A door slams, reverberating across the night, and I pull my mind from the sludge, opening my eyes in time to see a figure hurrying across the parade ground towards the gate I left open.

Time to move. I steal around the edge of the buildings, the stun pistol at my belt. I sense them at my heels, eager as dogs. Hungry for what’s to come.

A stretcher in the corridor confirms that the infirmary is where I expect it to be. The walls are pasted with faded posters warning of soil contaminants and parasites in edible insects and signs of yellowrot. The air is thick with the smell of sanitiser.

I’m halfway along the corridor, too far to turn back, when a pair of soldiers appear, hurrying towards me. For a second I freeze, expecting them to shout, but they’re absorbed in speaking to each other in low voices. I remember the uniform I’m wearing, the bandages that wrap my neck like a patient. I keep my head down as they pass, sneaking a glance at their insignia.

They’re members of the Air Fleet. What are the Accord’s finest doing, dirtying their boots on a moon like this? Quietly, I run down the corridor.

First, the wards. The FL trained me well; I could map this place with my eyes closed. Next, the surgery. The scanner. The storeroom. I stop, one hand on the wall, staring ahead. Voices echo from the examination room. One soft and anxious, the other unmistakable…

Pulling the stun pistol, I stride forwards and shove open the door.

Three people turn to stare: a medic in green uniform, syringe in hand, a heavy-set man in the uniform of a captain, and her.

Alive, clean and in full battle-dress with the sleeve of her shirt rolled up, there sits General Gabriella Ortiz. Her face drops into shock at the sight of me, at the Accord uniform I wear.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she demands.

I don’t answer. Instead, I fire and the captain crumples to the ground. The medic cowers, gripping the syringe. The General doesn’t move.

‘I see,’ she says. ‘You have come to kill me after all.’

‘The opposite.’

She frowns. A second later the medic lunges towards me with the needle. I duck, driving my shoulder into their sternum. The needle clatters across the floor as I press the mouth of the gun to the back of the medic’s neck.

‘I’m not trying to kill you,’ I say. ‘They are.’

‘What?’

Before I can answer, the medic jerks their head, watering eyes fixed on the blank screen that takes up the entirety of one wall, their lips moving, mouthing silent words.

‘What’s in that syringe?’ I demand, digging the gun into their neck.

‘Go to hell.’

Slowly, the General slides from the examining bed and picks up the syringe, filled with a blueish serum.