You imagine Karolina's fingers wrapping around the small toy -- a comfort she's reached for since she was small.

Maybe Karolina took it with her when she moved out? A little souvenir, keeping her closer to home.

Portofiro's doomed space program, as you well know.

Portofiro's failed space program. These toys are yet another remnant.

Project AUTONOMÍA was the name of Portofiro's space program. A national disaster.

The paint is chipped and worn. These figurines have been well-loved, played with often.

Absent intensity. It's impossible to tell how much he even understands.

Callsigns aren't meant to be flattering. So if he was named after a bird known for its wayfinding...

A dirty little city bird. A winged rat.

'Permanently'.

A big hit of his own dwindling supply gives the old man a fleeting high.

The ranking system amongst pilots is all but official -- military is highest, followed by commercial, then cargo, then finally leisure. Jet pilots likewise command more respect than those flying traditional rotor planes.

The saliva smacking in his throat and mouth is louder than any words formed.

Tracing the shapes his mouth makes, you manage to make out the words 'I was', 'people', and 'land'.

'Territories' meaning, in this case, La Luz's island states -- briefly independent, now reannexed.

Far below the normal region of air traffic, almost skimming the dark water, a shuddering cargo plane crosses the Noscorrentes Sea, lights dimmed.

What they did to him is the reason why he can't speak.

His reward was severe.

The laughter leaves in its wake something like conversational scar tissue.

A particularly brutal annexation, the Tenantries were razed almost to the ground. What remains is a shrunken capital surrounded by non-arable land.

A joke in poor taste. A stamped passport for a country that no longer exists.

THE TECHNO-FASCISTS WOULD BRAND HIM THE SECOND HE LANDED, AND HE KNOWS IT. THEN THEY WOULD GET CREATIVE.

A chorus of hacking coughs, like cats throwing up furballs in unison.

He means 'buy me a round'.

You know what he means, but you can't help it: an apple-sized dollop of lard melts between hand and chest as you massage grey-tufted folds of old skin.

That smirk. Like he's somehow gotten one over on fate.

The signs are clear if you know what to look for: jaundiced skin, bilirubin-choked. The disease has taken hold.

The subject, whether immediate or eventual, of the negotiations the prisoner told you about.

Were the talks not currently on hold, Portofiro would be being carved up by the drunken and otherwise degenerate diplomats representing the two rival powers of EMTERR and La Luz even now.

Doused with cold water, all three of the pilots seem to sober up as your words hit them.

Fantasies of refuelling planes that no longer exist run through their eyes.

Spilling the People's secrets to the first drunkards you meet. This is why your internal clearance level is currently 'DO NOT INFORM'.

THE APPETITE OF EMPIRE IS SLEEPLESS AND INSATIABLE.

Light craft. Single turboshaft engine and a mere 120-litre biodiesel bladder. Favoured by the Aussaunnian militia and guerrilla groups.

Bandying about the fact that you're no common civilian is tantamount to wearing a sign.

His face twitches on the razorblade between perverse delight and terror.

He edges out onto a thin sheet of memory, like a child on a frozen lake.

A painter's nightmare, etched in bodies and fire.

And by some strange alchemy, somewhere is turned into nowhere.

The stories affect them as much as any listener. They reopen the wound with every telling.

The Reunión: La Luz's grand annexation campaign -- slow, legal, often bloody. A creeping tide reclaiming, every few years, one more of their old colonies.

No translation needed, and not the slightest hint of irony. Yes.

You picture the words in bold on the cover of the world's least enthusiastic travel brochure.

He means the Miracle Line. They're regulars, all of them.

That was a growl, not an attempt to speak. He would be making the same noise if he could talk.

LIKE VULTURES TO A DYING ANIMAL. CARRION-TO-BE.

If that's true, he might know where you can find the Head of Human Capital.

In which case the phone-hog must be one of the negotiators Dante mentioned.

Wherever there is money, the bloody hand of transnational capital is never far away.

EMTERR, a.k.a. L'Empire sans Territoire, a.k.a. 'The Bank'. Equal parts global development fund and spy service. Linchpin of the Developed World.

Checks