His friend's words chilled Strand in to painful sobriety, and he flicked open the screen. On it the real time feed from his friend's optical relay was being played. Titus was able to see at far greater magnifications than Strand himself would have managed, even with a pair of binoculars. The lone figure, who was now only a minute or two from reaching the city gates, appeared in much greater detail on the screen. She was dressed for a climate much harsher than spring in the northern hemisphere of Ierus, but her fitted cloak, cut in the knee-length, Solarian style, couldn't disguise her figure, not to a man who hadn't seen a female member of his own species for more than a decade. Strand could make out a chaotic tumble of deep red curls, pale, dirt streaked skin, and eyes, glowing like chips of warm amber as they caught the light. 

He watched as she paused to adjust the clasp on her cloak and was surprised to see that her left hand was a prosthetic. Un-skinned too. An unusual choice for a woman. There was also a holster strapped to her hip, and a gun tucked securely within it, but that wasn't strange for off-worlders. The Lazaretto has its own rules and living in it meant being able to and willing to defend yourself. Something else caught his eye, a glint of gold embroidery flashed on the breast pocket of her cloak, and Strand felt his knees sag momentarily. It was an insignia he'd once known well, because he'd worn it on his own uniform, but it had been many years since he'd last seen it, since the Lazaretto had been established in fact, and he'd been stranded on Ierus, with no way to get home. It was the angel's wings and crossed compasses of the Admiralty, who fifteen years ago, as the ink was still drying on the quarantine order, had ordered every last interstellar ship in the Pavonian sector, whether it was Solarian, Circinian or Safian, to be destroyed.

"Fuck," Strand muttered through gritted teeth.

The roll call of lost ships had run in to the dozens. Among them had been Strand's own vessel, the Solace, and he felt the old anger of that betrayal clawing through his gut. But his resentment was nothing compared to the rage harboured by the current Mayor of Badr City, whose loses had nearly ruined him.

"If Pin finds out she's Admiralty, she's as good as dead," Strand said.

"We won't let that pile of Gachu dung get to her first." Quadel huffed, slapping him heartily across the back. The big man had been peering over his shoulder at the screen, but now he was in danger of inadvertently shoving Strand off the top of the tower. "I will claim her for myself, that will keep her out of Pin's hands."

"Jepp, Solarian women really don't go in for that claiming business." Strand responded. 

The big man roared with laughter.

"You are getting old, Dr Strand," he rumbled "And going blind. The woman is Circinian, I will bet a week of lunches on it."

Strand peered closer at the screen. Titus was following the woman through the crowds approaching the gate. The narrow entrance, which had been designed to repel invaders, created quite a bottleneck, and their visitor was firmly stuck in the tightly packed crowd. Pilgrims jostled around her, but she took little notice of them, her eyes turned up towards the curtain wall, as if examining it for weaknesses.

"See?" Quadel jabbed at her image. "The tattoo. She is Ban Kattu, a wild born."

Circinian tribes numbered in the dozens, and Strand wasn't an expert on any of them, but the nomadic Ban Kattu were known throughout Orion's Spur, not only for their defiance of the ruling Circinian families, but also for their art, especially their intricate tattoos. The woman's eyes continued to appraise the city's ancient defences and for a moment it seemed, she looked directly at Titus. It was then, squinting through a lingering haze of alcohol, that Strand finally saw what Quadel was talking about. From a distance, and in the half light of dusk, it had just looked like a swipe of dirt beneath her right eye, but now he could make out a finely drawn pattern of curls and spirals beneath the grime. The delicate lines spread out along her cheekbone, following the contours of her face and neck, before vanishing beneath the collar of her shirt.

"That's impossible," he said. "Circinians are barred from the Solarian Admiralty."

"Then the cloak belongs to someone else," Quadel shrugged, sloshing cider down the front of his tunic.

"Impersonating an Admiralty Officer? Here?" Titus was incredulous. "You'd have to be suicidal."

Strand nodded in agreement, more to himself than to his friends. They continued to bicker between themselves, but Strand found his attention drifting away, back in to a neglected corner of his own past. It was something Quadel had said, about the cloak belonging to someone else.

"Shit!" Strand was running before he'd given any real thought to moving. Hurtling across the narrow rampart, at a speed that would normally make his head spin, he stumbled in to Gatekeeper's Tower and down the worn spiral staircase. It had been twenty five years since he'd been a junior surgeon, hitching a lift out to Perdita on the only Admiralty vessel heading that way. The Chrysomite Wars were still raging then and, with the Admiralty officially neutral, few Solarian captains wanted to be that close to the action. Simon Haas had been the only one willing to even contemplate the trip. Some people thought he was reckless; a lot of people, including Strand admired him. There were also plenty who envied him his smooth rise through the Admiralty ranks, his youth and courage, and his marriage to the Circinian woman Myra, a Ban Kattu artist whose works still commanded high prices right across the Spur. Strand had never met Myra Haas, although he had seen plenty of photos of her. She had famously accompanied her husband on several of his expeditions, but on Strand's voyage out to Perdita she had been absent, electing to remain on Earth with her infant daughter, a child who was said to be the image of her mother.

