Finally, beyond a broken wire fence, I see the flickering lights of Tiger Town. Our one chance of safety.

‘We have to get to Falco’s.’

‘The benzenery?’ the General spits. ‘They will tear this town to pieces looking for us. We have to get out of Landfall.’

‘How do you propose to do that? We have nothing. Falco will help.’

‘You think I’m going to trust another criminal?’

‘You don’t have a choice, ma’am.’

I drag her into the shadows as a scout drones overhead, its motor whining as it clogs with dust.

She wrenches herself from my grip. ‘I know how to look after myself.’

In taut silence, we creep into Tiger Town. Luckily, at this time of night, many of its citizens are distracted; lulled by century smoke, or knocking back benzene, or clacking their teeth on beads.

When I see the lights of Falco’s, hear the din coming from inside, I almost sob with relief. I make my way around the back, muscles trembling with ebbing adrenalin. But before I can raise a fist to knock, the door flies open and the muzzle of a gun is jammed between my eyes.

‘It’s me,’ I croak, hands raised, ‘it’s Low.’

Beyond the gun is a familiar face. It’s the G’hal from earlier, Pegeen. They make a noise of disgust at the smell, before looking beyond my shoulder to the General. Their eyes go wide.

‘Guess you gutspills better come in.’

* * *

The General slumps on the threadbare mattress, allowing me to swab a graze on her arm.

The light from the single bulb in the ceiling illuminates the surgery scars that criss-cross her neck and shoulders, exposed by the bright pink dyed vest.

She shifts in the borrowed clothes and I wonder if Falco chose the garish colours as a deliberate taunt. They obviously make the General uncomfortable, and I can tell she wants her uniform back.

Falco refused to let us into her bar, filthy as we were, and demanded that we shed the sodden, stinking clothes before being hosed down in the vapour shower. I hadn’t been able to hide the shudders as the blasts stung my skin. It was too much like the hulks. All through the weeks in the prisoner camps, the holding cells, even the military trial, nothing had prepared me for the finality of that first day as a convict, standing beneath the sterile shower, as everything was stripped and scraped from me: the girl from the far-flung Congregations, the medic, even my name until only a body was left to be labelled and collared and stored – the embodiment of my crime – nothing more.

I drag my thoughts back to the present, to the child before me who needs healing.

‘It should mend well,’ I say.

‘What do you care if it does?’ She looks up at me in the artificial light. ‘Why did you even come back?’