The man’s eyes follow my movements as I haul the tarp from the back of the mule. He’s more alert now, but that does not mean he will live. Folk often have a wave of consciousness before the end. I once read about forest trees on Earth, and how they did much the same: used the last of their strength to send their life force through the roots and into the soil, giving it to others. That was what this stranger had done, in all likelihood, for this child. So be it. One life is better than none at all.

I set up a shelter from the rising sun, stretching the tarp from the post anchored on the mule across to the wreckage. I try to work fast, my eyes on the child, not yet conscious.

‘You,’ the man croaks. ‘Woman. Your name.’

‘Hafsa Gellam,’ I lie, as I tie off the tarp.

I feel his eyes travelling across my sunburned face, half-hidden by the scarf that wraps my neck from collarbone to chin, across my shorn head, my old jacket, my hands, roughened by the winds.

‘Which side?’ he asks.

I open the medkit to check its contents which, in truth, are pitiful. I haven’t been able to bring myself to stop at a trade post for some time and here is the evidence: two rolls of squashed bandage, a bottle of cleaning fluid, a few ampules of analgesics and tranqs and boosters, needles, thread.

‘What does it matter?’ I say, searching for my cleanest rag. ‘War’s over.’

‘Which side?’

‘I didn’t fight.’

‘Everyone fought.’

‘Not here.’

He grunts, as if to say that’s something I can well believe, but when I take out a roll of bandage, his eyes narrow. The bandages are black market, lifted long ago from a consignment headed for the First Accord. At the sight of the double yellow triangles stamped upon the wrappings, he seems to relax.

Whoever he is, he’s given himself away. One way to find out for sure. Kneeling, I unclip the shattered helmet from his flight suit and work it free. As the man gasps in relief, I see the tattoo on his temple, half-hidden by tangled copper hair. The same double triangles that mark the bandages. Beneath them is a thick line. A lieutenant, then. I glance at the ruined craft – a defector? I start to unclip the rest of the suit.

‘No.’ He knocks my hands away. ‘Her.’

‘Your injuries are worse.’

His face is a bad grey colour but he lifts an arm to hold me off. ‘Her first.’

I shrug. Whoever he is, whatever trouble he’s in, it’s likely I won’t be able to do much more than make him comfortable. Either way, I have to be fast. Desolate as this place is, Seekers have sentries, and even the heat won’t keep them at bay.