Wasteland of flint

from the side, slewing the back wheel around. Gretchen corrected, nearly blinded by sudden sweat, her hand moving in molasses. Dust plumed behind the aircraft and she feathered the brakes. Terrible high-pitched squeals answered, but the ultralight jounced and quivered to a standstill. Anderssen exhaled, staring at the looming mass of torn and blackened metal filling her field of view.

A figure in a z-suit emerged from the shadow of the broken shuttle, wind snapping dun-colored robes tight against a stocky, compact body. Gretchen let both engines wind down and the Gagarin settled into loose sand. Her arm trembling, she reached down to unlatch the door. As she did, the Midge shook in a fresh gust of wind, lifted a meter, then slammed violently down again. Anderssen gasped, breath knocked from her lungs, and put differential power to the engines. Obediently, Gagarin spun in place, nosing back into the wind. Gretchen locked the brakes, then waited, fingers light on the stick.

Another gust rolled across the sand, rushed over the ultralight and the whole airframe shook, lifting off again. The Midge jounced back five, ten meters.

'Oh, Mother of God!' Gretchen cursed, feeling queasy. Bile bit at her throat. 'We're too light!'

She shot a glance outside and saw the suited figure squatting in the minimal shade of the other aircraft, which was tied down in a pentagonal pattern with sand anchors.

'How the hell did he -' The Midge bounced again, caught in a fiercer blast. Sand rattled on the canopy and a string of warning lights flared on. Number two engine had just taken a shot of grit right into the intake. 'Sister, help me!' How did he land and have time to put out anchors with positive buoyancy? Wait – ah, idiot, idiot, idiot!

Gretchen slapped the lifting surface controls. Two hydrogen pumps woke up with a gurgle and began to evacuate the wing tanks. As gas compressed into pressure tanks behind the seat, Anderssen turned on the motors to retract the wings. Despite her best efforts, the Gagarin continued to bounce backward, leaving her a hundred meters from the crash by the time the wings were locked back into storage position, and the Midge was no longer so excellently airworthy.

Grunting under the weight of two sand anchors, Gretchen clambered down out of the pilot's chair, her goggles on, suit zipped up, one end of a heavy tan and white djellaba across her face. The footing was poor on such heavy gravel, but she paid no mind. Her muscles remembered what to do, how to walk, how to lean just so into the gusting wind. She labored toward the wreck, twin monofil lines spooling out behind her.

The squatting figure under the other Midge did not stir, watching with interest as she drew even with him and fired both anchors into the sand. Five minutes later, the winch on the Gagarin was in operation and the ultralight approached at a walking pace, bouncing and hopping across the rough ground. Gretchen squatted herself, her back to the wind, the control for the winch cupped in one gloved hand.

Gretchen secured the last of the tie-downs and stood up, feeling her back creak. No substitute for planetside exercise, she thought with a groan. Both aircraft lay in the lee of the broken shuttle, cowering in a tiny space protected from the constant wind. Anderssen turned, hands busy rewrapping the heavy scarf around her face and shoulders to protect her breather mask and the relatively sensitive gaskets and equipment around her neck.

The suited figure stood as well, face hidden by goggles and mask. Gretchen could see the suit was a little worn, the shine of newness long gone, and there was a suitable array of tools strapped onto the man's body. She guessed he'd put in plenty of hours in hostile environments, but the drape of his djellaba and kaffiyeh was poor.

'Well,' she said, clicking open the groundside channel, 'thanks for helping me tie down.'

'Were we on ship,' the voice had a little buzz around the edges, as if his comm gear were already suffering from dust, 'I would have you incarcerated, or shot, for disobeying a direct order.'

'You might,' Gretchen said, her voice brittle with fatigue and too much adrenaline, 'but I'm not an Imperial officer. I'm a civilian. I even have a permit to be on this planet. I checked – you didn't have time to file the proper forms and paperwork to revoke our exploration rights.'

