I walk stiffly, pushed along by the mouth of a pistol, sick with fear and rage at my own stupidity. The hope I felt earlier in the day curdles into bitterness as I look at Silas.

‘What you going to do with them?’ he begs Moloney, following at his heels like a dog.

‘What do you care?’

‘They’re wanted alive, you know.’

The bandit smirks. ‘One of them is.’

‘Maggot,’ the General spits at Silas. ‘You didn’t even have the decency to take us in yourself. How much did you get for this?’ When he doesn’t answer, she turns to Moloney. ‘What bounty have the Accord put on my capture?’

He seems amused by the question. ‘Ten thousand credits, ma’am.’

‘I’ll better the offer. Twenty thousand for my freedom.’

Moloney laughs, a noise like cracking plastic. ‘Poor Silas.’ He reaches out to pat the younger man’s cheek. ‘Sold the pair for two hundred credits when you could have had twenty thou. How much gear could you have bought with that?’ Silas jerks back as the Rooks laugh too.

Two hundred credits. And I had thought of taking up with him. I turn from him in disgust.

Moloney scratches at his face with the mouth of the charge pistol. ‘You know, I’m thinking on it. What if I said forty thousand? You owe me a ship, little lady.’

‘Thirty-five.’

‘Haggling for your life?’

The General snorts dismissively, and I can tell what she’s thinking. Whatever might be left of it. ‘I’ve played higher stakes.’

The bandit nods in appreciation. ‘Souped that brain up good, didn’t they? Alright, sweetheart, it’s a deal. But I want my money now and if you try anything, you’ll wish I killed you quick.’

He spits oily foam onto his palm. In disbelief, I watch as the General does the same, as she clasps his hand in agreement.

When she looks at me, her blood-smeared face holds some expression I can’t fathom.

‘You lied,’ she says. ‘All that talk of wanting me alive… what was it for? So you could use me?’

‘You don’t understand—’

The world spins and I stagger, grabbing onto a shelf. Something goes tumbling. I blink but can’t focus. What the hell is wrong with me?

‘You gave it to her?’ Moloney asks, and dimly, I see Silas nodding. The mezcal burns my throat, threatening to come back up. Not just mezcal, I realise.

‘Don’t worry, Low,’ Moloney drawls. ‘Just a little sedative. We heard the stories about you. About what you used to be. This way you’ll be nice and quiet, all the way to Otroville.’

Even as the drug scrambles my system, something within me freezes.