““Stop it, you two.” Ava looks nervous. “What if it’s the Red Hand?” Tiran brushes his tangled hair from his eyes. “Don’t get your frysuit in a twist. The Hand’s hundreds of klicks south. Republic wouldn’t let anyone in our airspace.” “Like that means pissall,” I mutter. “They own the skies,” he replies like he’s a Praetor. “They don’t even own their own cities,” I say, remembering the bombings in Agea.””