The Head Healer wipes real sweat from his forehead, already somewhat tired from the effort, already knowing there’s a much longer morning awaiting them without a motorised bone saw to speed things up. If they were worried about the veracity of the accident, at least they’re making it look real as hell.

“The cuff’s in the infirmary,” he says, looking steadily and unblinking at the injury, sizing it up. Crushed bone, shattered from the weight, not the kind of clean fracture which could be splinted and easily healed. Good. That’s what they wanted.

“Which is where we’re headed, immediately. Averesch, can you carry her?”

The girl’s pint-sized, another thing in their favour —