‘My apologies,’ he says, ‘I did not know there was a child present.’ His gaze goes to the General and he smiles. ‘Good evening, little one.’
‘Good evening, mister,’ the General chirps. She grips the scarf over her face as if shy. ‘I’m mighty hungry.’
‘I bet you are.’ The man laughs. ‘I’m Del Kwalkavich, inside is my old ma and my brother’s out somewhere in the fields.’
‘Tennille Lowe,’ I say, ‘and this here is my niece.’ General Ortiz, Implacabilis, Leader of the Third Minority Force…
‘My name’s Gabi,’ the General says sweetly. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise, little lady. Now, you folk said something about supplies?’
* * *
Inside, the ranch is warm and rank, smelling of cheap biofuel and old fried meat and curing skins. It’s cluttered, dominated by a trestle table reinforced with bits of wire, with any conceivable thing that might be of use scattered across it. Snakeskins hang from the ceiling, dozens of them. They brush my hat as we follow the man inside, reminding me, in a horrid flash, of Valdosta’s pit vipers.
‘Ma, we got customers,’ the man says to a huddled shape in a chair by the stove. ‘This lady and her little girl.’ The man looks at the General, his face bright and pained once more. ‘Come say hello to my ma. Ain’t often we get visitors nice as you.’
I watch, wary, as the General crosses the floor and stops before the old woman.
‘Hello, missus,’ she says.
The old woman has half of an ancient pair of headphones pressed to one ear, the wisps of a drama broadcast hissing around the edges. Cataracts cloud her blue eyes, but still they roam the General’s face. ‘Such a healthy child, so nice,’ she murmurs, before looking into the gloom, searching for me.
‘A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,’ I say, stepping into the light and removing my hat. My scalp prickles; I always feel exposed without it.
The woman frowns. ‘But where are the others?’
‘It is just the two of us,’ I assure her. ‘My niece and I.’
‘No.’ The old woman stares at me. ‘No, you are not alone. I heard others. Voices, many of them.’ Her rough hands grip the chair. ‘Are they here?’
My neck prickles. People in places like this never name the Ifs, not if they can help it. Is the old woman mad?
‘Alright, Ma,’ the man says nervously, glancing my way. ‘Nothing’s here. We would’ve felt it. You listen to your stories while I get these folk some food, eh?’
The woman continues to look my way, frowning, until eventually her eyelids droop and her chin begins to bob.
‘Don’t mind her,’ the man murmurs, clearing a space for us to sit at the table. ‘She ain’t been the same, since my wife died. An accident, out on the trail. But ever since she sees things that ain’t there, you know?’ He bustles away, searching out plates.
‘Mad old hag,’ the General mutters. ‘“Such a healthy child, so nice.”’ As if she wanted to eat me.’
‘Children are rare out here,’ I say, still staring at the woman. ‘Few live.’
The General grunts. ‘I need to wash. I smell terrible. As do you.’ She squints into the cabin. ‘Will they provide a bath?’
I laugh. After more than a year on Factus, the thought of submerging my body in that much water seems absurd. ‘No one takes baths here. Vapour showers, or oil scrapes. Perhaps a basin of wastewater, if you’re lucky.’
The General makes a noise of disgust, only to melt into a smile when the man returns, carrying two dishes.
‘Here y’are,’ he says, clattering the plates down. ‘Snake soup with landshrimp. Some of the best meat you’ll taste, here to Otroville. Get the warmth back in your blood.’
The soup is thin, filled with long strings of snake meat, blobs of fat floating on top. Ancient peas, dried long ago on some other planet, and other pale shapes bob among it.
‘Our thanks,’ I tell the man, taking up my spoon.
The man beams, nodding for the General to do the same. I watch as she dips the spoon into the broth.
‘Mmm,’ she says, without opening her mouth.
‘Get you some coffee?’ the man asks. ‘And for the child?’ He hesitates.
‘I’ll take coffee too,’ the General says, with an angelic smile, ‘with a little sugar in it? And something to wash my hands?’
The man chuckles. ‘Sure, we can spare a spoonful for someone sweet as you.’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I hiss, when his back is turned. ‘Sugar is worth its weight in gold, out here.’
‘Didn’t you hear? I’m rare.’ Her smirk falls as she prods the strings of meat. ‘Besides, I need something to get the taste of this muck out of my mouth. What the hell is a “landshrimp”?’
‘Woodlouse. You had better get used to it. This is the best we’ll get before Landfall.’
‘Goddam backward moon.’ She grimaces, forcing down another mouthful.
‘So,’ the man says, when our bowls and cups are empty. ‘Y’all said something about supplies?’
I nod. In the corner, the General is carefully washing her face and hands in an inch of cloudy water. ‘We’re headed to Landfall Five. Need enough fuel to get us there, or at least to the nearest post. Water, too.’
The man rubs his beard. ‘Ain’t another trade post as far as I know. Though you might meet a vendor coming from the Air Line Road.’ His mouth works. ‘You can pay?’
‘With breath.’
I reach into my clothes and pull out the pouch of beads. My stomach twists when I feel how empty it is. Think of what you’ll get at the end of this. Official army supplies. Not black-market goods, not cut or watered drugs. Good stuff. Stuff that can save lives. I pick out two beads and set them down on the table. The man’s eyes light up.
‘Six breaths and I’ll fill your mule to the brim,’ he says.
‘Three.’
‘Four.’ The man smiles a little. ‘You ain’t got much choice, Mistress