'Amusing,' Hummingbird replied and she could hear an edge of weariness in his voice. 'But I will not argue the point. You were foolish to come down here. What did you hope to achieve by following me?'

'You,' Gretchen said sharply, 'have something of mine. I want it back.'

Hummingbird turned fully toward her. 'What do you mean?'

'The cylinder. You had Fitzsimmons and Deckard take the artifact from number three airlock and stow it in your quarters. That object,' her voice rose, 'is Company property and my personal salvage. I'll be expecting you to return it to the lawful owner – me! – upon our return to the Palenque.'

There was a moment of silence, then the nauallis laughed softly, a breathy, echoing sound on the comm link. 'You…you came down here to beard me about a chunk of shale?'

'Limestone,' she replied. 'Compressed limestone strata containing a verifiable First Sun artifact – a knowledge storage device, in fact – which – praise the Son – is duly and legally logged as the evidence and dig-claim of xenoarch Anderssen, Gretchen Elizabeth, company employee number 337G4. My property. Not yours. Not the Imperial government's.'

'I see.' Hummingbird rubbed one hand across the back of his head. 'You have me – and this is rare, Anderssen-tzin – at a complete loss.' His hand came back into view with a small, snub- nosed pistol which steadied in such a way as to provide Gretchen with a fine view of the muzzle. 'But I believe you are suffering from a psychotic reaction due to the overuse of stimulants, excessive fatigue and the psychological effects of exposure to said First Sun artifact. Now – turn around and clasp your hands behind your head.'

'I am not psychotic,' Gretchen said, remaining entirely still. 'I suggest you consider the fuel capacity of your aircraft, your stated mission, and put the clever little gun away.'

Hummingbird's aim did not waver, which showed commendable strength to Gretchen's mind. She could barely stand, her arms and legs cramping from the physical stress of landing. 'My mission,' he said, after a moment, 'is none of your concern. Indeed, your presence here makes an already precarious situation even less tenable.'

'I don't agree,' she said. 'And I'm going to sit down.'

The gun moved as she did and Gretchen sighed with relief to be squatting. Her arms were shaking inside the suit and the three-times-cursed medband was still locked out. Stupid, stupid machine.

'So,' she said, cocking an eye at the eastern sky, which was noticeably darkening. 'You haven't shot me yet, which I'd have expected from a flint-hard Imperial judge. I am a little surprised.'

'If you expected to be shot, why did you follow?' Hummingbird squatted himself, the gun having already disappeared into some pocket or holster hidden on his suit. 'I doubt the Palenque's bigeye is sharp enough to pick us out down here. I could make your body and the aircraft disappear very quickly. No one would ever know.'

'You would,' Gretchen replied, finally picking out the gleam of his eyes through the polarized goggles. She laughed softly. 'I knew you wouldn't shoot. I would wager you're even glad to see me…you don't have to admit that. I understand how it is.'

'Why would that be?' The nauallis's voice had a cold edge. 'You don't even have any idea why I'm down here. You don't even know who I am.'

'I know enough,' Gretchen said, still watching the eastern horizon. In such a thin atmosphere, night advanced like a solid wall, the sky darkening swiftly to blue-black as the terminator approached. 'You got spooked by my cylinder, by the Russovsky-copy. I think you got enough bits and pieces of the big puzzle to make a guess – yeah, maybe an educated guess – about what's going on down here. Suddenly the funny little archaeological expedition became a serious problem. So everyone has to clear out fast, leaving you behind to clean up the mess.'

'The cylinder,' the nauallis interjected, 'will remain in Imperial custody and will be destroyed before the Cornuelle leaves this system.'

'I don't think so,' Gretchen replied tartly. 'Not without fair compensation!'

'It is worthless,' Hummingbird said, the edge returning to his voice. 'Don't you see the device is a lure and a trap? I've seen such things before, left behind to ensnare the unwary. Such things cannot ever be allowed into Imperial space or even onto one of the Rim colonies.'