Her fist strikes out, but she overbalances. If not, I would have gone down like the man at the snake ranch. In the pallid moonlight her eyes are unfocused, her pupils huge.
‘General?’
She blinks. ‘LaSalle?’
I take a breath. ‘Yes.’
‘LaSalle. Get me General Thackeray of the Northern Air Unit. The FL have targeted Tamane. We must strike.’
‘Yes, General.’
‘Make the order.’
‘Of course.’ This time, when I touch her shoulder she does not lash out. ‘The army medic wishes to examine you, General Ortiz.’
‘Again?’ Automatically she holds out an arm, veins up, her eyes roaming some unseen battlefield. ‘Well? Be quick about it.’
Opening the medkit, I wind up the monitor, giving it just enough power to show me her basic stats. Cautiously, I push aside the collar of the stained and torn flight suit to set it against her neck.
When I see the skin beneath, I almost recoil. The moonlight picks out the angry ridges of surgical scars: one thick line from clavicle downwards, four more on either side of her neck that suggest implants. I force myself to stare at the monitor’s grey screen.
Her vitals are haywire; her heart thundering, lungs heaving to keep up. She’s ill, that much is certain, and whatever it is, it’s serious. I take out a couple of ampules and a syringe. Make it to Landfall. Take your payment. Then she’s their problem, not yours.
A moment after the drugs enter her bloodstream, the General’s eyes regain focus.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she cries, snatching her arm away.
‘You are ill,’ I say. ‘It is just a saline solution. And a cognitive booster.’
She stares at me. ‘Was I asleep? I thought…’ Her face changes, turning hard, and I know she is pushing fear away. ‘How do I know you aren’t poisoning me, traitor?’
‘You are worth more to me alive than dead.’ I shoulder the medkit. ‘And you can stop calling me traitor.’
The cocktail of drugs does its work, because she starts to walk again, firm on her feet. We carry on that way, picking our way across rocks, the wind pushing us along. On either side, the canyon walls fray and crumble away until, as false dawn creeps across the sky, we crest the plateau.
In the dim light, the General’s face is drawn, but her eyes are clear, taking in the view. Below, in the distance, the Air Line Road gleams, two lines of silver, running into the distance.
‘It reminds me of the front, on Delos,’ she murmurs, before handing me the water canteen. ‘Just a dumping ground of old terraform rigs, before the Accord took charge, made it what it is today. Never did understand why those junk-merchants sided with you traitors.’
‘They were proud of what they’d built on their own,’ I say, raising the canteen. ‘They didn’t want Delos to become just another company asset.’
When I lower it, I find her watching me curiously.
‘You must have fought? Before you were sentenced?’
‘I doubt you would call it fighting.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘But you were in the FL?’
‘For a time.’
‘Which cell? Where? Perhaps we faced each other in battle.’
I can’t fathom her tone of voice.
‘The Cats, at first. And I don’t think so.’ I screw the lid on the canteen, hard. ‘I wasn’t a soldier.’
‘No,’ she says derisively. ‘None of you were. If you had been, you would have seen how stupid your little social experiment was. Did you truly believe people would give up what they worked for? Just hand it out to strangers?’ She stares at me, her gaze searching. ‘You would have led them into poverty and ruin. Do you see that now?’
I walk on without a word.
* * *
By the time we reach the Air Line Road station, it’s after noon. I go first, approaching with caution. This is civilisation of a sort, controlled by the Accord, or at least by the freelance Peacekeepers in their pay. Not a good place for a convict, ex or no.
Felicity, the sign reads. Someone has scratched is dead beneath.
To my relief, the station yard is empty of mules and vehicles. It is evidently hours yet before the Air Line is due, and the whole place is silent, the sun smacking down upon the rails with such ferocity that the air seems to ring.
Even the station building is near deserted. The only person there is the stationmaster, reeking of bad benzene. He barely blinks at my filthy, dust-covered state, seemingly interested in only two things: overcharging me, and continuing his nap. Eventually, I manage to barter a pair of dry-looking steaks, half a bucket of water, and an ancient waterproof poncho to cover the General’s flight suit. By the time I push the door open to leave, he’s already half-asleep and so doesn’t see me freeze at the sight of the wanted poster tacked to the wall.
It’s crudely done, a bad sketch on carbon paper, no doubt copied down from the wire bulletin, but the words are undeniable:
WANTED
------------------
THE WOMAN “LOW”
FOR THEFT, ATTEMPTED MURDER,
KIDNAPPING AND THE SUMMONING OF MALIGN FORCES.
LAST SEEN HEADING FOR LANDFALL FIVE.
THE BROTHERS KWALKAVICH OFFER
A REWARD OF
100 CREDITS
(OR THEIR OFF-WORLD EQUIVALENT)
I rip the poster from the wall and ball it in my fist. Thoughts race ahead of me as I shove my way outside. Perhaps the news has not spread far yet. Perhaps without the poster to remind them, no one here will think to look.
Keep your head down. One more day and it will not matter. You’ll be rid of her and you can go back to the Barrens where no one cares about a name if you can give them what they need.
I dump the food and water in front of the General without speaking. She doesn’t seem to notice my apprehension in her eagerness to eat and drink. The steaks are
