Normally, he would have been looking after his sister. She had been upset about the crew leaving, and finally had calmed down enough only minutes before to insist they go outside, some sort of claustrophobic whim having taken hold of her. For him to deny her anything that might be some relief for her distress was unthinkable.

The outpost was quiet, a few villagers standing around chatting, gathering wayward children or watching their play indulgently, but most had already retired into the tunnels under the domiciles for the night.

Day and night, they all took turns watching their flocks or staying behind with the children. The rotation of shifts was comfortable, even routine, and sometimes he could almost forget that even here, they carried guns everywhere no matter what the job.

He hadn't thought of the others much, his attention needed as a doctor and brother. Now he was reminded acutely. Bovine , River had proclaimed, peering oddly, unfathomable and knowing. He'd decided not to ask, and his poor Ophelia had danced off after - or perhaps with - the fireflies that had emerged from the tall grass. Some sort of ballet, solemn as a temple dance, that only she knew. Dressed in bleached linen, she glowed in the cold moonlight nearly as much as her partners, a ghostly mirror to them as she meandered, then bowed low every few steps in an arabesque.

Zoë was left a radio instead of rue. After overhearing River's transmission, the soldier had sharpened into an intensely focused state. She reminded him of the tiger banners hung all over Capital City four years ago on yuándàn .

"Sir?" she hailed. Some small amount of concern broke through her stoicism. Hadn't she been arguing with the captain earlier? She didn't forgive easily; Niska's fate, both times storming his complex was an example of her wrath. Yet Mal seemed a special exemption, or perhaps the deference was just professionalism.

No answer. Simon climbed to his feet. "What's going