They manage four steps before Mike's knees buckle out from under him. He slumps to the ground, hand still cradled to his chest, a large sticky patch expanding on the front of his clothing. A fine tremor runs through his body, but when he looks up, his eyes are focused.

"I thought you were dead."

"There's a reason blue caps don't wander around here alone."

"I was so sure...." He blinks rapidly and starts breathing through his mouth. "I never went back to the field after Luna-9. Now this. Is there something about my face?" He slumps forward. "Must be the face."

The lace is starting to soften. Mig pulls him roughly to his feet and heads towards the stairs. People step aside without prompting. Those sitting down on the paths look up and fall quiet. News of a maimed blue cap wandering the Honeycomb will be all over the town by nightfall. He trudges forward without stopping while Mike starts flagging by the second level. When they reach the third level, he glances at his door, then walks to Azizi's. He drags his hand down the surface, which makes a rasping sound.

It takes a moment, but a small boy opens the door. It's Mbita, Azizi's grandson. He taps the skin below his eye and stands aside. Mig returns the gesture and half-carries, half-drags Mike inside. One corner has two beds pushed right against the wall. The stove nearly touches the mattress. Most of the space is taken up by an old examination table. The place reeks of antiseptic and dust.

Mbita looks towards the bathroom. "Babu."

A gurgle of running water. "Ah?"

"Mig and some ḡarīb."

"Ah-huh." Azizi appears in the doorway with wet hands. The faint scent of soap fills the room. "A bleeder."

"Sorry," Mike says.

"He met Ellie."

"Lucky to have a hand, then."

Mig helps Mike onto the table, then points the SIG at the ground and unloads it. He sets the chambered round beside Mike's thigh, pops seven more from the clip, and lines them up. Each red tip glints in the light.

"Ellie's?" Azizi pulls his sleeves up and snaps on a pair of gloves. "Custom made?"

"Yeah. Should go for a good price." Mig pushes the clip back in, engages the safety, and shoves it into one of his pants pouches. "She'll be mad, but her mess. Her terra."

"Ah-huh. Your pupils look like shuttle tires."

He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Got laced."

"Expensive," Mbita says. "She doesn't mess."

"Yeah."

Azizi holds out his hands. Mike reluctantly lowers his own hand, which is pale and smeared with dry and wet blood. The stab wound is deceptively small. It looks like a thin red slit between his third and fourth metacarpals. A smaller slit is visible on the back of his hand.

Mbita sucks air through his teeth. "She got you good."

Mike laughs weakly. "Yes, she did."

"Needs stitches." Azizi frowns at the wound. "Your immunity up to date?"

"Yes. Martian and interplanetary spectrums."

Without prompting, Mbita brings out a flat white kit. He sets it on the opposite side of Mike's body and opens it. An assortment of liquid bandages, disinfectants, and surgical implements are packaged inside. Azizi sets down the irrigating fluid and starts treatment in earnest. He turns over Mike's hand and covers the small wound with an anti-microbial sealant. Many microorganisms harmless on Earth become virulent after a trip through space. He unspools a small silvery thread and snaps off half a foot, which instantly starts curling on itself. It's a self-directed stitching thread designed for micro-surgery when a proper operating theater isn't an option. He carefully feeds it into the wound and pauses when Mike hisses.

"No twitching."

"Sorry."

Azizi continues to feed the stitch in. It immediately begins to splice apart and fill the wound much like a natural fibrin net. The edges begin to pull together as the thread reacts with clotting proteins. Mike hisses again, but keeps his hand still. Since multiple layers of tissue are affected, it takes nearly three minutes for the stitch to spider back into view. Azizi squints down at the wound, then slathers it with anti-microbial sealant. He then binds the entirety of Mike's hand with a gauze paste. It dries to a rough, vaguely white colour that earned it its name.

"It'll heal nice. Absorb back into the body." Azizi straightens up and pulls off his gloves. "No need for a hospital."

"Thank you." Mike wipes his forehead with the back of his uninjured hand. "Thank you for this." He looks at Mig. "And thank you."

Mbita laughs and touches the skin below his eye. "This is thank you, ḡarīb. You're wasting oxygen with that Earth stuff."

"Sorry, I am a little out of practice." Mike copies the gesture. "Would you find it rude if I pay?"

Now Azizi laughs. "Never, but it's covered today."

"Right. Of course."

Mig grabs Mike's shoulder and guides him off the examination table. His eyes flick to Azizi, then back. "If you tell what happened, everybody pays. That's how it works."

"Like High Dune," Mbita mutters. 

Azizi shuts the white kit and pushes it into his grandson's arms. "Be useful."

"We were told it was an explosive decompression." Mike divides a look between them. "You say it was deliberate?"

"We say this stitch is good." Azizi gestures to Mig. "He wouldn't bring you here if he didn't vouch for you, but understand. This isn't Earth."

Something shifts in Mike's expression. He watches Mbita shove the kit into a space on the shelf. "No one will hurt you. Not for me. I promise."

Mig clears his throat. "Let's go."

He ushers Mike back out the door and startles two children trying to listen in. Blue caps seldom come up to the third level, especially a civilian. The kids dart down the walkway in opposite directions. If someone chases them, one is bound to escape.

"Can we talk?" Mike rubs the sealant with his thumb. "Just talk."

It's hard not to glance at the locked door. Olivia sits behind it deciding whether or not to take the bounty. Mig starts down the stairs. It's only when he hits ground level that he looks anywhere but forward.

"Not getting paid to keep you alive."

"I'm not asking you to."

It's startling to hear Mike switch to New Shanidar pidgin. He smiles wanly at Mig's expression and walks towards the Choke. He stops at the derelict airlock and turns around so they face each other. Mig leans up against the wall and clasps his hands in front of his waist, well out of arm's reach.

"I'm sorry for the act. It's a habit now. People drop their guard when you're a clueless foreigner."

"Got yourself stabbed on purpose?"

"No." Mike looks down at his hand. "But I meant what I said. I won't let Pax hurt them."

Mig gazes out over the Honeycomb. "Surprised she went with it."

"Aiko didn't. She's out looking for our pilots."

"No ransom, no survivors."

"She still needs to try."

He nods.

The lines around Mike's eyes crease from years spent squinting into the sun. "You look thin."

"Everybody's thin. Why are you here?"

"Olivia Ninh became eligible for Avix-K. This is where she fell off the map. I had to find out what happened to her. Help somehow."

"Skimmers took out her foster family just to the southwest. She crawled here in an old pressure suit. Nine years old. Where were you then?"

"Gone." Mike quirks his lips. "Luna-9 was.... I got lost. Guess we all did."

"Guess so."

He looks at Mig for a long moment. "I don't know what Aiko will do if she finds out you're here. You were convicted in absentia. It tainted her career with UNIS. Changed her."

"You're not going to turn me in?"

"No." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "I never thanked you."

"For what?"

"For making the hard choice." Mike frowns and all the lines in his face deepen. "I blamed you even though I knew how much that decision weighed on you."

"The wrong decision."

"Yes," he says quietly, "it was."

They stare at each other. He moves forward, arm raised. His fingers brush against Mig's hairline, warm and lightly calloused. Mig smacks his hand aside and pushes away from the wall. Mike flinches back. His wounded hand twitches in pain.

Mig's eyes flick down to the gauze, then back up again. "You should go."

Mike lets his hand drop. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and turns away. Although he towers over the nearest Martians, his shoulders are bent. He slumps forward and is quickly lost in the crowd.