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Kesta touched the blue seal printed over her chest. HUMANITARIAN RELOCATION PROGRAM.

“Very enthusiastic,” she said.

The younger woman stopped pacing. “Where are they taking us?”

“Kharon-Veil.”

Her face emptied. The red-haired woman shifted, making room on the bunk. “Sit before the ship accelerates.” Kesta remained standing. “You know it?”

“I know rumors.”

“Good rumors?”

“There are no good rumors about a world surrounded by guns pointed inward.”

The ship lurched. Kesta caught the wall before her injured hand struck it. The red-haired woman noticed.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Old cut.”

“Show me.”

“No.”

A beat passed. The woman nodded, accepting the boundary without offense. “Lysa Dain.”

“Kesta Frank.”

The younger woman whispered, “Mira Orr.” Lysa glanced at the seals on their shifts. “What did they kill you for?” Mira’s eyes filled. “Debt.”

“No one gets Kharon for debt,” Lysa said.

“My father owed a shipping combine. They said I signed as guarantor.”

“Did you?” Kesta asked.

“I was sixteen.”

Kesta sat beside Lysa. “I refused to certify living prisoners as dead.” Lysa’s expression changed. “Medical?”

“Trauma and forensic.”

“That may keep you alive longer.”

“Longer than what?” Mira asked.

Lysa looked toward the door camera. The ship accelerated again. A low vibration entered the deck and climbed into Kesta’s bones.

“Kharon-Veil is not a colony,” Lysa said quietly. “Transports do not land. The empire drops prisoners in pods. Camps control water. Predators own everything beyond the heat fields. The condemned make laws because imperial law ends at the atmosphere.”

“What kind of laws?” Kesta asked.

Lysa’s gaze settled on the blue seal over Kesta’s heart.

“For women? Bad ones.”

Before Kesta could press, the door opened. Two guards entered with a medical cart. One held an injector. The other carried three black bands wider than the collars already around their throats.