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‘What about you?’

Mesquite fumbled inside her clothes for her tobacco. She deftly rolled a smoke and lit it. The acrid smell filled Mira’s lungs. ‘I cannot see my future but I know about yours.’

‘Who are you, Mesquite, that you can read my future?’ Mira laughed.

Mesquite sighed heavily. ‘A person who pays daily for the sins of her ancestors.’ She inhaled deeply, then let the roll-up hang from her lip. The smoke curled up into her dark hair. ‘When it happens, you run. I will hoard a little food in Cass’s barge but there is not much to spare. You take as many of the women from this dorm as you can—and get out. Go to the Pablo mines south of Pellegrini B.’

‘Why there?’

‘Provisions have been made for this kind of. . . occurrence.’ Mesquite hesitated as if she might share something more but the moment passed. She turned and began hanging more liners out. ‘You must accept this and trust me.’

More questions sprang to Mira’s lips but in the end Mesquite’s steadfast self-possession silenced them all.

* * * *

That night Mira went to the town salon to see Rast.

Catchut patted her down against the wall in the large room they had first been taken to.

Mira stood stiff against the contact, wishing it to be over.

‘Nothing on you, but what about in you?’ Catchut’s smile was cruel.

Acid rose in Mira’s throat—what did the mercenary mean? She took quick nervous sideways steps until she knocked into something—the weapon that had so intimidated the miners.

Catchut pounced on her, rescuing it from falling.

‘What is it?’ asked Mira. ‘Why were they so scared of one rifle?’

Catchut moved the rifle to the table, placing it carefully in the middle. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘You aristos don’t get out much, do you?’

Mira thought he might even laugh but the hint of humour died as his stare rested on the covered rifle. ‘GRG. Gamma-ray. Best you go and see the Capo. Save your questions for her.’

Rast was in a smaller room that she was using for sleeping. She wore a soft grey underliner that showed the lines of her hardened muscles. Her combat hood and protecsuit were next to her feet.

Like Mira, her possessions were few—a spare underliner, some personal effects and a tube of cleaning gel. Parts of her rifle were spread across a low bureau in precise order. She selected a part and squeezed a small trail of gel onto it. ‘How fare the warrior gentry?’

Mira ignored the sarcasm. She leaned wearily against the door—she’d worked in the hydro tents through the day and had taken her rostered turn in the laundry. Clothes were becoming a problem. Some of the liners in the protecsuits needed replacing and the familia who wore fellalas needed the skins repaired.

Rast saw her fatigue. ‘I hear you’ve been getting your hands dirty, Baronessa’ she said. ‘You want to watch out, you’ll be getting a reputation.’

‘I suppose you would know about that,’ Mira countered.

Silence fell between them, which Rast showed no interest in breaking. She carried on methodically cleaning her weapon.

Mira straightened her back and took a deep breath. ‘I have come to ask you for guards on the dorms. The women are no longer safe.’

‘Safe?’ Rast’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. ‘Can’t do, Baronessa. I only have twenty people here that I can trust and I can’t spare them to babysit.’

‘Bodies are turning up around the town every morning. There won’t be anything left for the Saqr—we’re killing ourselves.’

Rast’s expression became unreadable. ‘It happens like that. But we need to wait.’

‘For who? What help will come here?’

Rast seemed about to answer but instead she put down a rifle part and came over to Mira. She ran a hand down Mira’s arm. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘We all have,’ Mira retorted, edging back.

‘You look more real every day.’

‘Real?’ asked Mira, puzzled.

‘I like the look of you here . . . and here . . .’ Rast leaned over and caressed Mira’s neck.

Mira stood absolutely still, like a hunted animal. ‘The men think you are weak. They