Isabel groaned. Poor Ghuh’loloan. ‘You got used to us, eh?’

‘Well . . .’ Ghuh’loloan gave a quieter laugh. ‘Stars, this is a horrible thing for a guest to say. But in the interest of cultural exchange: the Human kur’hon in these ships is so overpowering that not only have I become numb to it, but I cannot “smell” much of anything else.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Isabel put her palm to her cheek. ‘On behalf of my species, I apologise.’ She paused. ‘But you could smell – you could—’ She wrapped her lips around the unfamiliar word. ‘Ker-hone.’

‘You are very close. Kur. Our word for both air and vapour. Kurrrrr’hon.’ The Harmagian gave the R a mighty, over-exaggerated trill.

Isabel couldn’t duplicate the sound, but she gave it a valiant attempt. ‘Ker’hon.’ That would have to do. ‘You could . . . you detected the oxygen here.’

‘Yes, it is very strong here, and it’s wonderful. I could stay here all day.’

Isabel had no argument there. The fibre farms were peaceful, and sitting on a bench and discussing differences of biology sounded like a marvellous way to spend an afternoon – provided Ghuh’loloan did not invite her to inspect her innards again. Isabel’s disquiet from the experience was still ebbing away, and she found herself with an impish desire to return the favour. ‘So you were asking about Human birth.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Do you know,’ Isabel said with a grin, ‘that during late pregnancy, sometimes you can see the baby’s features pressing through the mother’s skin?’

The Harmagian’s eyestalks gave a slight pull downwards. ‘. . . not the face.’

‘Sometimes the face.’

Ghuh’loloan made a sound of good-humoured revulsion. ‘My dear Isabel, I really do recommend that your species try spawning like normal people do. It is far, far less disturbing.’

Sawyer

The vox snapped on with a loud scratch, waking Sawyer with all the courteousness of being dropped into a pond. ‘One hour to go time,’ Oates announced. ‘Up and at ’em, folks.’

Sawyer processed the message, processed his surroundings, and processed the fact that he felt wholly like shit. ‘Ugh, stars,’ he moaned, rubbing his face with his palms. He was hungover, and how. Len had presented two bottles of Whitedune after dinner the night before, and every memory Sawyer had retained after that point was hazy at best. A bellyful of corrosive kick should’ve been enough to make him sleep through the night, but it turned out that Oates, who had the room next to his, snored with a vigour and volume that could pull even the drunkest punk into a queasy, half-awake limbo for cumulative hours.

And yet, in between the heavy pulses in his temples, he remembered other things. He remembered the table cracking up at his lousy imitation of a Martian accent. He remembered Len jamming on his lap drum and cheering loudly when Sawyer proved he could sing along to ‘Go Away Away’ – the Exodan pop song of the standard – in its entirety. He remembered Dory roaring with laughter and thumping him across the back after he choked on one shot too many and felt it exit his throat by way of his nose. He remembered Muriel saluting him with a raised glass.

They like me, he thought as he threw up in the washbasin. He spat, smiled, and half-laughed at himself. What a great look for his first day. He’d laugh in full about this, at some point, that first job on the Silver Lining when Len got everybody shitfaced the night before. Yeah, that was the kind of story you’d tell fondly a few days down the road.

He washed himself up and found his last clean shirt. It had been four days since they’d left dock and headed into the open. He could make out the Fleet in the distance, just barely – a bright cluster of lights that didn’t match the stars. But he couldn’t see the Oxomoco yet. He didn’t know much about navigation, granted, but he was kind of confused by the direction they were heading. He thought he’d heard that the wreck had been put into orbit in such a way that it and the Fleet were always on opposite sides of the sun, so nobody would have to look at it. If he could still see the Fleet, then . . . then maybe he’d got that wrong. He’d misunderstood. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He headed to the kitchen. No one else was there, but some saintly person had put out a big hot pot of mashed sweet beans, a bowl of fruit, and – best of all – an open box of SoberUps. He availed himself of everything, plus a giant mug of water.

‘Hey hey, grounder,’ Nyx said, entering the room. The pilot delivered the dig with a friendly grin, then spotted the items on the counter. ‘Oh, thank fuck,’ she said, reaching into the box of SoberUps. She had a packet open and its contents crunched between her teeth in seconds flat. Nyx grimaced. ‘I hate the taste of these.’

‘Me too,’ Sawyer said.

She flipped the packet over and squinted at the label. ‘Snapfruit flavoured, my ass. More like . . . snapfruit’s ghost. Like a really sad ghost.’

Sawyer navigated a chuckle around his mouthful of mash. The magic combo of carbs and medicine was already doing its trick, and his temples throbbed less forcefully now.

Nyx helped herself to breakfast. ‘You ready for the hop?’

Sawyer wasn’t sure what she meant. A tunnel hop? That couldn’t be right. He was pretty sure they weren’t anywhere near the Risheth tunnel, and they couldn’t have got there in four days anyway. Besides, they weren’t leaving the system for this job, so – hmm. Whatever. He chose ignorance over sounding stupid, and replied: ‘Yeah, totally.’