‘Look, whatever you did, whichever side you took, it’s nothing to me. We’re all born again out here, right? All equal in dust.’ He tops up the cup. ‘You’ve got as much right to a new life as anyone.’

I try to smile. ‘The Accord would disagree.’

‘The Accord should look to their own problems. Good intentions don’t mean shit to people dying of thirst. They got what they wanted and it’s more than they can handle. Life would be better if they could admit that.’

I look at his face, lit by blinking panels. Not Accord, not FL… What is he doing, on Factus? There are signs of hardscrabble about him, but only at the edges. His clothes, worn as they are, speak of somewhere else, far from the border moons.

For a second, we lock eyes.

‘You should get some rest,’ he says.

I nod, draining the whiskey. ‘I’ll sleep in the cargo bay. If you have a blanket?’

He waves a hand. ‘Take the bunk. I’ll be here, anyhow. One of us should get a good night’s sleep.’

His fingers touch mine as he reaches for the cup, and for an instant I’m tempted to hold on, to ask him to come and lay with me and lose myself in smoke and in another person’s warmth. But then I see myself reflected in his eyes, my bruised face, the scarf wrapped high around my neck, and I remember what I am.

‘Thanks.’ I turn away.

His voice follows me. ‘May your thoughts be clear, Ten.’

* * *

I wake to an unusual feeling. I am warm and drowsy; I can’t remember the last time I felt so safe. There’s a soft drone from somewhere, like bees or a low, gravelly voice, endlessly humming. I press my head further into a pillow that smells of someone else’s hair, not wanting to wake.

But wake I do. Reality needles at my body; first my aching ribs, then the sore skin of my face, then the memory of where I am. I open my eyes.

The bunk is in an alcove, shielded from the rest of the ship by a thick curtain. Light filters through the weave, illuminating the walls and ceiling not far above my head. I smile and reach up. I was too tired last night to look at anything, but now I see that the bunk is a patchwork of colour; old-fashioned postcards from a century ago, shiny wrappers from food that can only be found on the home planets, a poster for a one-night-only concert on a satellite I’ve never heard of, a hand-drawn sketch of secretive Voivira with its protective satellites, even some of the better designed Accord and Limiter propaganda, torn from walls. A magpie collection, from across the known system.