The first snap of rifle fire echoes wildly off the pockmarked walls of the crater. The Scorn cast around mindlessly after the source. It's the work of seconds to finish them off, one after the other. Clean work, overall. Jolyon Till sits up in the narrow crevice he's wedged himself into, and scans the barren surface of the asteroid. A figure creeps out from behind a rock formation: four arms raised, cowering. Not Scorn. The Fallen sheltering in this corner of the Reef aren't Salvation cast-offs. Dusk, maybe. Their radiation-bleached rags are so faded and tattered it hardly matters. Jolyon leaves them supplies and communication codes. If they want lasting help, they'll have to ask for it. He thinks they will. He sends a report to Petra, first. Then a second, abbreviated transmission, elsewhere: More refugees headed your way. He's nearly back to his jumpship when the message comes back in—text-only, familiar encryption: Thanks, Jolyon. C. Jolyon steps up into the pilot's seat. He goes where he's needed.