Strand broke out of the dark confines of Gatekeeper's tower into the bright bustle of the city, sending pilgrims scattering in his path. He ignored their protests and their looks of disgust, forcing his way through the crowd and out on to the causeway. Their visitor wasn't difficult to spot. Amongst the modestly dressed pilgrims, in their deeply hooded robes, her scarlet curls stood out like a beacon and it didn't take Strand long to realise she was in trouble, perhaps serious trouble. A sheen of perspiration clung to her pale skin and she was breathing hard. The press of the crowd was probably the only thing keeping her upright. An internal injury perhaps, Strand thought, or the thin Pavonian air. Whatever it was, she needed medical assistance, and quickly. He pushed his way towards her, the complaints of the crowd finally attracting her attention. There was pain in her eyes, and wariness too as she appraised his appearance. If she felt any relief at seeing a member of her own species it didn't show. Instead, her hand drifted towards her holster.

"You're Solarian." She said. Strand wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement. He went with the latter.

"Silas." He replied. "Silas Strand. I'm a Doctor. You look like you could do with some help."

The young woman didn't move, unless you counted one twitch of a dark eyebrow.

"My ship crashed." She was matter-of-fact, her voice expressionless, despite the pain pinching her features. If she was not taking something to cope with the low oxygen she had to have a splitting headache. "I need access to a HD transmitter, to get a message to Admiralty HQ."

Strand winced at the mention of his old employers, but the pilgrims surging past them didn't react. The plains people considered it a point of pride not to use translators or to speak any language other than their own. English was complete gibberish to them.

"We can arrange that." He responded, knowing damn well they couldn't. All official communication channels were controlled by the Mayor's office, and Pin wasn't about to help out a stranded Admiralty officer or draw the attention of her superiors to his little corner of the Lazaretto. "But we need to get you checked out first."

The young woman seemed about to protest. Was she really going to argue that she felt fine? Her eyes flickered beyond his, towards the pastel painted towers of Badr City. Her gaze seemed to lose focus for a moment, then snapped back, to a point just over his left shoulder. There was a small commotion from behind him. His friends had caught up to them, the great, fur-wrapped bulk of Jepp Quadel parting the crowds like a ship at sea, a flask of cider still clutched in one meaty fist. The sight seemed to offer the young woman some comfort. A weary smile tugged at the corner of her mouth and her hand dropped away from her holster. Her bag slid to the ground with a thud.

"Haas." She slurred. "My name is Commander Haas."

Strand didn't get the chance to ask if she had a first name. He was still forming the first syllable of his reply when the Commander's eyes lost focus once again, and she crumpled on to the road, landing in a dishevelled heap next to her bag.

"Crap." Strand hurried over to her, knelt down and checked her pulse. It was fluttering rapidly. Now there was no chance of simply strolling back in to Badr City under the cover of the crowds. He'd have to come up with another plan.

"She cannot be dead," Quadel huffed, as if dying was something his people disapproved of.

"She's not dead," Strand replied. "But she needs medical help. We have to get her back to the surgery."

"And how are we going to do that?" Titus asked. "We can't carry an unconscious Admiralty officer half way across the city without someone telling the Mayor's goon squad."

"Then we'll carry somebody else," Strand replied, and before the big man could protest, he snatched Quadel's flask of cider from his hand and upturned it, soaking the Commander's blouse and hair with the contents.

"She's going to stink, Doc," Titus wrinkled his nose.

"And in the middle of the Kho'i Festival, no-one will notice," Strand replied, lifting the unconscious woman into his arms. Her cheek was cold against his neck. "She'll just be one more drunk Circinian. Quadel, she's going to need a disguise."

A mischievous grin spread across the old warrior's face. Anything that allowed him to get one over on Pin Hunh was worth doing. Shrugging off his cloak, he wrapped it, with remarkable care, around the young woman's torso and legs. She all but disappeared in a sea of furs.

"I hope she is the forgiving type, Doctor," Quadel said, stooping to pick up the woman's rucksack. "Otherwise you may regret wasting my best cider."

Strand didn't reply. If the fiery reputation of Myra Haas was anything to go by, their visitor was likely going to give him hell when she woke up, assuming Pin's goons didn't get to him first.

"I'd really like to be more drunk than this," he muttered, as he began the long walk back to his surgery.