For the first time I understand where Falco’s seemingly limitless supply of airtights must come from; here are tins of sardines from the fishvilles of Prosper, and blue corn from the vast roof fields of Jericho’s agri warehouses. There’s a bowl of long-fermented greens, soft-shell smoked beetles, and meat, actual meat: huge Brovian steaks, cut into slivers. And – in a nod to local custom – there are dishes of cooked witchetty grubs, their skin crisp and their innards soft as boiled egg yolks, and dishes of real salt.

Esterházy sits at the head of the table, quietly watching us eat. She herself eats little, picking at the odd piece of sausage and drinking cups of liquor from her unmarked bottle. Every so often one of her workers appears and whispers to her. More than once, I realise I am staring only when she catches my eye. I look away and drink down the beer in my glass – miraculously cold – and try not to rub at the marks on my chest.

The others forget their tension with each bite. The General, who was at first silent and troubled, eats ferociously, like a feral cat who fears her meal might be snatched at any moment.

‘My god,’ she says, mouth smeared with grease from the steak, ‘real food.’ She takes a slurp from the cup at her elbow. It seems she has forgotten her sulk at not being allowed beer like the rest of us. ‘Real milk.’

‘If you call rat milk real.’ Silas shrugs.

The General stops dead, the cup halfway to her mouth. ‘Rat milk?’

‘Sure.’ Silas spears another beetle. ‘Milked from Chansatorian udder rats. Most useful creature, very popular here on the border moons.’

‘Ha ha,’ the General says, but I notice she takes a surreptitious sniff of the milk.

Falco is the only one who doesn’t fully let her guard down. Her eyes keep flicking to the door, to the darkness outside the windows.

‘Problem?’ I ask her quietly, as I reach for the dish of grubs.

‘Horse said he won’t be done with the ship ’til midnight at the earliest.’

‘Ah well.’ Silas drains his cup. ‘The night is young.’

‘Exactly.’

Silas ignores her. ‘Hey, Ms Esterházy, aren’t you worried about the Seekers out here?’

Esterházy looks at him hard. ‘The Seekers?’

‘Yeah. I hear other settlements in the U Zone get hit hard.’

The old woman gives a small, dismissive smile. ‘They tend to leave us alone.’

‘How come?’

‘There was… an agreement made. A long time ago.’

Silas snorts. ‘An agreement with the Seekers? Right, and Hel the Converter signed it in blood.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Esterházy says lightly. ‘Hel doesn’t exist.’

‘Falco said you were among the first to come to Factus.’ The words are from my mouth before I can stop them. ‘Were you…’

I look at her neck. Sure enough, among the crinkled flesh I see the two round scars.