‘The crash was undoubtedly the work of sabotage,’ she mutters. ‘But I can’t remember it, or leaving the ship. I suppose that’s to be expected with a concussion?’
I give a brief nod and she sighs. ‘When I return to base, you can be sure there will be a full investigation.’ She pauses. ‘There were no other survivors, apart from LaSalle?’
‘Yours was the only lifecraft I saw.’
‘And you’re certain that LaSalle is dead?’
‘Yes. He was taken by the Seekers.’ Her silence is loaded. I sigh.
‘They’re a gang, or a cult, depending on who you ask. They plunder wrecks, raid townships, wagons. Some people say they are organ traders.’
‘And the Accord allow this?’
I let out a snort. ‘The Accord control their bases, the Air Line Road, and any bits of territory they consider of use. As for the rest…’ I shrug. ‘Besides, the Seekers are mad. They live in the Edge. No one’s going to follow them in there, and anyone stupid enough to try has never been seen again.’
‘The Edge?’
‘An area of disturbance. No one knows how big it is exactly. It’s…’ I shake my head. ‘People don’t go there.’
She does not question me further, for which I’m grateful. For hours now, my brain has been caught in a spiral, trying to reconcile what I’m doing with what I did in the past. Not so many years ago, I would have driven the mule into a canyon and killed the pair of us and called it victory, rather than let her live.
But that was before. I glance in the mirror at her huddled figure, head bowed against the dust. For all her crimes, she is a child; the Accord made her what she is, never asking for her consent until the part of her that might have refused was long gone.
And what about you? You were not a child. You followed orders without question. What does that make you?
‘What did you get ten years for?’
I blink. ‘What?’
‘I said, what did you get ten years for? It must have been bad. Desertion?’
‘Theft.’
‘No one gets ten years for theft. You may as well tell the truth. It’s impossible for me to think less of you than I already do.’
My hands tighten on the mule’s handlebars.
‘For ten years, it must have been armed robbery at least,’ she continues. ‘What did you do to warrant early release? That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Kicked off the prison hulks with the rest of the petty convicts to make room for real war criminals?’
How many civilians have you slaughtered, how many cities have you burned? I pull the scarf over my mouth and do not speak again.
When the sky bruises with darkness, and the night wind utters its first cries, I slow the mule. The General sways behind me. From the drained look on her face I can tell that she’s suffering from Factus’s thin air, as all newcomers do before their bodies adjust.
‘We will not make Landfall Five without supplies,’ I tell her, squinting ahead. ‘Over that ridge is a ranch. Word is they aren’t hostile to travellers, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe, especially if they discover what you are. People are not over-fond of the Accord, out here.’
‘Do I look like an idiot?’
‘Have you ever travelled anywhere without a full military escort?’ When she is silent, I shake my head. ‘I thought not.’
‘I travel as befits my rank,’ the child snaps. ‘I have been trained to survive in any terrain and environment, to command—’
‘Reading about Factus in some Accord propaganda and living on it are two very different things, ma’am. And you have to understand, there are certain ways here, beliefs that your spin-doctors will never have reported.’
‘Like what?’
Like them. ‘Just keep your mouth shut.’
After a mile or so, lights appear in the gloom, faint, pushed at by the wind. On either side of the track, metal fencing stretches across the ground, a huge cage, hammered into the earth.
‘What the hell kind of ranch is this?’ the General calls over the engine.
‘Snake ranch.’
‘Snake? What lunatic would farm snakes?’
‘The kind of lunatic who trusted the Accorded Bureau of Land Development to keep their word,’ I say, slowing the mule. ‘Steer can’t live here for more than a month. Neither can sheep, or goats. Folk learn that the hard way. Snakes are a wise choice. They feed on rats, the meat is substantial, the skins are of good use, and the runts can be sold for wine. As for the venom…’
‘Alright,’ she grunts.
The ranch house is half-dug into the ground as protection against the wind, its pre-fab metal walls patched with whatever can be found out here. The windows are grit-blasted plastic, impossible to see through, but from within, light shines.
I stop the mule alongside a couple of plough vehicles.
‘Here.’ I pull off one of my scarves and shove it at the General. ‘Wrap your head in that. And for god’s sake keep those tattoos hidden.’
‘I do not take orders from convicts,’ she mutters, but does as I ask, and by the time she climbs down from the mule she looks like any sick, weary child, woken from sleep after a long journey.
The door clatters and a mechanical dog runs jerkily out, uttering its one-note barks. It looks homemade, cobbled together from old craft parts in the vaguest form of a creature. Still, no telling what it has been built to do. I raise my hands. Behind the dog is a figure, carrying a gun. The sight glows like a red eye in the night.
‘We are hoping to buy supplies,’ I call.
‘How many are you?’ comes the wary response.
‘Just myself,’ I hesitate, ‘and the child.’
Immediately, the voice yells: ‘Skink!’ and the dog backs off, tottering towards the house.
A face
