When I release the child’s flight suit, I see that I was right; she is a lot smaller than the garment implied. I would guess at around twelve or thirteen years old. She wears a beige thermal shirt and trousers, like pyjamas. The collar is soaked with blood, and a tear at the elbow and smears of oil speak of a hasty escape. Had she been sleeping when the ship’s distress call went out, whisked from her bed into an escape craft by this man?

Perhaps. Though something tells me he is not her father. A bodyguard, then? A kidnapper? Whoever they are, they aren’t new settlers, or farmers from Brovos. They look too healthy for that and rich folk don’t venture out this far if they can help it. The modern lifecraft and brand-new flight suits could have come from Prosper, or Jericho, or some inner-system enclave.

I test the child’s limbs. They are all mobile, no sign of trauma. The blood pasting her face seems to come only from the scalp wound, which is ragged, though shallow. But when I wipe the mess away, I see something that stops my hand.

Beneath the blood, a tattoo stands out dark on her temple. The same double triangle.

I draw back. ‘Who is she?’

‘She needs help.’ The man looks at me, half-desperate, half-hostile. ‘You said you’d help her.’

He’s right. I grit my teeth. No matter what tattoo she has, she is a child, she is hurt and I am the one with the medical kit. I clean her head with some of the bandage and stitch the wound as best I can through her hair, hoping for her sake that she doesn’t wake before I am finished. When I pull the last stitch tight, she stirs and bares her teeth, but her eyes remain closed.

The man doesn’t make a sound while I work, only keeps his eyes fixed on the child’s face. Too late, I see what the effort has cost him. The redness has vanished from his skin, leaving it blue-white, drained. He is dying.

His white military-issue vest is sodden with blood. A dark, shining snake pulses from the wound between his ribs. A piece of shrapnel from the crash is embedded there, dug deep. He must have turned on his side at the moment of impact, and taken the brunt, sparing the child.

‘Leave it,’ he gasps, when I touch the piece of metal. His voice is full of liquid. ‘I know it’s bad.’

I nod. Little use in lying to him.

His eyes find mine. ‘She will live?’

‘If she regains consciousness, and if there’s no damage to her brain, and if the wound does not fester—’

A bloodied hand grasps my sleeve. ‘She can’t die.’ He hauls himself towards me, using the last of his strength. ‘If you hurt her, you’ll pay with your life.’