Captain-General Gabriella Ortiz, Former Commander of the Western Air Fleet of the Accorded Nations was today officially declared dead after her body was recovered from the wreckage of her ship, the FAS Tramontana, which was destroyed upon impact on Brovos’s outer moon of Factus. The General was on her way to oversee training and further peace measures on the moon of Prodor. While investigations are ongoing as to the cause of the crash, experts believe that a fault in the ship’s gravitational systems may be to blame. Accord Scouts were able to recover the body of the General by 0900 on the day of the crash. There were no other reported survivors.

The words blur across my eyes as the bulletin automatically skips to the next page. There’s a photograph – it shows a girl, unsmiling, looking older than her years. Her black hair is pulled back to show her tattoos of rank, her chin raised above the collar of a uniform thick with ribbons and medals. It’s her. It’s undoubtedly her.

‘What the hell is this?’

Falco’s head whips up. I follow her gaze to see four Accord soldiers step through the airlock.

‘You tell me,’ she says.

* * *

The place falls silent. Slowly, Falco’s G’hals rise from where they are sitting, their hands creeping towards belts or sleeves. Pegeen shifts, ready to step in front of Falco.

The soldiers look about the place, seemingly unbothered by hostility in the air as thick as burning tar.

‘Looking for a medic named Low,’ one of them demands.

Every fibre of my being wants to hide, to lower my head and cower until they are gone. But I can’t. They have my payment, the supplies I need to do the work the tally demands.

I stand. For a second, my vision clouds and I swear I feel them, the empty rushing feeling that heralds their approach. But as my eyes clear, the sensation fades.

‘I’m Low.’

Every person in the place watches as the lead soldier inclines her head and gestures outside. ‘We got your goods.’

The cherry and benzene stick to the sides of my throat as I try to swallow. I wish I hadn’t drunk it.

‘Fine.’

Three of the soldiers turn and leave, but the lead one remains in the doorway, her eyes locked on mine. Sweat breaks out on my neck beneath the tightly wrapped scarves as I turn back to the table. Falco is staring at me hard.

‘Let me pay you for the drink,’ I say loudly, nodding to the bottle of benzene, and the half-empty tins. ‘Though I will need change.’

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’ll see to it myself.’ She strides towards the bar, throwing a smirk at the soldier as she passes.