‘Good,’ Falco says. ‘Ready, Peg?’

Pegeen ties back their tangled hair. ‘Ready.’

Outside, the wharves are quiet. The only noise comes from some bit of metal squeaking in the breeze, the occasional groan of the platforms and, from somewhere, a low buzzing. The late-afternoon sun hammers down, as if the terraform here is thinner, as if even that has been pared to the barest minimum by the Accord, above these people who will not pay their land tax. Between the rising wind it’s eerily still. Nothing lives this far out. The air is too thin for vultures to venture far from the larger settlements that are their food source. Even the snakes that escape the ranches don’t survive long, with nothing but the dust and howling wind to sustain them.

‘No guards?’ I whisper to Pegeen, as we clang along the walkway.

Peg’s grey eyes scan ahead to where the ugly freighters squat, like great eyeless toads. ‘Ships got their own. Everyone for theirselves, out here.’

At the end of the walkway sit two low metal buildings with a gate between them. A sign reads:

U TOMS O ICE

‘They took the Fs,’ a voice says. A man sits in the wink of shade beneath the roof of the second building. His face has sunk in on itself, beetle-like eyes watering in the breeze. He wipes at them with a filthy rag, before going back to fixing something on his lap.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Said they took the Fs.’ The man winds a screw into place with agonising slowness. ‘Crew wanted them for their ship, the Fine Fandango. C fell off on its own. Never did comprehend what happened to the S.’

The General rolls her eyes. ‘Is there one place on this moon where people are normal?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, but the man doesn’t seem to be expecting much of a response. Instead, he puts the item he was fixing on the floor. A mechanical dog. It takes four steps, lets out a bark and falls over.

‘This the stable?’ Falco demands, peering into the building behind the man, filled with a jungle of cables and parts.

The man looks mournfully at his dog. ‘Yes.’

‘What happened to Horse, the old mechanic?’

‘I am Horse.’

Falco grimaces. ‘Alright. We just landed in that Orel.’ She jerks her thumb towards the Charis. ‘Pilot reckons the booster valves are all chawed up. You can take a look? Clean ’em out?’

‘I can take a look, clean ’em out,’ the man says, picking up his dog.

Silas starts forwards. ‘There’s no way—’ he protests, but Falco shoves him so hard that he wheezes.

‘We’re obliged,’ she says. ‘And if you mess it up, I’ll cut off your hands.’

‘Hands,’ the man agrees.

We walk away across the dirt. Behind us, I hear the whirring of the dog’s steps, another half-bark and a clatter.

Silas is furious. ‘If you think I’m going to let that crazed landgrubber loose on my baby—’