“Juno,” he said, keying his comm. “Prepare medical bay. And wipe the last six hours from the local sensor logs.”
It was a woman. Young—maybe twenty-five. Her face was bloodied, her eyes closed. A tattoo of the Earth’s orbital rings curled around her left temple. Military. Definitely military. But her uniform bore no insignia, no rank. rafian at the edge 50
Juno was the platform’s AI core—or what was left of it. Most of her memory banks had been scavenged years ago, but the fragments that remained were fiercely loyal. She was less a computer now and more a ghost with a schedule. “Juno,” he said, keying his comm
He was tired of running.
Out on the edge, where the dust never settled and the dark was infinite, he had finally found a reason to stop running. Young—maybe twenty-five