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where they were folded—one might wish for like the wings of Pegasus , but really it was more like awkward covers for his saddlebags .
    The horseback pageantry of the Swan Riders made sense to me as part of the ritualization of war. As a system of transport it left something to be desired. I put the soles of my feet together and tried to open my knees. Unsuccessfully. The muscles inside my thighs roared with stiffness. I made a little noise and Gordon Lightfoot and Sri (who was rubbing down his back) both looked over. I was fairly sure they were snickering at me.
    â€œShut up,” I told them crossly.
    â€œNewton’s equal and opposite law of horses, Greta,” said Talis. “He’s as miserable as you are.”
    â€œOh, I doubt it.” The horse might be sore—I felt bad, suddenly—but I doubted he was struggling to reframe his entire identity.
    â€œLunch?” Talis handed me a piece of fry bread wrapped in a waxed cloth. Francis Xavier had cooked them that morning, balancing a skillet expertly on our tiny pellet stove. I unwrapped it and ate it folded. It was cold and the best kind of chewy, slathered with the fermented butter we made at the Precepture. Tangy and salty, it tasted of pure homesickness.
    And yet it was the smallest of the things I longed for.
    â€œTell me about the refuge,” I said. “What is it? Where is it?”
    â€œLong answer: it’s a Swan Rider station, and it’s nowhere particular. Meant to be in reach of the Precepture, and of the salvage teams in Saskatoon. The world is dotted with them, but we don’t advertise.”
    â€œShort answer?”
    â€œIt’s a secret base.”
    But . . . “This is Pan Polar territory, Talis. It’s sovereign. I’m fairly sure no one told us about a secret base.”
    â€œYeah, that’s the secret part.” He sighed and flopped onto his back in the dry grass. “What, you think you can rule the world out of a saddlebag? Obviously there’s a base. A small one, but—there’s a food cache. A weapons store. Emergency equipment. And, the important bit, a communications terminal, linking back to the Red Mountains.”
    â€œSo we can call for an evacuation.”
    Talis wrinkled his nose. “Maybe. I’d rather not.”
    And Sri put in, singsong: “Shuttles can be shot down.”
    She was quoting from the Utterances. The full verse was: Shuttles can be shot down, and you won’t always know who to blow up afterwards.
    â€œExactly. Air transport is too exposed,” said Talis.
    I turned from him to look around. We were on top of a swell in the prairie, the rattling dry grassland spreading out in all directions. I could see to the end of the world, and there was not so much as a cloud shadow to hide in.
    â€œWith respect, Talis, we could not be much more exposed if we were the illustration next to a dictionary entry of the word ‘exposed.’”
    â€œDitch the ‘respect’ thing,” said Talis. “You’re AI; I’m AI. We’re equals.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “In that case, I would like to propose that peace achieved through terror can never truly be peace. We should release all the Precepture hostages and shut down the orbital weapons platforms.”
    â€œOkay,” said Talis. “We’re equals, but you’re a dewy-eyed moron.”
    â€œWe would not have come this far if that were even remotely true.”
    â€œFair point. Let me put it this way instead: no.”
    Francis Xavier had set his wings up as a windbreak and had settled himself inside them, resting quietly as a saint in a grotto. Sri had nosebagged the horses and was passing apples.
    These too were from the Precepture. The one she gave me was dappled and lumpen and neat in the hand. A sweet smell on the edge of fermenting—a cidery smell. I felt my fingers tighten against the apple as if my gears were jammed. The