Falco smiles humourlessly. ‘Gutspill deserved it. A whole system of people scattered from every goddam corner of old Earth and there are still some white people who want to see us under their boot.’

‘Can’t Esterházy do something about him?’ Silas has lost some of his levity. ‘She said we were under her protection.’

‘She said we were under her roof. It’s different. Even she can’t go too far against the asshole. For one thing, he’s not employed by the Accord. He works for the insurers.’

Silas groans. ‘Should have known.’

‘Just keep your eyes open, alright?’ Falco orders.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The General makes a grab for the liquor bottle. ‘If he comes in, he’s carrion food.’

It’s not until some while later that I realise that the General is drunk, or rather, we all are.

‘If this is a port,’ the General says, her eyes on a woman who has just entered, wearing the uniform of Provo Swift – fleetest fleet in the system emblazoned across her back – ‘why can’t we barter passage here? Get off this stinking rock? That’s what we want, isn’t it?’

I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. I tap the cup on the sticky table, listening as a cargo tout bawls out the list of wares available to be “handed on” to another courier.

Fifteen gallons of pure liquid Brovian shit, seven crates of accelerated, artificial, top-drawer amylase. Five thousand kopeks of primo-grade grub spawn…

‘Go ahead and barter.’ Silas shrugs. ‘Without a trusted contact you’ll be handed over to the Accord at the nearest satellite outside of atmos. These haulers care about one thing, and that’s profit.’

He fills my cup once again.

‘What about you, Ten?’ he asks softly. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s not about what I want.’

‘But if it were?’ There is a question in his voice. His hand grazes mine beneath the table, and I meet his eyes. His face is flushed with drink and the heat of the place, even as the desert night shivers outside.

‘Well as long as someone within the upper echelons wants me dead, I have only one option,’ the General interrupts. She squints at me, one eye closed. ‘I will have to invoke the Last Accord, like some common criminal.’

‘No extradition from a home planet,’ Silas muses. ‘Would that work for you, Ten?’

I shake my head. ‘I was exiled from the Congregations when I joined the FL. And after sentencing I was registered to the hulks.’ I laugh into the cup at the horrible irony of it. ‘The only place I am physically safe is in prison. And I am not about to break back in.’

‘Too bad for you,’ the General slurs. ‘But if I can get to Felicitatum…’

‘You’re from Jericho?’ Silas’s face brightens. ‘But so am I. Which warehouse? I grew up in Braxoco, then Gul-Kline-Sun.’

The General snorts at him. ‘Should have known you’re a greener. I was born in Frontera.’