‘Was I a convict?’ Again, the woman meets my eyes with that gaze I find so hard to hold. ‘Yes. Does my name not give it away?’

‘Your name?’

‘Pec. It’s short for Peccable. That means, “one capable of sinning”.’ She smiles widely, showing worn, real teeth. ‘The prison warden who released me fancied himself a scholar.’

‘If you were one of the first here, and before that served time, you must be…’ The General frowns. ‘Just how old are you?’

‘Gabi,’ warns Falco.

‘It’s alright.’ Esterházy laughs. ‘To answer your question, Gabriella, I am almost eighty. Quite the record for Factus, I’m told.’ She sits back. ‘I have seen many things in my years. I was born on Earth, you know, in a city on a great river, what feels like a thousand lifetimes ago.’

‘On Earth?’ Pegeen’s voice is shy, almost awed. ‘And, is it true that you once ran a brothel, on Quaker’s Gasp?’

‘Quite true. There were not many opportunities for work out here, then, except on the terraform rigs. And a great many lonely people.’

Her voice is soft, and in another time or place I might have been soothed by it. But when I look at her closely, what I see makes me wary. Beneath the wrinkled skin and the pinned-back grey hair is a woman as tough as wood hardened over decades into iron; into a substance quite unlike what it once was. I stare, fascinated, wondering how I might find a moment to speak with her alone, and if I do, whether I can ask…

‘I wonder—’ I begin.

‘Excuse me.’ She rises stiffly, leaning on her gun. ‘I am afraid my attention is required in the office. But please, eat, drink.’ Her eyes find mine. ‘We will speak more soon.’

* * *

As soon as she’s gone, Falco pushes her plate away. ‘Peg, go check on Horse, would you? See if you can’t hurry him along.’

‘What’s the rush?’ Silas helps himself to Esterházy’s unmarked bottle. ‘It’s alright here.’ He smiles at me, pouring a shot of liquor and pushing it in my direction. The General promptly grabs it and knocks it back, making Silas laugh.

‘Lay off that,’ Falco says to her. ‘You’re too young for it. And we’ll need to be on guard if things get ugly.’

‘Why would they get ugly?’ Silas asks easily. ‘We’re causing no harm.’

‘Yet,’ Falco mutters. ‘Listen, that Marshal I spoke of, his name’s Joliffe. He’s entirely mad, and what’s worse, won’t admit it. Makes him dangerous.’

‘Franzi told me about him,’ the General says, scraping her plate. ‘Said he flies an old buzzard, fitted out with a hanging net to transport prisoners. Apparently, he once let the net drag behind the buzzard for forty klicks. Nothing but a bag of raw meat left of the prisoner by the end.’ She smirks at Falco. ‘Franzi said last time you were here you shot him in the thigh, and he went berserk.’