal hoops has been welded to the floor.

“Chain gang, halt!”

But we’re already slowing. This is different. The wardens are pulling away.

I look up in time to be blinded.

Someone sweeps a spotlight down the line and leaves me blinking. I clear the spots in time to see heavy silhouettes emerge from the dark on either side: NorCol marines, walking the line and locking our chains to hoops on the deck, rattling our padlocks to check that they’re still intact.

They aren’t as rough as the wardens were, but there’s steel where they had grit. These are soldiers.

I look around, but there’s no sign of what we’re doing here.

“Welcome to Horizon,” says someone I can’t see, loud enough that it rings in my ears. It takes a second to find the source, a line of bullhorn speakers two storeys up, bolted around a rusty scaffold rail.

Salt’s still looking, still blinking.

“Up,” I whisper.

He follows my eyes, mumbles his thanks.

A pair of white gloves catch the light, pearly on a filthy handrail. There’s a row of teeth in the air above them, just as bright, ratty eyes and over-comb.

Someone turns a lamp on him.

Now that I can see, the man himself is clean and starchy. A little beacon in the grime that clings to everything else. The uniform says he’s Colonial Authority; deep grey with rings of gold over his cuffs and braid around one shoulder, gilded epaulettes and collar-tips. There are medals across his chest, but all I can see from here is the glint.

I lean over. “Know him?”

Salt gives me side-eye. “Think I know everyone?”

“You were colonial.”

“He’s Authority. I was Navy, remember?”

“Guessed I’d give it a try.”

One of the soldiers homes in on our voices, but we’ve got our hands up before she reaches us. She’s wearing NorCol’s turquoise armour-plate, with a field-blue overcoat. A helmet hides her face, internal systems light her eyes orange through the visor-slit.

“Shut it.”

We don’t argue. Not with her, and not with the nasty little carbine in her hands.

Beady-Eyes is too high to notice us. “My name is Durer,” he says, the words buzzing as the speakers reach their limits. “For those of you who haven’t guessed, I am here on behalf of your beloved Authority. Here to make sure that your transfers go as smoothly as possible.”