And what of me? My reflection looms in the bucket, almost a silhouette against the whitening sky. It shows a woman with a stubbled scalp, a grubby, sunburned face, framed by those two puckered scars. Something flashes across the light and, for an instant, I think I see the woman I once was: clear skin, sleek brown hair, a crisp twin-triangle tattoo upon my temple beneath a nurse’s cap. How I looked the day I made the decision that severed my life in two.
I plunge my hand into the water, shattering the image, and scrub hard at my face, careful not to disturb the scarves around my neck, even when the water runs down my back in rivulets. When I look up, I find the General holding the crumpled wanted poster.
‘What is this?’
‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘“Kidnapping”,’ she reads, and looks me over, amused. ‘They give you too much credit. Why would they say that, anyway?’
‘I told you, children are rare on Factus. If they can keep you for themselves, they will try.’
She strokes the poster. ‘Perhaps it would be better,’ she murmurs. ‘Perhaps I could have a life here, a real family, with parents who love me and would never make me fight.’ She meets my eyes, her own wide and brimming with tears. ‘Low, do you think I could? Is it too late?’
I stare at her, unnerved. Is her mind wandering again? ‘I am not sure…’ I start, only to realise that the General’s mouth is trembling with suppressed mirth. I sag.
‘You believed it.’ She laughs, wiping her eyes. ‘You actually believed it.’
A wagon comes into view around the station house, a charabanc, filled with passengers.
‘Cover up,’ I snap, shoving the poncho at her and cramming the hat back onto my head.
She grimaces at the garment. ‘It stinks.’
‘You want to be caught by Peacekeepers? Then go ahead and ignore me.’
Huffing, she pulls the thing over her head. ‘When I get to Landfall, I demand a bath, no matter what.’
The passengers on the wagon are the first of many. Soon, other vehicles arrive. There are mules bearing whole families, towing goods behind, other folk on foot with nothing but a bag on their backs. Before long, the Peacekeepers show up, with their ex-army vests and Accord-issue rifles. I watch them pass from beneath the brim of my hat as they head straight for the board where the wanted bills are posted. I shuffle down a little further in my patch of shade.
Talk and noise fill the station, and the smell of food: fresh protein and frying fat, even coffee. My stomach groans for it, but I can’t take the risk. The Air Line is due within the hour, some say, others insist it won’t arrive until dusk. There is little anyone can do but wait. Once again, we’re at the mercy of the First Accord and their failed promises: of land, of space, of faster travel than we could imagine. Of freedom. I slide a glance at the General. She is staring darkly at a pair of children who stand, pointing at something and laughing.
Abruptly, she’s on her feet. I catch the edge of the poncho.
‘Where are you going?’
She jerks free without a word. Swearing, I follow. The children are part of a cluster of people, all staring down at the same thing.
A sideshow. For a second my stomach reels, remembering Valdosta, the snakes, the clatter of bone dice on wood and the chaos I left behind in Redcrop. But this is nothing so grand. A showman – if anyone would call him that – crouches in the dust, theatrically cracking a miniature whip. Before him two warrior ants are doing battle. They’ve been allowed to work themselves into a fury, and now the tiny hairs that cover their carapaces glitter in the afternoon light.
‘See them now, see them, gentle folk, they are in their red rage,’ the showman patters, cracking the whip. ‘See how they wish to fight and die, beautiful and fierce.’ He points to the larger ant. ‘This here is Roseinvale, named for the great conflagration of that moon, and the other is the Tragedy of Tamane. Two great battles between the First Accord and Free Limits and now, which will win? Now will history be rewritten? Do I have a bet from you, madam? Roseinvale or Tamane? Choose now for there shall be no other chance!’
Some people shake their heads and hurry away as fast as possible. The showman’s game is too much like chance, enough to tempt the Ifs. But others stay, their fear dulled by life in the Barrens, by their hunger to see anything new. There’s always money to be had from those who can stand a little danger.
I know I should turn away, but the man’s words ring in my head, the Tragedy of Tamane. I watch as the two ants snap at each other, shimmering in fury. The General watches too, her eyes – like mine – fixed on the ant the man has named for Tamane. It struggles until finally, the larger ant strikes, opening a seeping wound in its abdomen. As it falls, my skin turns cold, despite the sun.
‘Roseinvale! Roseinvale has taken it! The champion, and a victory for the Free Limits at last! Come folk and collect your winnings…’
People move away, muttering or grinning and shoving pieces of metal into their pockets. I tug on the General’s arm but she does not move, not even when she is the last one left and the showman starts to pack up the ring. The defeated ant is still alive, still trying to fight, dragging itself towards the other, now safely stowed inside a tiny
