A Seeker craft flies low overhead, firing directly into the flight deck of the Commander’s ship. Fire blooms, glass explodes. I rip the prison collar from my skin and throw it to the dirt, kicking sand over it.

Only one of the Commander’s soldiers is left standing. As I walk towards him, he fires. No use. Every shot goes wide. When his gun is empty of charge I stop, staring at him, and see myself reflected in his eyes: my bloodied hands holding a scalpel, the Seekers’ mark clear on my chest, my eyes as hard as a bird of prey’s.

‘Run,’ I tell him.

On his heels, and all around us, they dance, plucking at the tangled strings of our choices, blurring the paths between realities on this, their moon; the last stop before the Void.

* * *

The ranch house is tucked into a fold of the ragged foothills, alone and softly glowing, like a firefly cupped in a weathered palm. The surgeon steps out onto the porch and takes a deep breath of the cool, blue night. The wind whisks the smell of blood and antiseptics from his apron.

‘Quite the day’s work,’ he says.

I smile wearily. For hours I’ve helped the surgeon and his husband stitch and swab, sterilise and cauterise, dose and hope. Inside, Silas lies reeling from a concussion and four broken ribs. Falco slumps on the cot next to him, demanding morphine for the wound that almost took off her leg. And the General…

‘How is she?’ I pass over a basin of water for the surgeon to wash his hands.

He laughs dryly, rubbing at the cracked skin of his knuckles.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Just the irony of it. The Accord are spread so thin that half of these moons are falling apart, and yet, some things they built to last.’ He glances at the house. ‘Like her.’

‘She’ll live?’

‘The extra-dermal membrane they installed beneath her skin bore much of the brunt, and if she recovers from the blood loss, and the damage to her lung she may, yes.’

‘And her illness?’

He raises a shoulder. ‘Whatever they did to make her what she is, it goes deeper than blood and bone. More than I have skill to treat. It may be that, to remain stable, she will need the Accord’s drugs for the rest of her life.’ He catches my eye. ‘But I don’t think she’s dying. At least, not from what they did to her.’

I drop my head. Can’t think of many who lived long enough to learn a different way to be, Falco had said. Would the General, now that she has a chance?

Water drips as the surgeon wearily washes his face. I look over at him, lit by the steady solar lights. No tattoos on his temples, just two small scars upon his neck.

‘Were you in the FL?’ I ask.