A steel column stands in the way, splitting the narrow walkway in two. There’s something similar in the Juno, and variants in almost every shell I’ve ever flown. It doesn’t look the same, but I know what it is and what it does. You could call it a vertebra, one big link in a chain that supports the machine body, and carries the thick cables and conductors that run into the base of the saddle.

I shout again.

“Come out with your hands up!” It sounds shrill now that my heartrate’s running flat. I stand in the quiet another thirty seconds, making sure my channels are open. There’s nothing from the Sigurd pod. I shut them down, open them again, and clear every channel I have access to; I cycle back through the Juno’s transmitters, and boost the sound of my voice across every frequency I can reach, raw and unfiltered.

Still nothing.

And I’m running out of fire.

“Stacking up,” says a voice in my ear. It takes me almost a whole second to process the words. I spin at the weight of a glove on my shoulder and Hail steps back, one hand in the air, the other carrying a weapon like mine.

Her Spirit rests on one knee behind her, its little airlock cycling as it stands again. Salt’s shell moves through the dust in the distance, weapons crackling, panning through the shadows.

Hail catches my eye. “My shell’s set for overwatch. It’ll cover us,” she says as the slender machine turns away. She rests her free hand on my shoulder; there’s power in the grip. “Stacking up.”

I nod and turn to face the broken hatch. “Take right,” I whisper across our little net.

She taps my shoulder again. “Go.”

I pass the column, following the narrow walk along the inside of the cockpit-pod. Hail curves back on the other side.

A dark suit meets us in the middle, still in its saddle. We face it, weapons level with its helmet, fingers on triggers.

“Hands up!” I shout.

The jockey doesn’t move.

“I said, hands up!”

Nothing. We stand in the quiet, staring at our reflections in the visor-glass.

“Look,” whispers Hail. She reaches out and runs a finger across the collar.

I glance at her, but the Sigurd jockey doesn’t react.

She brings the glove back, works the fingers together where I can see. “Dust.”